My father told me a story. In fact, I should say he tells me a story, because, I’m still going to hear it maybe 20 times more before I’m off his grip. Perhaps he doesn’t remember he has told me before, but I’m going to tell you now, condensed, and hope that I do not forget I have told you before, like my father.
He told of me of his father, my grandfather. He told me my granddad was a man very much blessed with foresight. My granddad (of blessed memory or however Moslems revere their dead) was a Moslem. We hail from Ikere-Ekiti, but his ancestors were the Oyos, famed Ajala travelers, especially because of the rampant internecine wars of old, which was why they were in Ikere in the first place. Because of the Oyo nature to scatter all over, they devised some sort of recognition technique – famed, spectacularly ugly and disfiguring tribal marks called the “Abaja” – not very
