The Castor Oil Solution

I wear a beard with a secret hanging over my shoulders. My beards are not worn to hide my identity nor to mask a resemblance of an “Ojukwu ”….They sit on my face for a mere failure to pick up self-grooming skills. Those online tutorials on how best to line the beards have constantly failed me, I had not mastered the act of tilting the hand at the wrist at the very best angle that gave those sharp angles an edge. The barbershops in America had humbled me, forking out forty dollars per cut in Los Angeles had me looking like a eunuch.

I have an earlier recollection of some love for beards and mustache regardless. The love for beards was rightly from my villain, Mr. T, and the mustache from my grand uncle-Nze Ughalakaji.

The Owu festival probably endeared me forever to this facial hair business. I was amongst the dancers of this festival in my village, Oboroche-Ubaha Orodo. I danced fewer times than anyone could remember. The best and apt recollection by anyone of me might have been a little light-skinned kid adorning an immaculate, pristine white skirt with a multi-colored hand knitted wooly belt that was made by my mother, and worn around the waist. I also had a brand new aluminum colored ornaments “Onirina” that wove around that raffia palm “Osha” that embraced my ankles. You could actually pick me out on that train that matched and danced from Nze Ughalakaji’s house-the mustached one

I must also tell you that this singular ritual was the most highlight for me, one that got me looking forward to that festival each time. It had over my childhood days, informed my habits of a mere show-appearance. I was one of those that dressed more than they could dance “O Kanma n’osha”

We danced on a trail leading from Nze Ughalakaji’s house to my father’s who was the custodian of the Owu authority. It was a majestic one, one that we all had rhythmic body movements, swaying according to the faraway drums. It looked like some masonic entrance, enshrouded with glaring regality, led into a waiting stage, all filed in a pattern behind the most revered man in the village, an icon in his own right, a man I had grown to know and seen with that white mustache, curled up on both sides of the mouth like Herbert Macauley’s or of even of that man on Kentucky fried chicken buckets.

Those beards and mustaches of those days, as white as snow, as tough as age with the roughness of seasons of unclipped attention, came to a semblance of the abundance of wisdom.

Listening to his coarse, dry, and yet a tint of a raspy voice, tainted intermittently by a hacking cough, one could tell that this man would have been a judge or some learned council in an after-life. Those white hairs and mustache of his, represented fragments of experience, each strand telling stories that only discerning few could validate. He was a wise one, who stood tall amongst my kinsmen as a repository of information that came in handy in deciding cases that only wisdom ruled.

I remember him sitting on that three-legged stool “Agada”, in those days that Oboroche were locked in a protracted land tussle with neighboring Umuomu. I remember him as if it were yesterday, with his legs spread ajar, with “Ntorika” serving a cover to an “Utu” that we kids once saw and named “utu Solomon”.

I remember those late-night meetings chaired by the old and wise one, those nocturnal meets that allowed only intelligent conversations and contributions, those nights that the elders all huddled in silence yet rubbing minds on strategies to put forward, those nights that I heard phlegm from several throats land with a thud, a time that silence was golden.

It was in these meetings that my love for superior wisdom was gracefully cultivated, one that agreed that no event happened in isolation, one that paid close attention to the affirmation of truth by a select few elders. It was also in the same meets that I relegated, albeit naturally, that for one to eat with the elders, one’s hands needed to be clean, one also needed a loincloth that was tied tightly “Nwata na-erugi eru, wara ogodo, ogodo awushie ya anya”. A saying that led young men to wait patiently, while learning the rudiments of adulthood and wisdom.

I had also noticed in those nights, the use of words that seemed vulgar but embedded in our language, an uncouth approach in the choice of words that spilled out without fear or favor, disregarding whose ox was gored. These elders ate those idioms like yam with oil, they knew at best, an interjection when sort. “Ilu anogi aso anya” they would say. I remember one that started with “Nwanyi ikpu ukwu”, then another “ Ikpu gbara aji butere agha riri ya”, yet another “Nmadu anaghi ahapu ikpu, rawa ohu”; idioms that got the kids scampering for safety, giggling in same ways that the elders did when an unplanned recess was called- when one of the old ones farted. The old had their ways.

The old sure had their ways, wisdom was betrothed from kith to kin. I had seen my uncle Linus reinstate severally that he was born before my dad, he had claimed he came few hours prior and hence had native rights to go first in any dealings. It was in these same meetings that I had found out that the wise mustached one, Ughalakaji, cooked for himself-No woman born of a man touched his food.

Times have changed. The white hair was a common sight. The white hair no longer bestowed wisdom. I have observed that a lot of my peers now adorned the white hairs. A lot more wear white mustaches and beards like beauty accessories sold in “Nkwo-Orodo”. I have seen an increase in positions occupied by a majority of my youths, spots that were meant for only those with selective wisdom. I have seen a large number of youths who have formed congregations and alliances that have not hitherto moved the needle an inch forward. I have paid attention to an anticipated mass movement, one that was to spur this generation to some greater beyond and above since a lot of white-bearded beings were now in the saddle. I had watched moribund groups, who constituted groups and think tanks- age, and white hair being amongst qualifying criteria for membership. I had looked with dismay how unintelligently these new crop of wise men have become mere pawns. I have watched with some anger why we had not made any considerable progress in my village since the old and the few wise men were all gone.

None was like my Ughalakaji-till date but they adorned the white hair

I have painfully understudied the supposed wise ones in my village and environs who had risen to fill these void and have at each time wondered if it were the curse of the precocious white hair or the scourge of a prepubertal wish.

A solution was possible. I had to look farther back to the castor oil that was presented to Shaka Zulu by the imperialists when they came visiting. King Shaka was mesmerized with his new looks. The castor oil that was rubbed on his hair had made him look younger and fresher, he was, at last, going to rule almost forever. An account specifically recounts the king seeking for that which turns white hair black.

I now seek the castor oil solution for my youths and elders who have precociously occupied those positions that were prematurely bestowed on them. I call for this oil so as to rightly differentiate those that were wise and fit for positions of growth. I love the castor oil, if for nothing else, a grooming ointment to cover those white hairs that might have deceived the public into believing that these new guys were repositories of wisdom and wise counsel.

“Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge”

I call for this oil so as to unearth ignorance that had beclouded our congregation, where common sense was now an expensive commodity. I call for this oil to serve as a deterrent to those that we had ordinarily relied on for guidance, if for nothing else, a loss of a revered position that they once held would be acceptable.

“Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance”

At It Matters period, a social enterprise, we encourage these discuss that challenge our collective thinking. We have shown a resolve to make impacts on societies that we have found ourselves albeit meaningfully. We are asking for rounded and fearless youths that will equip themselves with the needed knowledge to steer the wheels of tomorrow, those with added feathers to fly proactive and sustainable ideas of the future, those with a mandate to oil the wheels of progress.

Not these look-alikes “Ughalakajis”

Uchenna Iwualla M.D

It Matters Period