THE OMBUDSMAN
I have picked a name among my boys — ‘The Ombudsman.’ This is not because I suffer the curse of having a legal background — far from it. Two-thirds of my boys are waist-deep in the legal profession. They do not give a hoot about my legal background. I am not a lawyer enough when I am around them. I do not have the commitment, grit and flamboyance to be a lawyer — for being a lawyer goes beyond training. It goes to mannerism. Attitude. Dressing. Laughter. Maybe even the decorum of wiping one’s own ass. People do not just go in and out of law school. They get soaked in it. They ferment — like pickles.
It is easy to assume that I did not ferment well. Surprisingly, I am good pickle. I just refuse to taste like one. I protest the default disposition of the law and the flashiness of those who practice it. I cannot maintain a necktie for an hour. In one interview when a panelist asked me to feel comfortable, I said, “No, I am not comfortable.”
Shocked by my response but trying to keep a straight face, she asked, “Why.”
“I hate suits. I cannot think straight in a suit.” She laughed.
“Because suits get hot, don’t they?” The gentleman on the right came in.
“No. A suit is a message. Often a wrong one. On the occasion of being employed, I will not maintain this suit. I believe that is also the story of most of the candidates out there waiting for their turn to this interview.” I went on and on to philosophize the significance and insignificance of a suit. I discussed the suit as a symbol or colonialism and neo-colonialism. I argued for afro-centrism and invoked the soul of Kwame Nkruma.
The panelists — all dressed in top-notch suits — did not give me the job.
I love to be free, disrespectful but honest. And that is not the character of the law or anyone who should apply it. My boys know that. It showed in college. I did not read the law in order to apply it — I read the law to heal it. So, I joined advocacy and activism. I have a passion for legal reform.
My boys call me the ombudsman because it is me they call when things go tits up. When one of us does something uncalled for like shagging a lady that another has been ‘marinading’ for three months, someone has to say something. Or if Dawn does something unreasonable as he often does, somebody needs to call up a Sanhedrin and talk things out. I am that man; I have to chair and keep mental records. I am the arbitrator, negotiator and multi-level bridge among my boys — hence, The Ombudsman.
It is not a role I enjoy, really. It is something I have accepted with reluctance and utmost modesty. I am barely the grease that oils the wheel of our friendship when we rub against each other. It is not a pretty role to play. It is not easy to sit down your friend and say, “That chick you have been hammering behind our back has caught feelings and she came to me crying.” My boy might say, no I was not hammering any chick behind you boys or that chick is just emotional. Whatever direction that conversation might take, it will get more and more awkward.
Being the Ombudsman does not mean I am never in the wrong. I have already wronged them twice this year that they almost cut my head off. These are my boys; I make less mistakes now but they were there when I made them frequently. When my college sweetheart smoked hemp and wanted to rough up a girl I was talking to, these boys held me together. They have stood by me. When we made silly, we were together. We have escorted each other before to search for a wrist watch one of us dropped in the night when he made himself comfortable having sex under a tree. These have been our realities. We hold a rare royalty from the days we were unhinged and disaffected.
When I wrote ‘Being Chimamanda’s Dad Part II’ I offended Fumbani (not real name). If you did not read it, search, it is still uploaded somewhere on my blog. The boys called me and told me I had no business washing their dirty laundry in public. I refused. No real names were mentioned in the post, I argued, so the article was as good as fiction. They cut the phone and I reflected on their sentiments. Fumbani called me next. He told me he was hurt. I apologized and asked on how I could make amends. I offered to bring down the blog post. He said, “No, just change the name. Though not real name, many people can tell.” I opened by laptop and changed the name to Fumbani.
Then, I offended the boys again when I held my wedding without telling them…
I will write more…
