Sometimes I wonder in my quiet moments how African forebears treated the silent assassins of the body and soul – bleeding in the head, hernia rupture, unborn extra-large child, heart attack, kidney and liver failure, among others. I wonder why the rampaging Abiku phenomenon disappeared upon the arrival of hygienic birth delivery practices and Western medicine, which nailed the coffin of tetanus and birth infection, two infant killers that fuelled the Abiku belief.
Oh, mothers swam in a flood of tears, fathers gnashed their teeth, thinking Abiku was a curse by the gods. Today, where did the rampaging population of Abikus in the underworld go? Has the Abiku population in heaven gone extinct? Back then, Africans appeased the gods, whereas salvation lay in man.
History has identified enough cruelty to the mentally ill in pre-colonial Africa for me to conclude that our ancestors’ view of mental health was as crude as treatment inside the asylum walls of old Europe or Asia, where madness was flogged, and not treated.
As much as possible, I don’t pop the pills, but I give preference to organic food over fast food, and always choose water over soda, for I believe food should be for sustainability, not a hobby; food should be for healthiness, not for fatness.
In Nigeria, malaria is the king of sicknesses. One of its ancient cures is the Dongoyaro tree, whose leaves and bark contain antimicrobial, antibacterial, antifungal, antiviral, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant properties, making the tree a pharmacy. Native to India, from where it derives its Latin name, Azadirachta indica, Dongoyaro not only cures malaria and other fevers, it also whitens teeth, freshens breath, fights plague and gingivitis, serving as a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash all at once. The meaning of Azadirachta indica is ‘the free tree of India’. Fully aware of the efficacy of Dongoyaro, the English also partake in its healing powers, naming it neem.
Down the ages, Dongoyaro leaves have expelled worms within and lice without due to their antiparasitic properties, just as they are useful in diabetes management by controlling blood sugar level and improving glucose tolerance and insulin production. When applied to wounds, the leaf extracts promote healing and prevent infection even as they are used to treat stomach upsets, appetite loss, and ulcers.
Dongoyaro leaf extracts can be used in a range of body and bath care solutions to treat acne, eczema, burns, sores, dandruff, dry scalp, hair loss, and are also effective as a natural insecticide and mosquito repellent.
Clinical research across the world has affirmed the usefulness of neem, aka Dongoyaro, for treating the above-mentioned sicknesses. Research, “Evaluation of the Effects of an Aqueous Extract of Azadirachta indica (Neem) Leaves and Twigs on Glycemic Control, Endothelial Dysfunction and Systemic Inflation in Subjects with Type 2 Diabetes Mellitus”, published in the National Library of Medicine journal by Usharani Pingali et al, in 2020, confirms Dongoyaro is effective against diabetes.
Another study, “Effectiveness of Azadirachta indica (Nee) mouthrinse in plaque and gingivitis control: A Systemic Review”, led by K. Dhingra, and published in 2017, affirms the potency of Dongoyaro in fighting plaque and gingivitis. Now, I should disclose the meaning of Dongoyaro. In Hausa Language, ‘dongo’ means ‘tall’ and ‘yaro’ means ‘child’, reflecting the tall and slim nature of the Dongoyaro tree.
Notwithstanding being a one-tree pharmacy, the Dongoyaro cannot cure two fevers wracking Nigeria today. The fevers are not typhoid, malaria, bacterial, or viral. They are also not even a Fever of Unknown Origin. They are Coup Fever and Trump Fever. Both are self-inflicted. Both have Nigerian cures.
Because I’m not a doctor, I will not dwell on the two fevers afflicting Nigeria currently; I won’t choose the corn meal inside the agbòn (basket) that is way out of my reach. I won’t diagnose Coup Fever or Trump Fever.
Instead, I’m going to pour the balm of laughter on the two matters by walking you back to my school days, to a crazy classmate, Kalu Okoro Nchege – a brilliant but mischievous genius, who typifies Nigeria’s richness, nonchalance and reactiveness.
K.O., as we popularly called him, was my classmate in the Department of English Language and Literature at Imo State University, turned Abia State University. He is from Arochukwu in Abia State. Slim and tall like the Dongoyaro, light-complexioned K.O. is handsome, chummy, smart and more than funny.
Former Governor Rochas Okorocha should’ve employed K.O. as the official comedian of Imo State, instead of creating the Ministry of Happiness and Purpose Fulfilment, which shot the Owelle and his government to the pinnacle of mockery nationwide, eight years ago. I bet K.O. would’ve produced tonnes of laughter to Imolites in particular, and Nigerians in general, instead of the budget-driven happiness Okorocha was trying to induce. Okorocha knew the importance of laughter and happiness to human health, but he did not know that money, power, or force cannot buy happiness. I won’t describe Okorocha as dumb, though he coined the word ‘Iberiberism’ on national television while trying to describe foolishness. Iberibe, in the Igbo Language, means stupidity.
Happiness, science says, reduces stress, improves cardiovascular health, boosts immunity, relieves pain, relaxes muscles, and stimulates organs such as the heart and lungs. Boldly written on the website of the College of Medicine, Ohio State University, is this quote by French Romantic writer, Victor Hugo, “Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.” In a six-paragraph post titled “The Power of Laughter”, the American citadel of knowledge says laughter lowers both blood pressure and bad cholesterol, decreases inflammation and improves blood flow.
Okorocha probably thought the people of Imo would be drunk on his synthetic happiness and shut their eyes to the long and shortcomings of his administration, but his son-in-law and preferred candidate, Uche Nwosu, gallantly lost the governorship election, quashing Okorocha’s intention of enthroning his disciple.
Typifying a cross-section of Nigerian leaders, K.O. was an evil genius – naughty, calculating, and carefree. Alert K.O. to an impending test; K.O. won’t read until the last minute. Instead of studying in earnest, K.O. would concentrate his energy on his laundry and boutique shops located in Okigwe town, breezing in and out of school, photocopying notes, and lamenting how hard learning was – just as Nigerian leaders would watch multi-billion-dollar oil refineries and steel rolling mills rot away while oil and steel imports go haywire.
But if K.O. was miserly with schooling, he was extravagant with jokes. When he came to class, lecture halls erupted in uproarious humour, with students and lecturers wiping tears of laughter away. In these unpredictable times of coup and threat, therefore, some of K.O.’s unforgettable moments could help ameliorate the impact of the fevers ravaging Nigeria and its leaders.
One day, K.O. crawled into class long after the class had begun. He sneaked into the last row of seats at the lecture theatre and sat beside a lone student who occupied the whole of the row. “Bro,” K.O whispered, “di lecturer never come?” The student said, “E never come.” An angry K.O. blurted, “Oh, why nah? Na so dis lecturers go dey do, person go leave customers come school, lecturer no go come. Which kain rubbish bi dis nah?”
When the students, who were taking notes, noticed the young lecturer had stopped talking, they looked back, one by one, only to find K.O. sitting right beside the lecturer. K.O. had not come to class since the semester started, so he didn’t know the lecturer! The lecturer was then Mr John Otu, now Dr John Otu, who later became a commissioner for information and state orientation in Ebonyi State.
On another occasion, the prolific Prof. Nwachukwu Agbada was before the class. The darling of students, Agbada, without a change in facial expression, would throw a grenade of laughter while teaching, but he met his match on that particular day.
Agba told the class to give words that end with the ‘sh’ sound. K.O. raised his hand, stood up, and said bash. The class held its breath. The meanings of ‘bash’ now and over three decades ago remain the same, but ‘bash’ also denoted sex among undergraduates then. When Agbada noticed the silence, he sensed something was amiss. So, he told K.O. to give another example, and K.O. said ‘yansh’.
As cool as a cucumber, Agbada said it was only a student who wears okirika clothes that would come to his class to crack okirika jokes. K.O. whispered under his breath that Agbada was the one wearing okirika clothes. Agba heard the remark and retorted, “I can’t wear okirika clothes and crack okirika jokes. It’s you who’s wearing okirika clothes that is cracking okirika jokes.”
In my time, one of the fevers students feared the most was exam fever. Exam fever pitches the day the exam timetable is released. No timetable was ever favourable in the eyes of students. “Haaa! See dis craze pipu, dem wan make we fail; see as dem just pack all the heavy-unit courses put for same days,” students would lament.
As the exam period neared and its fever gripped, students, including K.O., became more studious. To keep an eye on his businesses, K.O. lived off campus in a rented apartment. He worked all day and promised himself to read all night. At night, K.O. made himself some coffee and got some kola nuts. He was determined to read till morning. He got some water in a big basin, which he placed before his chair. He dipped his feet in the water and started to read, drinking coffee and munching kola.
The next morning, K.O. woke up to find his legs still in water, along with the textbook, but his cup of coffee was empty, and all his kola nuts were gone.
Never shy to call himself a washerman on campus, K.O. would go to male and female hostels, collecting loads of clothes, which he laundered for a fee. One day, he recalled, a male student, who, with a girl, called out to him, “K.O.! K.O.!” K.O. stopped in his tracks and went to him. “I need you to come and collect my dirty clothes for laundry in the evening,” the student said. “OK, I’ll be there,” K.O. said.
The student-businessman went to the male hostel as agreed to meet the prospective customer. “Ol’ boy, wey di clothes wey you wan wash?” K.O. asked. “Which clothes?” the student asked, stressing, “You no see di beautiful girl wey I dey toast for afternoon? You no sabi say na image-boosting shout I give you so? Me wey never see money chop, na you I go come give clothes make you wash? Abeg, leave me o, K.O.”
I used to frequent K.O.’s apartment in town during weekends. One day, we lounged on the patio of his apartment when a male and female student strolled by hand-in-hand. K.O. shouted to the guy, “You don start again?” The guy spread out his five fingers at K.O. in a derogatory sign. K.O. said, “Am I an oracle?” And the guy burst out laughing, waving his spread fingers vehemently to K.O. as he rushed away with his girlfriend, laughing.
“Who bi di guy,” I asked. “No mind am. Na our junior, but e no dey serious. E no do well for one im courses sometime ago, and im pipu come meet im lecturer, begging di lecturer to give am let-my-people-go pass mark. Dem bring yams, palm oil, goat and fowl.”
A few days later, the lecturer saw the student with another girl, so he called him. And said, “You are chasing women up and down, when you fail tomorrow, your people will bring fowl, goat, yams and palm oil, am I an oracle?”
It is instructive to note that while terrorists ravaged the land, some Nigerian leaders asked, “Where are the cows?” Now, President Trump wants to help fish out the cows; the Nigerian earth is quaking. And, since President Trump issued his warning, I’ve not heard a word from the boastful terrorist camps. So, mad dog dey fear fire?
There are a dozen more moments of roaring laughter with K.O., the dapper and dashing elite student, whom many students feared would not graduate, but who graduated in record time and made a strong second class. As K.O., rich in promise and potential like Nigeria, breasted the tape against all odds, I pray that my beloved country would survive all coups and external threats. But K.O. made efforts; he attended the classes he could, he photocopied notes and sat all exams. Nigeria needs to make sincere efforts, tackle corruption, insecurity, unemployment, and collapsed infrastructure; that is when President Trump won’t threaten, that is when the military will remain in barracks.
God bless Nigeria.
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