LÓKO LÓKO – Part 1 By Tunji Suleiman
“…one hell of a cunt, that caused the death of someone’s sibling; rarified for lustful mortals, yet rouses celestial phalluses…” – Yoruba proverb, Ile-IfeLast week, somewhere on WhatsAppville, a lady lamented the case of a woman who had been ex-wife to a senator and a governor, ex-queen to a traditional ruler and is now wife to an Arab prince. One woman married “four billionaires in every currency”, yet others, can’t get one man to marry or are stuck with husbands who provide not soup money but want submission. “Some people escorted others to this world. ‘The pictured woman’ (sic) knows something the rest of us don’t” she concluded. The narrative sparked thoughts on the nature of a unique specie of human female and the inexplicable, sometimes fatal, attraction she holds for men. It called to mind the story of one uncle – let’s call him Òróbìnrindòrí, after that eponymous male victim of feminine guile and villainy in Yoruba folklore – who was felled by ewà, beauty.Disclaimer: It is not the contention of this writer that the woman in the referenced post that inspired this writing chose her lifestyle. She may be a victim of circumstances. Neither is it the writer’s claim that she and other women in similar circumstances fit into the character of this story. If any such impression be created, it is unintended and regretted.Now… He was a mid-level banker, happily married and doing well until he tangled with a paragon of beauty that we may call Lókolóko. She was said to have left a previous husband, in circumstances best summarized as Olówó gbà ìyàwó òlę, the well-to-do snatching the wife of the lazy. Then trouble started.Erstwhile responsible husband of one wife, excellent father to his kids, good son to his parents and extended family, and adorable ègbón, senior, and role model to his neighborhood young who thought him comfortable, nice and upwardly mobile; he began to have issues. His wife got wind of the cause – extramarital affair – and reported to his parents. His mother called in a respected relative, an Alhaja, to talk sense into him. According to the now distant friend who narrated the story to me, Alhaja counselled thus: “This woman you chose for àlè, concubine, is not your mate. You cannot carry her load without breaking your back. Desist, before you wreck yourself.”He took it badly. “Ha! Alhaja, e má so bęę mó! Don’t ever say that again!!” he retorted, adding “She’s not whose mate?”She persisted, “What you are doing cannot end well. Please listen to me. You must leave her…”Uncle had risen abruptly, donned his cap, adjusted his agbádá, father of garments, and interjected, “Alhaja, don’t let me look you in the eye.” All present were aghast; he never talked to anyone like that, and she was revered in and outside the family. On his feet and defiant, he declared, “I will marry her.” Then he walked out. Wifey ran after him entreating and crying. She begged him to stop and wait for her, but he never looked back. He didn’t go back home until a week later, and then only to fetch papers and personal effects in a suitcase. Two days later, he rented and moved into a luxury GRA house, which he renovated and furnished lavishly. He did exactly as he said two àlàmísì, Thursdays, thence – he married Lókolóko – with no family member in attendance. He then proceeded on honeymoon with her, two dreamlike weeks at a romantic getaway. He brought a brand-new car on return. Life had never seemed so good. But his money worries quadrupled. Salary, allowances, benefits, even advances, disappeared as quickly as bills for the new woman’s lifestyle piled up. He resorted to IOUs, a credit window he had never needed or used. He soon exhausted his limit there too. He then started to take bank cash home and to cook the books, all to satiate the money-guzzling appetite of the mammy water second wife. Within two years, his cup filled and overran. The bank suspended him and ordered investigations into his accounts. Embezzlement/misappropriation of depositors’ funds was alleged.Two weeks later, he was sacked without recourse or benefits.Lókolóko didn’t waste time. She had none for broke men. She had borne him no child. She announced that it was over, and she was moving on. He went on his knees, professing undying love, begging her to be patient, promising to figure a way out and to make even more money. She scoffed. And left two weeks later, just as she had come, with a billionaire industrialist and multiple chief. The wife that was married with dance had been lost to spectacle.Devastated and distraught, he gave up the GRA house and returned to the wife he had left. She welcomed him back and showered him with affection. Alas! Too much damage had been done. Òróbìnrindòrí had become a shadow of his former self. He was broke and broken.But I digress. Returning from long sojourn, the Yoruba contemplated the career and restless spirit of the serial divorcee whom no one man can husband, and coined for her the appellation, Oko kan ò kún cupboard – one man doesn’t fill a cupboard. To depict her disloyalty and listlessness, they came up with ajádī apèrè – a bottomed-out basket that keeps nothing of value. In consideration for her outward appeal and internal hollowness, they invented ‘atupa parlour’, lantern for the front room that suffuses in joyous incandescence the male horde that swarms around her in admiration and lust, like moths around a lightbulb in phototaxis. Forerunners left plenty of anecdotes on the elegant woman of intense sexual appeal, whom an Ife proverb describes as dèngbèré òbò – one hell of a cunt, that caused the death of somebody’s sibling, already rarefied for lustful mortals, yet rousing celestial phalluses to erection. Contemporaries continuously update the experiential material, so much so that the chronicler is not bereft of content.Her destiny and talent are beauty for its sake by which she shines her light upon beholders and avail her warmth to favored consorts who adore her, cater to her every whim, and pave her way for the life of vanity and hedonism that she craves and claims as entitlement. When she enters any space, every other woman must hold tightly to her man, or lose him. In her presence, husbands are endangered species. She does not care for the kitchen or housekeeping or homemaking. All that is for maids, paid by capable males, who alone qualify to be her husbands. Her nails that she spent fortunes on are too precious for chores. Without domestic help, her abode is a pig sty. She may not even be exceptional in the other room without kayan mata – sex elixirs – but she has mastered its use for bargain, control and punishment by way of rationing or denial.A slay queen, her vision is to dress up and look good, one luxury garment and bling per occasion, hardly or never to be repeated. Her earthly mission is the shoot and the glam, splashed all over the gram. She cares less for children. She simply has no time for nappies when small change will pay for nannies. If she has kids, she likely did too early, before getting wise to her appeal. When she has come to self-realization, children become inconvenient appendages that cramp style and tie down, except to the extent of utility as tools for schemes or weapons for battles or inheritance anchors to the estates of baby daddies. She is the classical igí dá eye fò, the bird that perches on a tree for comfort and repose, but stretches her wings and flies away as soon as the branch breaks. She doesn’t wait for divorce to cash out, unlike the wannabee that lost out to Achraf Hakimi, the professional footballer who kept 80% of his wealth in his mother’s name, out of reach of a goody-goody wife and divorce lawyers. She gets her rewards in cash and kind just for the asking. Gifts of luxury cars, expensive jewelry, dream holidays come rushing from men who compete to please her. If the divorce-seeking Mrs. Hakimis of this world are in Premier League, Lókolóko plays the Championship. To be continued…
Tunji Suleiman, an entrepreneur, storyteller and public affairs analyst, writes from Lagos, Nigeria.
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