The month of October/2

The month of October is very important in the Russian psyche. According to the Julian calendar, the Bolshevik revolution took place on 24th October 1917 and that’s why the revolution is also called the “Great October Socialist Revolution” or “red October”. But instead of marking the great revolution in October, “red October” is commemorated on November 7. This is because in 1918, the Russians changed over from the Julian calendar into the Gregorian calendar that is in use in most other parts of the world.

In Rostov-On-Don the weather is usually quite chilly in October; there’s usually that hint of imminent winter as the temperature begins to occasionally dip beneath the 10 Celsius mark (51F) and the hours of daylight increasingly shortens. This is the period when some people, start replacing their leather and jean jackets with warmer woollen coats, while others would start piling on new layers of clothes underneath the ones they wore at the beginning of autumn.

On the first Saturday of October of that year-and slightly over 3 weeks since I first arrived Rostov-we were celebrating the Nigerian Independence day. All the Nigerian students in the town were wearing different African traditional costumes under their thick woollen winter coats. The clothes people wore did not necessarily coincide with the places in Nigeria they come from since some people, like myself, had borrowed from others who are from entirely different ethnic groups; I was wearing a brown Senegalese costume and i noticed that the president of the Nigerian students union wore a complete Fulani attire. He too must have borrowed his costume because it appeared a few sizes too small for him and gave him a rather strange look!

Since my recitation is relevant to the occasion, Ken had slotted me in to make my presentation immediately after the speeches from the Gorodsky soviet and the president. And I was starting to feel nervous as the time ticked closer. What if i forget the lines?! Shit!

I had managed to translate the work with a lot of input from Sergei Nikolaivitch. The task turned out to be a lot more complicated than Volodya and myself had previously thought; I had taken a draft of my translated work to Volodya a few days after we had agreed that he would help but on seeing my draft he had exclaimed that it was a load of nonsense; literarily. He was not able to make any sense of what I had written and according to him It appeared as if i had transcribed the words directly from English into Russian without considering the fact that Russian language is structurally very different from English. And since he is not yet very good in English he suggested that I either drop the idea or get Sergei Nikolaivitch to help out. And I chose the latter option.

It was very interesting for me to see how the whole concept of what one wants to say can change with the choice of words, and how my original infantile attempt was so different from the fluidity and imagery of the finished product. And at the end of the translation i had to agree with Volodya that my draft attempt had been a load of rubbish!

But I am ready now as i sit in the hall looking around. My heart is pounding away and I wonder if people can smell how scared I am feeling. I notice that she is not yet here as Ken starts to talk in Russian for the benefit of the dignitaries sitting in the first row of seats. There were representatives of the Gorodsky soviet and from the various schools, which have Nigerian students. Presido is also seated on the first row of seats and all of them are backing us. He starts to put on glasses probably to help him read the speech he must have prepared and he stands up to face us.

“Men presido get real complex issues!” I heard Eddy whisper to Ugo as Presido faces us. Ugo and Eddy were seated just to my right and I guessed that Eddy was commenting on presido’s rather peculiar appearance; his reading glasses were massive and had spherical lenses that would have given him, what some might call, an owlish look if not for the poorly combed afro that sat on top of his head.

“I feel embarrassed for the man and i sure say hin no well ! “I heard Ugo respond. He was suggesting that the president may be mentally unwell.

Some people came through the door as Presido was making his speach, but she was not one of them. And i start to wonder why she is not yet here. I invited her as I had planned with the bouquet of roses and the copy of Pushkin's lovely poem, which he had written to a certain Ms Kern. Adelaide had been surprised to see me and had said something in Portuguese. But she had smiled as i gave her the roses and the card; a smile that won me over because I had been a bit unsure before then whether i should still go ahead and give her the poem; a smile that turned into a slight frown, which creased her face once i had given her the envelope that contained the poem. She had said something again in Portuguese and had looked at me enquiringly but I had blushed and then lowered my eyes and then turned away...without uttering a word; what was i to say?

I had then hastened away from her presence as quickly as can be considered respectable, hoping that she did not think that i am a bit strange! And at one point during my escape I had needed to look back briefly because I had a momentary very strong feeling that she might aim for the back of my retreating head with the bouquet of roses, which i had just given to her; but she didn't!

Now I am not very confident that I will be composed enough to talk to her about the meaning of the poem and my feelings if I see her today. I am realising that that giving her the poem may not have been a very bright idea after all. Shit! May be I should have just left it simple by just giving her the invitation card and then letting things develop on their own. Now I am hoping that she had thrown the poem in the bin and that she doesn’t turn up. Shit! I should have paid more attention to my cousins lessons in "raps".

Ken just called my name and is inviting me to come to the front. Shit! People are now clapping their hands and have started to look in my direction.
“Ol boy na your turn be dat!” I heard Ugo say as he nudged me with his elbow.
“Shit!”I can’t get this silly word out of my head "Shit!". It’s intruded into my mind and now refusing to go away “Shit!” What if I don’t remember the words I have crammed!

I am making my way in front of the hall and I feel butterflies in my stomach. My mouth and throat are feeling so dry and I need to go to the toilet really badly. It looks like I am going to wet myself! I am standing in front of the hall and the clapping is gradually subsiding. And there are hundreds of eyes now staring at me. “Shit!” I can’t remember the first words of the poem.

They have started to clap again, perhaps, to give me more time to compose myself without the oppressiveness of the distracting silence.
“Shit!”
Sergei Nikolaivitch, who is sitting in the front row, is whispering something to me;
Nig-eria, blagoslava'yem Sebyia'…” I hear him whisper; those are the first lines of the old anthem. Yes! he has wrestled the rest of the lines out of the darkness of my memory and i remember now;
“Nig-eria,
blagoslava'yem Sebyia'”
Doraga'ya naroda', svaya’…”

It is there now; it is now visible on the slates of my mind and I am reciting each word- each line-which I had previously crammed over and over again in the preceding few days.

Nigeria
we hail thee!
Our own dear native land
though tribe and tongue may differ
in brotherhood we stand
Nigerians all are proud to serve our sovereign motherland
Our flag shall be a symbol,
That truth and justice reign,
In peace or battle honoured,
And this we count as gain
To hand on to our children
A banner without stain..."

From the looks on the faces of some of the dignitaries, I know that I am mispronouncing some of the words, but Sergei Nikolaevitch is nodding with approval. So it must be alright. And suddenly it is over; the guests are standing on their feet and applauding and i know that I have pulled this one off!

I take a bow and start making my way back to my seat. I notice that the hall is a lot more crowded and that more guests have arrived. I am looking for her face as I get to my row of seats and in one corner of the hall I catch a glimpse of her sitting with another girl; she is smiling at me. But beside her is that fat Portuguese speaking fellow. And at the sight of him my hearts sinks.