What Ifs
- Apr 16, 2021
- 3 min read
by Kasimma
That awkward moment when you are sitting in your dark room—perhaps there is no power supply or you turned off your lights, whatever is obtainable in your country—and you remember Kevin McCallister standing in front of a mirror, lip-syncing “White Christmas,” pouring a shaving gag on his hands, slapping his cheeks and screaming, making the birds outside so scared they flee. Then you imagine Donald Trump, on Christmas day, dressing and singing “White Christmas,” preparing for his presidential proclamation. Then he pours the aftershave on his palms, looks at the ant crawling past on the ground while he rubs the ointment on his palms; he rubs his cheeks, raises his head, and screams so loud that the White House shakes from its foundation. His skin is black. Not your type of light-skinned blackness like Obama’s, but black-black like the drop-dead gorgeous Nyakim Gatwech. You imagine him rushing into a bathroom and putting on a garment of lather. But when the water washes it off, Alaye is still black. Will he still give that presidential proclamation? Will he still shout, “Aaamerica first!” And, most importantly, will he wish that he visited, in-person, the families of George Floyd, Jacob Blake, and co?
You scratch your forehead and imagine Kim Jong-un going to bed beside his wife in his Ryonsong Residence. He wakes up the next morning wearing an oversized ash trouser and yellow cottoned T-shirt, a farmer’s hat on his head, and a table of oranges in front of him. He is now an orange farmer in, of all places in the world, South Korea, while his family stays worried sick over him in Ryonsong Residence. Will he then understand the pains of families who cannot cross over to North Korea to see their loved ones?
And how about Muhammadu Buhari? You heard the gist, or was it a rumor, that his wife has relocated to Dubai because she feels that Aso Rock is no longer safe for her. So you assume that Buhari now sleeps alone in his room. So what if he goes to bed wearing his pair of pyjamas and wakes up mooing loudly? You imagine him confused, wondering what is happening to his voice. Then he tries to touch his face but it is as if he is touching it with a stick, not a palm. He calls on his aides but all he hears is a loud moo! Then the door bursts open and he sees his aides screaming, calling for security, pointing at him, and calling for his arrest. He is sitting there, wondering if they are raving mad or if it’s a civilian coup. But they look concerned and serious. They are screaming and shouting at each other, “What is a cow doing in the president’s bed? And where is Mr. President?” Before Buhari can protest, they knot a rope on his neck and start dragging. He refuses to move, screaming that there must be a mistake somewhere and he is the president, but all he and they hear is “Moo!” Will he, as he is being dragged away, feel the pains of the #ENDSARS protesters? Or will he be glad to be a cow since he loves cows?
Chimamanda Adichie asizie gi gini? You imagine her going to sleep on Christmas Eve with her loom of woolly hair and waking up on Christmas morning with golden, silky, wavy, flowing hair. Will she wear it that way? Chimamanda, you imagine, will wear her new hair proudly and say, when asked, “It’s the way the hair now grows on my head.” Or not? Chimamanda is a sweetheart who can do no wrong in your eyes, so you reverse your thoughts. No need to waste imagination.
You remind yourself that this is an imagination/work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this imagination/work are either the product of the author’s imagination (ṣebia talk am) or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, standing or destroyed, or actual events, is purely coincidental. Eh, before you go, know that no animals were harmed in the imagining of this imagination/work.
You smile, lie down, close your eyes. You remind yourself that onweghi ebe ụwa ụtụrụ ute. Ụwa n’eme ntụghari. You still affirm the wisdom of your fathers to yourself in English: The world did not spread a mat anywhere. The world is constantly changing.
Oji ọfọ ga-ana.
You sleep.
Kasimma is from Igboland. She is an alumna of Chimamanda Adichie’s Creative Writing Workshop, Masterclass with Chigozie Obioma, SSDA Flow workshop, IWP workshop. She’s been a writer-in-residence in artists’ residencies across Africa, Asia, and Europe. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Puritan Magazine, Kikwetu Journal, Native skin, Jellyfish Review, The Book Smuggler’s Den, Afreecan Read, Orbis Journal, Cacti fur, The Bombay Review, Sledgehammer.
