Beware of the Farmers’ Palms

Beware of the Farmers’ Palms

By Sam Onimisi


The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, so says the Holy Scriptures. It also says that pride or arrogance proceeds a fall, the gravity of the fall being dictated by the hubris of the individual or group. I feel sure you will grant me the indulgence of telling a story of my childish romance with pride. It was in 1960 and I had picked some words in English language as primary three pupils and was going about flaunting them before my pears and brothers who were not privileged to go to school. As it is usual with such pranks, insultive and negative words readily flow in the mouth. In those days, physical education was taken seriously even at the primary school level, and so I was training in athletics, boxing and soccer – all of which were part of physical education.
I had a half-brother, about two-years my senior who could not go to school due to economic reasons, and was at the farm with our father. During holidays, I do go to the farm during which I participate in farm works – up to the limit of my ability. It was also an opportunity to show-case my literacy by speaking English to my brothers, who unknown to me then, were not happy that they could not go to school and therefore, were always offended each time I spoke in English. Even when I became aware of their discomfort, I continue to reply their queries in English and when they reprimand me, I responded with insults believing that they would not understand. However, the manner I spoke gave me away and that infuriated them the more.
One day, I ran my mouth roughshod in response to my brother’s impolite reprimand and warned he will beat me if I repeat such behavior again. I got angry and told him he could do nothing. I had relied on my strength – an imaginary strength that was to come from God-knows-where. I assumed I was at least an amateur boxer and I imagined how I would fly like a butterfly and sting like a bee in the event of a showdown. The more he warned me the more I waxed bold and daring, until he lost his patience. While I was busy warming up for a ‘thriller in Manila’ – (as if I was Cassius Clay - later Mohammed Ali) something landed on my checks, which could as well would have been a thunderbolt. I must confess that I never saw it coming, or knew the time I passed out, sprawling on the mud floor with a fearful shriek. Obviously, I needed to be revived and it was our father’s lot to do so. When I regained consciousness, he asked me what happened and I muttered some inanities, which no one could comprehend. A man with a canny sense of humour, my father asked if I was now ready to demolish my brother with my hammer-punch. Unknown to me, when I was bragging and boasting, our father was watching from a distance and while reeling on the floor, he rushed to my side in trepidation. He wanted me to be taught a lesson but without being unduly hurt.
A few days later, while still wondering and wanting to know what actually hit me, I asked my brother if he had used a club on me, he said he merely slapped me with his palm. My God! How could a palm do such damage? I made to feel his palm and what I discovered amazed me to no end, his palms were hard as steel – made so by the daily use of hoe and cutlass – and God help they hit whomever! The farmers’ palms - I fear! Of course, from then henceforth my grammar dried up and I became circumspect in my dealings with those ruthless palms. However, the shame that went with that knockout slap remained with me for a long time to the extent that I began to map out strategies for revenge. Not long after, an idea hit me and so I gathered some pebbles in my knicker pockets with the intention of using them as ground-to-air missiles against my assailants. With this, my grammar revived and my confidence was restored.
One day, we had an argument and I suspected that my brother was angry enough to want to hit me again; and I denied him that opportunity by taking to my heels. A tree provided me a refuge, which I soon converted into a citadel. I climbed the tree and perched on it like a monkey. The tree is not far from the farmhouse with several footpaths to the farms, the brooks and other places soon. My brother was approaching and I hurled some pebbles at him and he was hit on the head. He retreated and ran back to the farmhouse to report an un-identified flying object (UFO) hit him. Soon, a hunting expedition was organized to track down the U.F.O. Unknown to them, I was atop the tree while they passed and climbed down to the farmhouse as soon as they went some distance.
Dear readers, I was found out one day when in an attempt to climb the tree, I slipped and fell with injuries on my thighs, arms and back. My loud cry attracted the people in the farmhouse who came to carry me away for care. On stripping me naked for treatment, my bulging pocket announced the pebbles ad I had no choice but to confess my mission to the Iroko tree. Even now as I am writing this piece, the thought of Alhaji Atiku Abubakar came to my mind. I saw him in my mind when he ran for the governorship of Adamawa in 1999; and when he was virtually the kingmaker in 2003. I saw his leadership of the Peoples Front after the demise of late General Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, up to the 1999 PDP Jos Convention.
How Atiku defeated IBB, Gen Gusau and Gov. Saraki through the Adamu Ciroma – led Northern Political Leaders Forum is something else. After he emerged with four vote’s victory as the Northern consensus candidate, he supposed the defeated three would rally round him for a show-down with President Jonathan. It was Atiku who discovered a mysterious book on “how to rig election” purportedly written by Goodluck/Sambo Campaign Organization. Few days to the convention, the Turakin Adamawa boasted that it was very cheap to defeat an incumbent president, and he would prove it soon. Even at the convention, Atiku used more than 15 minutes in which he took the president to the cleaners. Well, as they say, the rest is now history. Now back to my own story.
Since that day in 1960 when I fell from the treetop, I have learnt to be less presumptuous, curb arrogance and tame my hubris to maintain some moral equilibrium and avoid the fall of a braggadocio.
If my father had not been on hand to attend to me, perhaps I could have lost some jawbones to the farmers’ palm. If there were no people around to rescue me for care after falling from the treetop, I could have been maimed. God knew that I needed those therapies to bring down the latent pride in me. I suppose in inter-personal and inter-group relations and in political and social interactions, arrogance should be given no room. We all need gravitas – if only to save us from the farmer’s palm.