The Obama Soap

by Michael Ndubuisi Agugom

 

He tore off his hand-me-down suit. He kicked off the fake leather shoes. Chuka handed it all to his task boy. The boy, a poor lamb, who spoke more by nodding his head than using his mouth, put Chuka’s items into one of the ghana-must-go bags. Chuka was down to his boxers. He and his task-boy were at the head of the street.

A vagrant pregnant goat ambled towards them. She halted. She had the eyes of a septuagenarian and gazed at the duo momentarily, as though aware of what they were up to, and left them to carry on. The poor lamb thought the nanny goat admired Chuka’s naked physique. Chuka’s glistening shaved head, his broad shoulders, and his thick calves were features to admire.  He watched as Chuka drew in a deep breath. It was a beautiful morning and prospects were as bright as the risen sun. The task boy grinned at him. Chuka returned the grin, he was not a selfish fellow.  Indicating his readiness, the task boy nodded to Chuka. Chuka ran his thumbs back and forth inside the band of his boxers and tore down the street, screaming “It’s Obama! It’s Jonathan! It’s Obama!” as he ran.

Heads began to turn. In no time, the crowd he’d been seeking emerged: housewives. They began converging to catch a glimpse of Chuka. He made it to the tail of the street panting. He stooped over, hands on his knees gasping for breath. He rose and looked to the top of the street. Not enough audience yet. The street was about twelve poles, one of the longest he had taken on. The task boy was leaning on the street signpost. The signpost at the entrance of the street indicated the name of the street but Chuka cared nothing for the names of city streets —he could hardly pronounce most—he thought of streets by their peculiar features. This street could only brag of one single-storied building. So in his mind, this was Single-Storey street.

The newly planted signpost was the only government presence on the street. The rest was a slum: caked brown earth, potholes the size of craters, dirt and dust that rose to give houses new coats, and enough rat carcasses to feed the hungry vultures. And there were plenty of filthy rags to be found in the street for Chuka to use. If perfect could describe anything by man, this was it.

He started his return lap to the head of the street, kicking up dust and picking up rags along the way. He screamed even louder this time. The deafening strength of his voice was a thunderclap. The women on the frontages were now calling on the ones inside to come out and behold the spectacle. One woman told another that it was the early manifestations of madness. Another woman thought Chuka was handsome and questioned why such a handsome young man would destroy himself with substance abuse. Yet, another insisted it was a new form of ritual. Young men nowadays would do anything for riches.

Chuka reached the head of the street, and he was satisfied for the turnout was thick. He carried the rags he had collected on his head. He looked like one among an exodus having crossed the desert. He sauntered back to the centre of the street and let drop the pile of rags.  He stood still. A good crowd, mostly women, surged around him. There was an air of expectation. Chuka wore a solemn look and yelled, “I’ve come to show you American wonder! If you’re a wife or a mother and you’re still inside then you’re not a good one.” He paused for effect. He shoved his thumbs in the band of his boxers and made to pull them down. The women ah-ed. He stopped and grinned wildly. The women began to drift closer around him like a haze.

“I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘is he a madman?’ I’m not. I’m here to show you the secrets of the high and mighty. I’m especially talking to our wives and mothers here gathered.

Look at these rags,” he said, picking up a few and raising them above his head. “These dirty rags will become clean again. Like dead bones that rise again.”

The women chuckled.

Carrying a basin and a bag full of sachet detergent and toilet soaps, the task boy shouldered through the crowd that had circled around Chuka.

“I’ll show you that detergent pass detergent, just as man pass man. Not all men are equal; some are more equal than others. Some detergents too are more equal than others. I’m a man of action. I believe in the principle of Thomas: show me your hand Master and I’ll believe you’ve risen! Can I get a hallelujah here-ei!”

“Hallelujah!” The women responded amused.

He was pleased, he knew he had their minds. “I too will show you how powerful this soap is.” He bid the women to fetch water. A generous basin of water was brought into the circle. The women buzzed around him.

“Move back a bit, move back. I need space. I don’t want to suffocate.”

They did.

He poured water into the empty basin, tore open a pack of detergent, poured a handful into the water, and stirred, all the while humming, “Come and see, American-wonder, come and see, American-wonder.” He picked out the filthiest rag and dumped it into the frothy water. “I’m about to show you the detergent used by great women. While the rag soaks well, let me tell you a small secret story that happened. Recently our First Lady went to America and sat with Mitchel Obama. I hope una know who she’s?

A woman eager for attention screamed, “Yes! Wife of American President.”

“You see! Even though you mothers wash, cook, and clean all day, you still listen to news and know who’s who in the world. Clap for yourselves beautiful mothers!”

They did excitedly.

“So, First Lady and Madam Obama started chatting. You know small-small talk and gossip.”

The women laughed.

“First Lady now ask Madam Obama, ‘Mitchel, what detergent do you use to wash your clothes and these fine curtains in White House?’ Do you know the detergent Madam Mitchel told her?”

The women screamed, “No-o!”

Chuka held a pack of the detergent up to the heavens. “Flora Detergent! And do you know the best part of the story?”

They chorused another, “No-o!”

“Patience! Wait for it! Before I finish my story, make we check on our rags.”

He threw his hands in the basin. After a few minutes of squeezing, he brought out the rag, transferred it into the plain water basin and rinsed. He brought out the rag again and held it up. To their amazement, it was cleaner than they could’ve possibly imagined.

The women cheered.

“Now hear the rest of the story. Madam Mitchel told our First Lady that it’s made by one of our own. It is made here and sent abroad for the world to use. But, like other things, we don’t value it. So, First Lady came back and declared that only this detergent will be used in Aso Rock Villa. You’re a woman here and you want your house to be as white as the White House and Aso Rock Villa. This is the detergent for you. It’s because of this soap that oyibo people called their government house White House: everything inside is sparkling clean. In fact, if you want to be wives of presidents, you want your husband to become president, use this detergent!”

The women guffawed and began to fetch their purses.

“But wait! That’s not all. I have tablet soap too. This soap does wonders to the skin. Just as the detergent washes your clothes clean, this one washes poverty off your skin completely. Wives, mothers! If you want to be as beautiful as the wife of a president, this is the soap for you—how many of you know that the American president is not even from America?”

“He’s from Kenya.” A woman screamed.

“You see! You see what I mean. The lovely madam confirmed it; she and her husband have been using this soap right from the days they were doing boyfriend-and-girlfriend. Mothers, nothing is impossible in this world. You can have children here and they’ll become presidents in  foreign lands. All you need is to bathe your children with this soap. If your children don’t become presidents, your children-children will become. That’s all. They call it Flora Soap. I call it Obama Soap! I call it what?”

“Obama Soap!”

“I call it what?”

“Obama Soap!”

“Get one for your husband! Get one for yourself! Get one for every one of your children! And if you are a good woman, get one for your neighbour! First come, first get!

Don’t think about it! Don’t wait for your neighbour to test it first…” He kept repeating as the women fought to buy off what was left. He sold out his stock on that street and wished he had brought more.

 

On the bus home, Chuka felt satisfied. As the bus wound through the heart of Victoria Island, heading for the mainland, he knew where his next sales stunt would be.

“Bring dirty rags on your way tomorrow,” he ordered the boy. “Tomorrow we’ll tread a different ground. We’ll hit jackpot tomorrow.” The boy nodded his head and smiled. If the poor lamb had known the ground Chuka meant, that smile would not have come to his face, and he would not have shown up the following morning.

Chuka’s father dreamt amply on his behalf. The old farmer, since his youth, wanted to be a famous politician. But the Civil War broke out and truncated his ambition. Chuka had to carry that burden on his father’s behalf. There was no encumbrance to Chuka not achieving it. Now, through the son the old farmer would be known as the father of a famous actor.

The old farmer imagined himself grinning into cameras at his doorstep, answering questions about how he managed to raise a fine actor on his small farm. Around his kinsmen, he bragged about how great his son would turn out. He took the trouble of buying current movies. He learnt names of all the big indigenous actors, Ezuruonye,  Elliot, Edochie, and could easily see the ones that bore resemblance to his son. His son would be on the screen soon.

Patiently, he waited.

Chuka had wanted to take a major in agriculture at the university and become a commercial farmer. But his father would not hear of such nonsense, he was not going to waste his small farm proceeds on training that he could just as well give to his son.  Chuka fought back, but his father’s position was as clear as the full moon: either he take another major and become someone who wears a suit or forget university altogether. Thinking to upset his father, he opted for a degree in Theatre Arts. In Chuka’s estimation, such a degree was for carefree youths who knew nothing better than to use the degree to exorcise the demons within them. He thought he had succeeded in riling his old man, but the old farmer was all the happier at the news. It could only have been a stroke of providence that his son had by chance or destiny validated his own youthful ambition. The old farmer began to see the newspaper headline: Son of a farmer receives award for the category of Best Actor in… He did not torment his mind over the title of the movie. It could be Elephants on Rampage in Kenya for all he cared provided the award went to his son.

After graduation, Chuka returned home to join his father on the rice farm, but his father once again made it clear there was no theatre or movie set on his farm. Chuka would have to take his certificate to the city where the sheet of paper would merit value. If he sent Chuka to university to study only to return to his farm, he might as well have spent the money buying cats and rearing them to chase away the rats that were eating up everything in his house.
Chuka realized that getting his father to change his mind would be as easy as cooking stone to soften. He gathered his guts in his hands and made up his mind to go to the city. But, in truth, he had brought only his body to the big city. He left his mind on his father’s rice farm.

The morning he was to leave, the happy old farmer sat his son down and told him what he had heard of the big city. “There,” he said, “you could sell pebbles as diamonds to people if you were clever enough. You could also end up buying pebbles as diamonds if you were dumb enough. By all means, make sure you’re the seller—not the buyer.” Those words were glued to Chuka’s mind as he left his village.

Chuka had never been to any big city. The only place he had been to close in size was the university town where he had studied. He did not suffer anxiety when the signboard to the big commercial city seemed to say to him that the world functioned differently here.

After one year in the city, Chuka could not score a cheap commercial much less a role in a movie. Whatever he had been taught in the university made no sense in the world of movies. There were no theaters or plays in which he could perform. His first movie audition was disastrous. He had brought along his degree certificate in the hopes it would help him edge out the uneducated riffraff of aspiring actors. The director asked him what that sheet of paper in his hand was. “My Degree Certificate, sah.” Chuka had said. The director and the casting crew rolled over themselves in laughter. “Were you told this is a job interview?” the director asked. After a year of wearing suits and knotting ties to countless interviews, Chuka concluded those interviews were only staged to fulfill some standard recruitment procedure and he gave up on them. He was about to return to his father’s rice farm to escape eviction from the landlord when his neighbour, Aliboy, came to his doormat bearing a small sachet of hope.

“How can you just give up?  In this city you can make money in many ways, not necessarily collar jobs. You just need to be brave!”

“Easy to say. You have a job.” Chuka countered.

“Job indeed! What do you think I do for a living?”

“Everyone knows—”

“Ol’boy, forget! My suit is only packaging. That’s what this city demands of you: packaging.” Aliboy wore a suit every morning to work but not many knew what he really did for a living. He was always in a nice suit, so everyone imagined him seated on a swivel chair in an opulent office, his legs up on a polished mahogany table. The picture was easy to imagine since he told whoever asked he was an Executive Marketer.

“I sell detergent in the market. I take off this suit when I get to the company shop in the market and wear my hustle clothes. Look, in this city anything can bring in money. Nobody cares how provided the money come in plentifully.”

Chuka was dumbfounded.

Aliboy explained that he made commissions on the sales of detergent and toilet soap. He sold only in the market. He encouraged Chuka to come in on the business at least until he could secure a more lucrative job. Back in his room from which he was to be evicted, Chuka thought of all that Aliboy had told him.  And then he made up his mind. He would do it.  But, he would not just sell in the market. He would take the product to the doorstep of the buyers, and he would sell more. But after a month or so, it had not yielded much success and moving door-to-door was exhausting. He pondered hard again. The city hungered for spectacle—he would provide it with one. He could use his theatre training after all. He would take his drama to the street. And he would make more sales and more money. But he would not rest on his laurels. He would be a seller to both the poor and the rich.

He was beginning to see the wisdom in his father’s words. True, he was not acting on any theatre stage or before a camera, but he was almost certain it would not be long before the entire city would know him as the young man who put up a good street show and raked in big sales. And who knows, one of those big film directors could be on the streets in Victoria Island and spot him at his clever drama. Chuka could not have been happier. His heart was filled with a sense of accomplishment and optimism.

Aliboy was on his way in that night, when he saw Chuka out on the balcony, a bottle of beer next to him, sporting a lavish grin on his face.  It was the third night in a row. Chuka’s happiness worried Aliboy.

“Ol’boy, wetin dey happen?” He approached Chuka. “This wan that every evening you’re downing bottles of beer.”

Chuka grinned, but Aliboy did not return it. “The gods have remembered me.”

“Remembered you?” Aliboy sat down.

“My hard work is paying off. My sales are hitting the roof. By this time tomorrow  I will have made enough money to pay that bedbug that calls himself landlord.”

“Ol’boy! For real! Make dem give me one bottle na.”

Chuka called out to the girl across the way who sold beer to bring another bottle.

“Is it the same lines you’re using?”

“No. I improvise given the particular street. Tomorrow will be my biggest day.”

“How? You want to add otumopko to it?”

“No-o. For what na. I’m hitting Victoria Island.”

“Vic-what?”

“Victoria Island, V.I.”

“Of course, I heard you the first time. Ol’boy, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You thought so too when I told you about putting up drama on the street.”

“This one is different. V.I. is where the rich, the highly educated, the politicians, the powerful—”

“Exactly! That’s where they all reside. And that’s why I’m going there with my drama. They’ll appreciate my performance more than these poor ignorant slum women.”

“Hmm!”Aliboy sipped his beer. He said nothing more.

That night Chuka dreamt of rich women. Not only did they buy off his stock, they took his phone number so they could make direct orders from him. Aliboy, on the other hand, had a restless night. He could not help dreaming of Chuka, suddenly a rich man, while he remained a pauper. It irritated him that the boy he had introduced to the small business was about to make fortunes from it. He got out of bed perspiring like the bottle of beer he’d had. He calmed his nerves with a stick of cigarette. He thought about it for a while then concluded that if he had had as much education as Chuka, he too would have been clever enough to employ such ingenuity to sales. The blame for his lack of education fell on his own father. He threw out the envy in his heart like dirty water in a bowl and returned to bed.

 

The signboard at the entrance of the street read: “Wandering Is Not Allowed Here.” Chuka strutted in chuckling to himself, these rich people have a funny way of making everything about them appear exclusive. It was a cul-de-sac of about eight poles. Purely residential buildings. Buildings with gates and fences as high as his grandfather’s yam barns lined the street. The street was tarred. It was so clean that Chuka thought anyone could eat right off the ground. The houses displayed manicured shrubs and front-lawns. The street bore the silence and solemnity of a graveyard. Chuka alone saw the possibility of bringing the street to life. He could not understand why living, breathing people would lock themselves up in these ostentatious mausoleums. No doubt behind every gate, every door, and every window bored housewives hungered for a little spectacle.

His task boy was a drenched leaf. For reasons Chuka could not fathom, the boy seemed terrified. Chuka thought light of the boy’s state.  He took it to imply the boy was dazed by the display of affluence. He pitied him. He took off his suit-jacket, his necktie and shirt, then slipped off the suit pants, and was down to his boxers.  He grabbed a few rags and began trotting along the street bellowing out, “It’s Obama! It’s Jonathan! It’s Obama” and dropping the rags he would retrieve on the way back.  At the end of the street, he took a breather.

He looked ahead to ascertain how many curious stares he had drawn. He indeed had drawn some. Heads were popping out. Some were peeping from security-post holes. But not the heads of housewives as he was expecting. Instead, these were heads accompanied by rifles. Chuka was too blinded by prospects to see them at first. He drew a large breath for the return lap. He had nothing to worry about. The Haves did not rush at spectacles like the Have-nots. He will just have to be ready with his freshly thought out story. It would suit them when they began to emerge like ants from anthills. To show that he was just as educated as they were, and not some riffraff from the slum, he would employ his practised American accent when he spoke. And, he would hike up the price on the detergents and soaps since rich people generally regard cheaply bought goods as inferior goods.

He was almost to the centre of the street when a soldier marched out from one of the buildings, cocked his rifle, and pointed it at Chuka. He could see instantly that the soldier’s face bore no second thought on shooting him for the slightest of reasons. Chuka froze on the spot, the rags dangling from his hands.

“Stop there, bloody idiot!” The soldier bawled. He did not have to waste his saliva. Chuka was sensible enough to understand what it meant when a soldier pointed a gun at you close range. His task-boy, observing the unfolding events, had left their wares of sachets and bars of soap on the street, and before the soldier uttered another command, was already on the Third Mainland Bridge, on ten toes, running for dear life. He was not going to get a slug to his head over detergents.

“On your knees, your hands for your back,” the soldier ordered.

Chuka obeyed.

The soldier came closer. He brought the nozzle of the rifle to Chuka’s temple. Chuka felt its coldness and reasoned that death indeed was cold, not warm. He urinated on himself instantly. More soldiers emerged from different buildings and came at him. He felt his lungs block. It became had to breathe, but his heart was a frenetic talking drum. Chuka wondered briefly how the country could ever win a war with so many soldiers used as house guards.

“How many are you?” The first soldier asked.

Words froze in Chuka’s mouth. He thawed a word and stuttered, “two.” But when he looked up the street, he saw that the task boy was gone.  Chuka was alone.

“Where’s your second?”

Chuka did not have answer to that. He pointed to the spot where the boy was supposed to be.

“Who asked you to raise your hand? Lie on your belly! On your belly!”

Chuka fell flat on his stomach, the hot tar seared him. He wept. The first soldier asked him if the things at the street entrance were his. Chuka affirmed. They ordered him up and led him to where the boy had dropped the bag. He told them the contents of the bag was just soaps and sachet detergent, but they were not listening. The first soldier ordered Chuka back on the ground and told another soldier to radio bomb squad. Chuka had not thought clearly of the situation, but when he heard “bomb squad” he became certain of its gravity. Of course, there was no bomb in the bag, but his anxiety multiplied, for a man could be shot over bean cake and here he was suspected of carrying a bomb. If the hot tar burnt him to his soul, the late morning sun was a plate of burning coal on his back.

The soldiers maintained a safe distance as though he had a contagious disease. A few of them took strategic positions on alert, in case Chuka was a tactical distraction. They made eye contact and continued.

“What were you sent here for?”

“Sent. I wasn’t sent.”

“Shut up! Answer the question.”

“Obama soap!”

The soldiers looked confused. What had the President of America got to do with soap? The closest struck Chuka’s head with the butt of his gun, that should bring him to his senses.

“America send you here?”

“No…I sell soap. Forgive me, I meant no harm.”

The soldiers became frantic and impatient. They ordered Chuka to turn out the contents of the bag. Chuka staggered up, the soldiers stepped back. Chuka emptied the bag on the street with trembling hands, his body, a burning stick of wood. A few sachets of the detergent burst open and spilled. The soldiers moved in closer. They suddenly lowered their guns.

“So, it’s soap that make you run naked, littering the street. You want to sell Obama soap. Is this street America? People who sell soap stay in the market or use TV, radio. Bloody idiot! Since you want to sell soap, You’ll sell to us today —”

Chuka’s thoughts were in shambles. How could he explain his sales drama to them? They were not the lot to stand around for that. But now they wanted his drama. He stood there hesitating, unsure how to begin, but when the soldier raised his gun and cocked it, he jumped into action:

“I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘is he a madman?’ I’m not…I’m here to show you the secrets of the high and mighty. I’m especially talking to our wives and mothers here gathered…” Before he could say another word, a soldier walloped Chuka across the face. The slap threw him to the ground. For a few seconds he could not see clearly.

“Do we look like women?” The soldier scoffed.

“I’m sorry, fathers and men.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s a farmer, sah.”

“Poor farmer, I believe?”

Chuka nodded his head. He saw hope, maybe this truth would elicit sympathy from the soldiers. They would see that he was just a young man from a lowly background but bold enough to contrive a clever means of surviving the harsh realities of the big city. “So, your father is poor, you have never been rich, and yet you know the secrets of the high and mighty?” The soldiers laughed. Chuka’s hope vanished. “So, this is the lie you feed our women on the streets to sell soap?”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

Another soldier smacked Chuka from behind, he staggered forward. “What else have you been feeding women?”

Chuka felt a dryness in his throat, his mind a desert. What could repair his predicament? He blubbered, “I’ll show you that detergent pass detergent, just as man pass man. These rags”, his wet eyes went to the rag beside him, “will become clean again as dead bones rise again. This soap will wash poverty off your skin—”

“Bones will rise again!” The soldier jeered. “You really are a fraud! Why are you still poor, running all over the streets naked if your soap washes poverty off the skin?”

“I’m sorry, I only—”

“Shut up! You see that soap,” the soldier pointed to the spilled detergent, “you’re going to lick it clean.”

Chuka fell on his knees, entreating. A soldier booted him from behind, Chuka fell on his face. Chuka crawled on all-fours like a dog and lapped detergent and dirt off the tar. The detergent stung his gullet as he swallowed, his stomach was a storm of deep gurgling.

The soldiers watched him with great amusement. They ordered him up. Chuka got up, tears were waterfalls on his cheeks, his tongue stuck out discoloured from the burn, froth drooling from his mouth. “Don’t worry the detergent will wash poverty off your belly,” they guffawed. “Gather your soap into the bag and carry it on your head.”

Chuka quivering violently, did as they told him. He wobbled under the weight of his wares. “Now, run off! And as you do, keep shouting ‘Come and buy soap-o!’ And if I turn to see you’re still on this street….” Chuka did not wait for him to complete his threat, he hobbled away down the street, “Come and buy soap-o! Come buy soap-o!” but the powder burned his throat, and his once thunderous voice was now weak and rasping. The soldiers watched him in hysterical glee.

 

He boarded a bus home still in his boxers. Everyone who shared the bus seat with him thought no doubt he was a madman. His body was a mass of bumps, burns, and pains; his great spirit crushed. It told him he should not have clung to the sachet of hope Aliboy had offered him, he should not have dared to dream big, should not have dared to be so bold with his gift.

Aliboy came in that evening with two bottles of beer expectant of great news. But he was shocked when he saw the beaten Chuka. Chuka calmly narrated his ordeal. He concluded by declaring he was returning to his village. Aliboy tried to give him heart.

“You can still sell—”

“They said they don’t ever want to see me on the streets disturbing people.”

“They meant their streets, not….”

But Chuka could no longer listen. With what little strength left in him, he stuffed his belongings into the ghana-must-go bag. He dragged it and himself to the nearest bus-station and booked a night-travel ticket. By daybreak, Chuka was back on his father’s rice farm. When the old farmer saw his son’s face, he did not have the mouth to ask him the title of the movie he had featured in.

 

Michael Agugom was born in Nigeria. He was a producer and presenter with the largest TV network in Africa. He teaches English language and volunteers as coordinator for an NGO.