The Lachrymose Worthy

By Omoseye Bolaji

He wept like a baby…earth-shaking, shuddering sobs punctuated with intermittent wiping of his face with his handkerchief. I would have been embarrassed, but though I had not seen him for well over two years, I knew his predilection.

Now inside this joint, he looked as point-device as ever; impeccably dressed his handsome, light complexioned face full of bonhomie and goodwill. He had a bow-tie on as he had been sipping his drink intermittently. Even the bar man here was smiling as he said to me: “It’s been a long time Ntate (that is the ‘weeping guy’) was here, eh?” My mind went back to my acquaintanceship with the ‘weeping’ gentleman which started at least six years ago.  

In the beginning, I was impressed with what we might refer to as his “punctilious” habits; the gentleman was always seated on a particular swiveling chair here, and he would sip his drinks slowly. His sartorial mien - and good looks – which reminded one of ‘aristocrats” as it were, made him stand out. I used to refer to him as “patrician” in the beginning; a description he loathed. Then we became closer at the time and talked.

The thing is – I discovered this South African gentleman was very very sensitive indeed. He became very sad and lachrymose over what I felt were perhaps trifles; but this was because of his genuinely benign, decent character. He would just suddenly burst into tears whilst talking about his dismay about some “prejudice” against “black foreigners”

“I don’t like the way some of my people (South Africans) talk about, or treat foreigners, our own black brothers,” he would start, tears suddenly flowing down his cheeks. “It’s inhumane, how can they do this? You guys helped us during apartheid – apart from teaching us so many things about geo-socio-politics in general – and now I don’t like the way some of us treat you as if you are lepers, calling you very bad names. It’s not good! It’s not right!” and he would burst into florid tears.

This, alas reached a peak in 2008 during the ill-starred “xenophobic attacks” in South Africa where some foreigners were viciously treated, even killed. One must point out that such attacks did not take place in the region where I stayed, but the effect was still there. On the part of my “weeping friend” when he saw me at this epochal time he surpassed himself!

He held me to him like a baby crying with such poignancy and melancholy that I was quite worried that he might even die right there on the spot. He lamented what “his people” were doing. Embarrassed, I tried to calm him down – now, people were staring at us near the post office where we were.

But that worthy wept on, inconsolably. “My friend,” he said, not even bothering to wipe his tears. “These things break my heart, Ntate Bolaji,” he wailed, genuine pathos in his voice. “I do not understand how we Blacks can do this to ourselves. The whole of Africa, and Blacks in Diaspora supported us fervently when we were under the yoke of apartheid. How can we do this to ourselves?”

But the diverse currents of life flow on and we had both disappeared from each others’ lives as it were for years. Then recently, (2003) after quite an absence from where he used to sit placidly and drink, there he was again; perched on the self-same seat! Initially, we stared at each other, temporarily speechless; then we hugged each other fervently.

Then he began to cry again! “My brother, it’s been too long; I’ve only seen you or your stories, or new books in the media. I heard you have been quite sick over the last few years,” He stared at me. “Thank God you look fine and fresh though!” And as if this positive aspect was depressing to him, he cried on even further, taking out an immaculate white handkerchief to dab his face.

Seems some things never change!