Year 2005 was about to hand-over the affairs of the world to the arms of year 2006, when I relocated to Ikeja part of Lagos mainland, partly to continue my studies and partly for cowed curiosity. Lagos was too sweet in the mouth of people with a luring ecstasy, it did not waste time luring me to move there when the opportunity arrived. Three days after my arrival, my older brother was in Liberia, keeping peace, making sure Liberians fight no more. Can you imagine without aid, as JJC as I am, I took a bus to Lagos Island; precisely searching for Muson Center, which now I know stand for Musical Society of Nigeria. The trip i took alone as a total stranger in the bustles of Lagos, to my surprise, the strangeness went unrecognized: no one saw that i was there as a first time stranger. It was an important trip for me, something personal, for Chimamanda Adichie, the young; ever smiling writer; a literary crush, who is more famous outside Nigeria, where her first novel, Purple Hibiscus received wide critical acclaim and had just been awarded the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book, was to give a talk to secondary students about book writing. That early morning in Oshodi, cheap Molue was too competitive for me, as only the strongest set of people got seat at that time of the day, I went for the little bit expensive Danfo with a fare I now cannot recollect. from Oshodi as the first passenger I told the conductor to drop me at Muson Center, when I told him that I don’t know the place he smiled, looked at me, then opened the front door for me and said okay no problem. I didn’t know what he was having in mind to give me such a free smile that early morning, but I gave no importance to his frightening smile. From Oshodi, when we set out towards the island, the clear sky with no abnormal sign became troubled, it seemed I was the only person worried in the bus. For everyone it seems normal, i managed till when God answered my prayers and I began to see my first instrument of identification- the topmost side of National Museum and the age-long Onikan Stadium, immediately heavy, unannounced rain fell and intensified. The driver who drove us from Oshodi handed us over to another Danfo bus that going to Muson Center, minutes by minutes, bus stop by bus stop, I became the only remaining passenger inside the bus, every other passenger had to drop in one bus stop or the other, as we drove farther the driver and conductor started looking at me with weary countenance, their talk deepened in Yoruba language that I know nothing about, to the point I began to suspect every word they said. For each seconds and minutes they turned to look at my face like an old smelling shit. The rain was still heavy. I could no longer view my number one instrument of identification- National Museum and Onikan Stadium because of rain's intensity. From home my neighbour’s son Joseph had already schooled me, that when I reach National Museum I reach Muson Center. I held his formula in highest regard. The Danfo driver stopped the bus in the middle of the road before a group of tall dancing three flower trees and said, they were turning back, I recall how my heart cut into many particle of dust inside, but I didn’t make a move, too annoyed and too afraid, I sat still, claiming a right I could longer claim, proving local stubbornness, the conductor shouted to me in harsh voice that I recalled pierced through my heart, he said, he would throw me out by force had I not come down out of the bus, when i saw him coming down like a hungry lion tearing down his meat, hot tears started rolling down my checks. Where can i go? Where do I know? This is Lagos! The conductor opened the door with force and dragged me down, the driver pointed to a direction I could barely see because of windy rain and said, Muson Center is there! Not far from here. I stand alone for twenty minutes or more in that heavy rain out of sight and reasons, no single person or car could be seen around, except above me, the sky which was flooded with pale mist, falling rain, trembling light and pondering thunder. I remember I walked into three different direction without success, but after crossing one heavy overflowing gutter, and paused to look at any aid within and how far the aimless wondering had drove me, I saw a tall woman, with a laughing baby, holding giant red, blue and white umbrella, I stood too wet and shaky to come close to her, she miraculously followed me with her umbrella, she said, Muson Center? – I shook my head, too cold and shivering to utter a meaningful word. I didn’t know that all this while that I was turning up and down aimless, I was doing it in front of Muson Center, the mist hide everything a little distance from me. I recalled seeing the tall tall palm trees moving to the rhythm of the wind, but never thought it was the Muson Center. The friendly woman left me at entrance door which was made single large to look like a cinema door.
Beside the door there stood a standing white banner with smiling picture of Chimamanda Adicie still smiling. I stood there shivering from the cold breeze. Peeping the fine faces of people going and sitting inside. After some minutes, a black car arrived in little speed and then I saw the door got opened by a fair stoic, muscular man in hurry, without anyone showing me or telling me, I saw Chimamanda Adichie richly step down out of the car, she was slim, darker than me and not as big as I imagine her. Her head was plait and was veiled in brown extended headscarf. She was wearing a slim trouser, lightweight cover shoe and clad more with pale-ash pullover. The wet me stood, contemplating of running when she was coming straight to my direction, she watch wet, quivering me staring at her incessantly, then asked! are you here for the program? I said, yes, looking at her with turning my face, i watch how Chimamanda removed her pullover fastly and fastly covered my shivering body with it. I was over startled, confused, I felt the penetration of joy and pondering surprise battling at the same time in my body that moment , it was when she said come inside nau that I saw lines of tears racing down from my eyes. I entered gently and found myself a black, soft leather seat in seventh raw, I recalled the serenity of where we sat, the place was made a little bit darker on the inside, but the stage where Chimamanda talk from was a bit brighter, everyone was looking at her with veneration when she was talking and looking at different direction, pointing her words to the minds of people, I watched people clap when she makes some meaningful points. All I could recall that day amongst her advice was read, read, read, be a reader before a writer! When the event closed, I watched in awe with other people, amazed by the line of people waiting for her to sign their books. She was asking them their name one after another and wrote it down somewhere besides her signature. At that time, I didn’t know of its importance. I removed her pullover, partly cold, waiting to give it to her, when she sign the last book, for it became impossible for me to penetrates to where Chimamanda was, and I have a tiny voice to invoke her attention. I watched a fine, slim man, who announced his name as Kunle thanking everyone that came to the event. Before I broke myself out to find Chimamanda, she already left the venue. My wet shirt had then dried on my body, I held this pullover looking at it in reverence for more than twenty minutes. No one would believe me had I to tell them that the succulent shirt belongs to Chimamanda Adichie. I never wore the shirt again till today and the succulent perfume is still there, it is my highest treasure, beyond anything in my command. As so frequent happens in life, however, it took another 8 to 9 or so years before an opportunity of meeting Chimamanda Adichie could be realised. In late 2014 or so, I was able to find a place at Farafina writing workshop where she was one of the facilitators; but this time I found her appearance more intimidating than before and she's in company of too many important personalities. I saw myself too less important to find a place in her presence, how can I start? What do I say? This is Chimamanda! I watched her talked and listen to her advice to us learning the art of writing, she advised us on how to write and turn trifle research materials into coweding lines, sweet paragraphs and chapters, how to be cruel when describing and observing a mondaine situation. I left the venue full and rich in wisdom; but little bit down, but still happy I saw Chimamanda Adichie again. I waited, and waited, and waited with filaments of expectation till another tall 4 years or so when a book reading was organized in her honour at Abuja. Then I took my place amongst authors, I already had a published poetry anthology- instrument of immortality cloud in little fame. After the reading, we asked Chimamanda many many questions. I meet her talking gently as if chewing a sweet piece of meat with a man off stage; I assume they knew each other well, because I watched how this person asked about another person with a delicate smile, and that that person also asked about another person with curiosity, I came close to her and said hello slowly, we’ve meet before? She asked and I said, yes— without telling here where!. I am Umar Yogiza Jr. I said, I watched the elegant movement of her mouth how she try pronouncing my name 'Yogiza' slowly thrice before pronouncing it accurately, she said, your name! The name sound traditional, we both laugh like for like twenty seconds before I said, this is a copy of my book, she said, oh, great! can you sign it for me? Sure! Sure! I said, sure! I sign it for her. While autographing— I wrote; for Chimamanda Adichie, a kind, wonderful and diamond piece of human literature, she said wao. She check for a copy of her book; but there was none, then I heard her call a name that now I cannot recall, when he arrived, a tall, fair man, with good lines of veins; hanging a broad shoulder, she collected the book in his possession with smile, I saw him trying to say something like- but this is my copy nau, she said, please, she sign it for me. I looked at her, she smiled and we both said nothing. Same Chimamanda two different me. She might have forgotten the hope she gave little me thirteen years ago.

© Umar Yogiza Jr.
Abuja Nigeria