As a rule, I don't celebrate my
birthday. But I help others celebrate theirs through organisation, funding and or
participation, when the need arises. Indeed, I have for years been
participating in celebrating my children's birthdays.
I hardly care to remember my
birthday. I only have an inkling that it falls officially on October 14. Still,
it comes and passes uneventfully; sometimes I would not remember until the next
day. Unless if someone reminds me.
Like the banks. This year it was the
two banks where I maintain accounts that reminded me it was the day - by
wishing me a Happy Birthday. Then, late in the evening I got a phone call from
Ambrose Bernard Gowang, a colleague at the office, who also wished me a Happy
Birthday. Though I was grateful to him and told him so, I also explained to him
why I don't attach much significance to the celebration of my own birthday.
Then, I was astonished, nay taken
aback, yesterday when my colleagues at the National Open University of Nigeria
(NOUN) invited me from my office to the "general office" where most of them have their desks. They wanted to show me "something", they
said. I am the director in charge of the media and publicity unit in the
university and they all work under/with me.
As I walked into the big room,
excited cries of "Happy Birthday to you!" and "For he is a jolly
good fellow!" rented the air. Every staff of the directorate (except the
Regional Media Officers, who are based in the states) was standing there,
clapping and chorusing the joyous felicitation. I was momentarily speechless.
One piece of attraction was
in fact the cake that was neatly arranged on a small desk. At first I thought
it was three copies of my recently-released biography of Alhaji Mamman Shata, the
foremost Hausa musician. The cake was made in the shape of the book, complete
with the exact design, title, byline, size and colours. It was so perfect that
one would think it was the book!
The cake is shaped like two copies of my book |
In an appreciation speech, I
expressed joy and happiness at the kind gesture of my colleagues, for the
effort they put in organising that unique celebration. Inwardly, I wondered why
they spent so much to do that, especially in these lean times. I also wondered
if I really deserved to be celebrated!
In the speech, I told them a story
of why I have never celebrated my own birthday and why I don't put so much
store to it. Here is the story, with a few additional details thrown in:
I was born in the '60s at a small
village in today's Katsina State which had no even a primary
school, hospital or market, not to talk of a tarred road, electricity or
pipe-borne water. (Dear reader, I was not born in Sheme town, whose name I
bear as my surname; but that's a story for another day). In those days, there
was no register for births or deaths or weddings in that village. It was unlike
today when everything has changed (there are university graduates and students
in the village, which has also grown into a small town). So, when I was born
there was no birth certificate given or kept. And my father, who was virtually the
only "boko" literate person in the village, was not in town at the
time.
Then a time came for me to go to the
secondary school. My father personally escorted me to Government College, Kaduna,
where I had gained admission. The day was October 14, 1979 - exactly two weeks after Shehu
Shagari took office as the first Executive President of Nigeria.
Sometime later in the school, we
(the students) were required to fill a form. There were boxes for names
(surname first), date of birth (with separate boxes for the day, the month and
the year), etc. Now, I had never been told my birth-date or even my age, so I didn't
know what to write. Suddenly, the first significant date in my life that I
could recall at that material time cropped up, October 14 - the day my father took me
to the school. So I quickly filled that date into the form. I also guessed my
age to be 13, and I wrote 1966.
That was how 14th October, 1966 came
to be my official date of birth. I used the date in filling any official form
throughout my school and working life.
But there was a time in the early '90s when I added a year
to my life and claimed 1965 as my year of birth. That was after a chat with the
mother of someone who was said to have been born the same week as I in that
village. But I had to revert to 1966 when I made further inquiries to find the exact
date of my birth. Curiously, I never asked my father about my birth date; I
thought it was improper (you had to be from my type of background to
understand).
Explaining why I don't celebrate my own birthday |
One day, I found the exact date - from my father. It
was after my father passed on in April, 2004. I inherited his books and
documents. But I didn't go through them all immediately. It took some years.
One day, in my leisure time, I took the books and papers and started
going through them. I knew that my dad used to keep a diary of some important
events of his life or even national ones. He wrote such dates in various
exercise books. Sometimes he would write on a piece of paper, which he would tuck
inside a book. I guess that I inherited such record-keeping disposition from him; I started
keeping diaries since my first year in college.
As I went through my father's
documents I came across his diaries. In them, I read about his travels, his
marriages, his thoughts, his activities as a member of the NPN, his acquaintance
with Mamman Shata, his purchases, his philanthropy, and events such as the death of Sultan
Abubakar III, the death of Malam Aminu Kano, the deposition of Sultan
Dasuki, the ouster of Shonekan by the military, Nigeria's success in the USA
soccer tournament, the day my sister Amina was born, etc.
Then I saw it: my birth date. My
father had written clearly that I, his son,
was born on 8th July, 1968. That means I had been adding two
years to my age in all my official dealings. The feeling was so humbling.
Having known the truth, I was advised by a friend of mine that I should start using my real birth date
thenceforth, since that was the absolute truth. Another friend said I should maintain
the adopted date because I had been using it for so long.
I stuck to the old date. I have two
reasons. One, all my documents, including my international passports, driver’s
license and school testimonials, bear it. If I changed it at this stage in my
life, especially since it would involve reducing my age by two years, some people would think that I was trying to cheat. In recent years I came across
scandals involving political office candidates or civil servants who reduced
their ages. Two, I’m simply comfortable with the adopted date; after all, age
is just a number, as the saying goes.
But I want everyone to know that I
was born on July 8, 1968, and not on October 14, 1966. However, I am using the
latter in all my official documents because I have always used it, ever since I
adopted it in college.
The date my father gave actually
made sense. I was put in primary school at the age of 6, and I joined Class One
during the school's third term; my guardian said he could not wait for the intake of
the new Class One, which would be made after the end-of-session holiday. I was supposed
to join the new intake when school resumed, but I simply located my old classmates,
who were starting Class Two, and sat in the class. No one cared to tell me to
leave. That’s how I spent five years plus one term in primary school instead of six years before going
to the college, where I began the futile search for my correct
birth date.
If I had asked my father about the date I was born, he would have certainly told me. But I never did. Consequently, I became indifferent towards celebrating my own birthday. I do not know which one to celebrate – the real one of 1968 or the adopted one of two years earlier. It was only yesterday that I was compelled to celebrate the one I have always written in my documents. Thank you guys for the kind gesture.
Birthdays are an eye-opener: they remind us to appreciate God for giving us long life, good health and prosperity. I have got all three. They also remind us about our immortality. Both sides of the coin contain important lessons for us all. The greatest lesson for me, indeed, is that what you do with your life - the positive imprints you etch on the canvass of the society - is what truly matters. Celebrating your longevity is a personal choice. I'd always help others to celebrate, while maintaining a studied silence on my own milestones. That, I reckon, is also a choice.
If I had asked my father about the date I was born, he would have certainly told me. But I never did. Consequently, I became indifferent towards celebrating my own birthday. I do not know which one to celebrate – the real one of 1968 or the adopted one of two years earlier. It was only yesterday that I was compelled to celebrate the one I have always written in my documents. Thank you guys for the kind gesture.
Birthdays are an eye-opener: they remind us to appreciate God for giving us long life, good health and prosperity. I have got all three. They also remind us about our immortality. Both sides of the coin contain important lessons for us all. The greatest lesson for me, indeed, is that what you do with your life - the positive imprints you etch on the canvass of the society - is what truly matters. Celebrating your longevity is a personal choice. I'd always help others to celebrate, while maintaining a studied silence on my own milestones. That, I reckon, is also a choice.
Cutting the 'book' cake |
Lovely commentary about your very self...interesting! Beautiful cake indeed,the baker deserves a thumbs ☝! I feel good to let you know am older than you!! So,am your senior! Hehehe!
ReplyDeleteAnyway,Happy Birthday to a jolky good fellow!
Oga, I sincerely think you should do more on creative writing. The story is so interesting.
ReplyDeleteAn interesting expose from the literary genius himself. Happy birthday Mal Sheme
ReplyDeleteIndeed a remarkable history, Allah karawa rayuwa albarka Sir
ReplyDeleteIndeed a remarkable history, Allah karawa rayuwa albarka Sir
ReplyDelete