The hills reminded me of Hollywood, California.  The trees were exotic, tropical.  The breeze that danced about ever so often was pleasing. I was in Ikoro Ekiti, and it was a pleasant surprise.

The journey was to celebrate the life of  a man I called Dad. I had no idea what to expect since I had never been there or traveled by road any further than Ibadan. It took over five hours of traffic, potholes and incessant stops by the police. As we approached Ekiti, I was captivated by the rolling hills, the vegetation and the people. I wondered if the government realized the untapped resources they had in their hands – the area could be transformed into hiking trails, a real tourist attraction. the only thing I saw that day welcoming visitors were signs announcing stairs to prayer mountains.

My excitement at seeing rich vegetation of palm trees, banana trees, and some unknowns equally as beautiful was mired by the blackened roots and leaves left behind by the burning of trees.

The winding streets of Ikoro, Ekiti

Along the way, I saw a man breaking the beautiful rocks into smaller pieces.  I was told he would sell to builders to make decotrations on the walls of homes.  Looking down as I passed by in the car into a small community, I saw a river, I was told that the water would be  cold and ‘fresh,’ the best type to drink.

I almost forgot why I was there, lost in the beauty of the villages we passed along the way.  Like I said, it was to celebrate the life of the man I had called dad for fifteen years.  The reception was held in on the large Eso-Obe School Field In Ikoro.  The event was attended by too many people to count.  Daddy was a good man.  I noticed many things, but one thing stood out – the young boys carrying those rickety fans, obviously home-made.

They all looked the same to me at first. The boys holding the fans held by wires standing by guests with the miniature fans almost hitting the face. Their eyes pleaded for money when their lips tired of asking. They followed celebrants to the dance floor, almost getting lost in the sea of bodies. They were relentless. As quickly as they were shooed away, they would return. The most convincing “I don’t have money for you,’ did not deter them. From their looks they looked no older than ten to me, some even six. It came as a surprise when this particular boy named Jimoh appeared beside me while sitting down, his fan placed inches from my arm. Maybe it was the look in his eyes or the way his chin was set in a determined way, but I wanted to talk to him.

Jimoh Ogundiran, the boy with the self-built fan

Jimoh Ogundiran says he is 17 years old but he looks like he is 10.  He is from Ikpoti, Ekiti.  He says he’s in JS 2  (seventh grade). I was unable to speak for sometime, not knowing whether to believe him or not. When he spoke though, he seemed to speak with much more knowledge than a ten year-old.  I asked him what he was doing at a party on a Friday afternoon when he should be in school.  He said he had been flogged at school the day before for not having his school fees and decided to skip.  I badgered him with more questions – Who introduced me to the job? How long had he been doing this job?  How did he hear about this party and the others he attended?  On average, how much did he make per party?   He answered every question looking me straight in the eyes – It was the comedian dancing on the field to the music who introduced him, they were neighbours, he said.  He had taken a liking to him and asked his parents if he could go along with him to parties.  I asked if he had to give the comedian a share of his money.  He answered yes and no. He would give him, but most times, he wouldn’t take it.  He didn’t answer how long he had been doing the job, or maybe the loud music made it impossible to hear.  He learned about the parties by listening to the radio. I tried to confirm these from people around who said it was also probably through the newspapers adverts where they scouted around for birthdays, funerals and other party events.  The money he made varied. Some days were good, others not so.  All his proceeds, he gave to his parents, he said.

Jimoh and me

Jimoh  had learned how to make the device he held proudly in his hands, which gave off a slight breeze in school, he said. So I encouraged him to return to school where he could learn to make even better inventions.  He nodded, but didn’t smile, not once. He did come back and thank me after giving him something for his time spent talking when he could have been hustling with his fan.  His eyes burned with determination A look which screamed that he would make the most of his situation.  I wished this look of determination could have been found in a different environment – a classroom filled with other students.

Jimoh is just one of the many boys I saw that day running around with their fans, trying to ease the discomfort of party goers and celebrants.  I questioned the parents who let them go off to do this, the system, but who am I to judge?  I plan on following up with Jimoh, and wish him the best.  His path to greatness is steep but his determination  will keep him on that path.