"Andrews Liver Salt and How I became a Leader"

There is never a short supply of drama around Andrews so it wasn’t surprising that our reunion outclassed the melodrama of the most melodramatic Nollywood movie. I had just arrived my country home for a much deserved rest away from my medical practice in Lagos when the agitated voice of my lone security man alerted me. A cautious peer from behind the curtains of my first floor bedroom window appeared to confirm my worst fears. Four Danfo buses where disgorging a motley load of somber looking youths in front of my gate. At 6 p.m. in the evening? Kidnappers? Armed Robbers? “We know that Dr. Adindu is at home” I heard one of them say in a gravelly voice, “Abeg open the gate we wan see am!” Chei! I had heard enough biko! I didn’t wait to hear the rest. Was that not how they raided Chief Obi’s country home, raped his wife in front of him and abducted him for ransom? These are dire times, at the height of Eastern Nigeria’s reign of Kidnapers, no need to take chances. My heart was thumping as I scrambled, raced to my man cave to fetch my pump action automatic rifle from its nest in the cupboard. The brief course at a shooting range raced through my mind. How to switch the gun from manual to automatic fire. What does the safety look like? Does the gun even work for it went straight to my lair, upon delivery, and had never been fired. Gun secured, I punched in the combination to my panic room’s security lock, quietly mouthing a thank you to Chief Obi who advised me to add an impregnable one room stockade into my country home. The room smelt relatively fresh, well ventilated but gloomy. I could barely make out the stock of dry food, water and clothes in the corner, sufficient supplies to sustain my family and I until help arrives. Panting and sweating profusely, I pushed the panic room’s bulletproof door shut. The click of the security lock’s bolts sliding home triggered another unsettling thought. The cartridges! My cell phone! In my confusion I had picked up the gun without the cartridges. I had even forgotten my cellphone where it was charging in the man cave. Bikonu what good is a gun without bullets? Of what benefit is a panic room if you can’t call for help? So I gingerly opened the door again, stealthily retracing my steps to the man cave. At this point the commotion at the gate had reached a crescendo, the proximity of the invaders’ voices implied that they had breached the gate and where now massed in the lobby downstairs…phone and charger secured, it was just the box of cartridges that stood between me and safety. For a panic-stricken moment my gaze swept the cluttered room as I couldn’t remember where the bullets where kept. Oh my God! Shit! I cursed under my breath. On top of the cupboard! On top of the cupboard!!! For the umpteenth time I tried to rationalize my wife’s logic in not allowing the gun and its bullet to be kept in the same place. “I don’t feel safe around guns and this makes it feel safer”, she says. I furtively shoved a side-stool in front of the cupboard, clambered on top of it and reached for the box of cartridges. As my fingers grasped the cool plastic pack of the box there was a deafening bang on the front door and in shock I lost my footing, toppled off the side stool, clutched at the curtain and felt it yield under my weight. The crash was hard, landing on my back in a tangle of curtain, curtain roads and the precious cartridges strewn across the room. Again another deafening bang…and then I heard the voice demand, “we want to see Dr. Adindu now!!! Tell the Leader that I am here!! Andrews? That is Andrews’ voice!
Growing up some 30 years ago, in the age of “Roy of the Rovers”, “Billy’s Boots”, “Hot Shot Hammish” and “Voltron’, Andrews was the go-to guy, the cocky fellow who knew and had done everything. The fact that he was a class below me in primary school and 3 years older by age never fazed him. He was handsome, tall and athletic and already had pubic hair. He could make the best and most aerodynamic kites from old newspapers, raffia stem spines with nothing more than eba as an adhesive. While some of us had to trawl the hair plaiting section of the market, crawling beneath the chairs of the chattering female patrons to pick discarded sections of black ‘owu-isi’ thread, tie several short sections together to make one long piece to ‘set’ our kites, Andrews’ ball of thread was made of brand new glossy hair plaiting thread. His catapult? The guy had the knack for locating the most resilient ‘Y’ shaped tree limb, the catapult’s pouch made from the best leather (usually someone’s show will go missing thereafter) and he had been known to bring down a hawk with his sling. His school uniform was always impeccable, blue shorts starched and ironed till the edge was as sharp as a sword, the robin blue dazzling whiteness of his ‘china-white’ white shirt, no, Andrews was the man…was the boy rather. The girls loved him and I guess that the fact that his parents where hardly every home, elevated him to cult like status. Back from school every day, his house, code named ‘Area One’, became our staging area and the buxom Nanny, Nneka, our cook and chaperon. 
The eighteen year old Nanny was from an indigent home. When she was 15 she was lured by a ‘Cash Madam’ from her village to the big city of Lagos with the promise of a job as a hairdresser. Nneka never told anyone what transpired in Lagos but within a year she stole enough money from Cash Madam to pay her transport fare and escape back to the village, right back to poverty and squalor. Thus when Emenike’s parents came looking for a Nanny that will take care of their only son Nneka’s parents were very eager for her to take up the job, one less mouth to feed I guess. Nneka must have had enough of Cash Madam’s stolen money leftover as she was never in short supply of packets of the delicious Mcvites “All Butter Shortbread” and Guinness Malt drink. This she never indulged in front of Andrews’ parents but many a time did allow us kids partake in her feast.
Saturdays and Sundays where never good days for us at Area One as Andrews had to join his parents at the Oma-agwu farm on Saturdays. Very Catholic, his parents dedicated their Sundays to early ‘morning mass’ and on their return a number of activities still took place around or at their family altar. I recall marveling at the slow melting fat candles that adorned and illuminated the devotional corner, wondering how fast they will melt if I dropped one of them into a fire. As the holy book preaches, Sunday was also a rest day for Andrews’ family thus Area One was a no go area on Sundays.
It all started that humid Monday afternoon. Just after one of the Second Republic elections conducted by the Justice Victor Ovie Whisky led FEDECO, Nigeria’s Federal Electoral Commission. Abandoned remnants of corrugated iron sheet polling booths, demolished by the rampaging Ikemba Front and Jim Vanguard political thugs, adorned most of the streets in our village. Posters of the candidates of the NPN ruling party and that of the rival NPP jostled for space on almost every bare surface that the eye could see. Emenike (for that is Andrews’ given name) was about thirteen years old at the time and had gone to school feisty as usual. Within two hours he was shivering like a leaf in a storm, temperature soaring, rivulets of sweat running down the back of his sparkling white shirt. Iba! Malaria, declared his class teacher and sent him back home with a stern warning to get his parents to take him to a hospital for treatment. I guess this most have been buxom Nneka’s ‘me time’ for as Emenike approached Area One’s front door he could hear the strains of Lisa Lisa’s ‘I Wonder if I Take You Home’ blaring from his parents’ bedroom.
“Baby, I know you're wondering
Why I won't go over to your place
'Cause I'm not too sure about how you feel
So I'd rather go at my own pace”
As he gingerly pushed upon the bedroom door Nneka was in the throes of an explosive orgasm, as naked as the day she was born, eyes shut tight, intermittently moaning, grunting and gasping, her shapely legs suspended in mid-air and spread wide apart as if hoisted by abductors. Her right hand frenetically sliding one of the fat family altar candles in and out of her pussy to the rhythm of the song;
“Take me, take me, 
Take me home”
My friend’s malaria symptoms first raced to a feverish pitch and then coalesced into a raging fire in his pants. In an equanimity that belied his age Emenike dropped his black and polka spotted red metal akpati school box in a corner of the room, perched on its edge like a chair umpire, and watched the last bits of Nneka’s trumpeting cum. He wasn’t show if the shivers he felt was the vestiges of the malaria fever or the effect Nneka’s nude pirouette was having on him. 
She opened her eyes. 
As Emenike will later tell it, her shocked reaction was “Jizooosss!! What are you doing back home at this time?” stuttered a thoroughly embarrassed Nneka as she tried unsuccessfully to hide the candle beneath the sheets and reach for her clothes and scramble off the bed at the same time. Emenike appealed to her to relax and calmly made his proposal. I was never sure if it was simply blackmail or just a mutually beneficial arrangement but from that day on Nneka replaced the candle with Emenike. This liaison soon became the stuff of legend, the envy of us kids.
Errrmm…what if she gets pregnant I asked Emenike one day. Without doing my homework I had sneaked over to Area One immediately after school to catch up on the latest buxom Nneka gist for she had become an obsession. Emenike seemed to be handling it quite coolly. Upon repeating my question he patted me on the back patronizingly, “there are some things you will learn when you get to my age’ he intoned sagely with a wry smile. See eh! There are things a woman can do not to get pregnant. ‘Like what’ I blurted out before he could even finish. He stared at me for a while then heaved a sigh. “Okay, not sure you are old enough for this but it is even good that you know these things early. First of all, no matter how excited you get, and trust me, it can get very, very exciting, never ejaculate inside her, you hear me? You will have to practice the movement to perfect it. See”…arms akimbo. “Oya! Just follow what I am doing”. So I dutifully mimicked his move. He began to thrust his hips forward as if having sex, and so did I. He feigned a soft moan. “Should I do that as well?” “Of course na”, replied Emenike, “do everything I do, that is how you will learn fast’. So I moaned as well. First cautiously, then faster as I got into the spirit. Soon we placed our right hand behind our heads, left had still on our waist, panting, now thrusting faster, faster, fasterrrrrrrr and in the explosive last seconds, Emenike expertly pushed his butt back as if his dick had come in contact with a mouse-trap. That last movement caught me off guard. See? He smiled down at me. “If it was the real thing now you for don pour inside. After nine months na Ejima twins be that oh!’ I never even realized that my breath was caught in my throat during this exercise. Waoh!! How did Emenike learn so much at his age, as I secretly hoped that I could become as knowledgeable as him by the time I turn 13. But to have a baby? Eh! eh! I don’t want to be a father at this age oh! Much less a father of Ejima twins. “Nothing spoil” responded Emenike, God that created the pencil also made an eraser. Once you notice that you poured inside, quickly, before your sperm settles and grows roots there, pour four sachets of Andrews Liver Salt into a cup of water and give it to her to drink. Make sure that it is still bubbling when she drinks it oh as the air will help flush out all the sperm you put in her stomach. The same way to relive one of constipation, I asked. “Exactly! Emenike responded. Always make sure that you have a sufficient supply of Andrews at home. Andrews is the answer my brother! Hence our personal greeting soon became, “I nwekwa Andrews?” I hope you have Andrews? A greeting that others soon picked up, oblivious of its underlying meaning, a greeting that over time became Emenike’s sobriquet.
The sex education didn’t end there. “If perchance you fail to take any of these two preventive measures and she comes to tell you that she is pregnant, don’t panic at all. Just buy a Bicycle cigarette cup full of fresh Cayenne pepper, the very chili type, grind it carefully into a fine paste then pour it into half a bucket of water. Let her drink this within one hour. This will abort a pregnancy that is between two to three months old. However if she just missed her period, barely a month gone, ground alligator pepper mixed with kai-kai gin will do the trick as well. Once she drinks it the heat from the brew will simply dissolve the pregnancy and your condemned sperm will be forced out as blood in her period. 
I was definitely in awe! 
Can I watch the next time you fuck Nneka I stuttered. Emenike paused in thought momentarily, “Okay. Let me ask her but you will have to buy her a bottle of Malta Guinness and a pack of Mcvites Shortbread. “You know say na wetin she dey like be that’. Thankfully I had been saving up for the next edition of the Roy of the Rovers comic book so I was confident that this adventure was one that I could well afford. 
I went home that day brimming with excitement and wearing a permanent tent-like erection in my pants. I could hardly sleep that night, my dreams a full row after row of luscious buxom Nnekas waiting to experience my pent up desire. 
I woke up the next morning full of anticipation and even my morning bath of ice cold water did not dampen my desire. The erection was smuggled to school and the entire day in class was one long priapic torture. I couldn’t wait for the school end-of-day bell to sound before I dashed home, changed out of my school uniform and raced over to Area One. 
The Emenike I met was a completely different person.
Cocky self-assuredness had melted into a heightened state of panic. Ogini I asked, “what is the problem? As my heart fell thinking that Nneka had turned down my offer. Beads of perspiration tracing his upper lip Emenike hushed me into silence, gesturing me to the back yard. He unzipped his fly and whipped out a glistening dick. What is it I asked as there was nothing unusual asides from what appeared to be excess lubricant. That was until he squeezed. A blurt of yellow pus popped out like a reluctant earthworm and I couldn’t hold back my exclamation, Chineke! Andrews explained that he also had a burning sensation when he peed and that he had tried all he knew, including dipping his dick in kerosene, rubbing palm oil into it and burying it in a bowl of freshly fried, hot dry garri. Thankfully I had come fully prepared with my Roy of the Rovers stash and it was then my organizational skills kicked in. “We need to go to a Chemist immediately” but how and which Chemist was the problem. Everybody knew everybody in our village so the only Chemist we could try was one in a neighboring village, preferably out of town. So that is how we embarked on a 15 kilometer trek, with Andrews’ dick turbaned in a swath of old rags and my erection long gone.
I never realized how adults frequented Chemists and it didn’t help that most villages had one or at the most two little patent medicine stores. “Chike’s Chemist” was the name and we laid siege outside, waiting for a break, when no adult will be in the store. On one occasion we had ventured in, the bell on the door tinkling, heralding our arrival, only for the local Catholic Priest to walk in behind us. We ended up buying Panadol ostensibly an errand for my mother and went back to our staging post to wait. The next break should better be it as the inadvertent purchase of Panadol painkiller had significantly reduced my resources. It was almost dusk when the opportunity presented itself, Chike the Chemist was already shutting down, drawing the multicolored curtains across the store’s front door when we dashed in. “You kids again? I noticed that you have been milling around all day. Ogini?” At this point Andrews was already in tears and without saying a word whipped out his turbaned dick, unwrapping the rags and reeking suppuration as Chike and I watched on in silence. “Hmmnnn…Ebe ka isi bute gonococcus?’ where did you contract gonococcus from? Umuakah una ama mgbu mmadu? These children will not kill me he muttered under his breath. He dispatched us with a discarded cut-to-size FEDECO envelope full of Septrin antibiotics. Actually ‘Septran’ for it was much later that I realized that what he gave us was the local Aba made bootlegged version of the popular GlaxoSmithKline manufactured antibiotic. ‘This should dry it up in no time” he laughed, “take two tablets right away, two every morning and another two in the evening for one week. Make sure you give the same dosage to your girlfriend and if I see you here again I will track down your parents and tell them that you have been eating food meant for elders”. He shooed us out of his store shaking his head and we ran home as fast as our legs could carry us. It was much later that I realized that he didn’t charge us for the drug.
The Septrin or Septran worked! Andrews burning sensation and discharged disappeared within two days but what was even more astonishing was how the experience affected him. From that day on he began to differ to me and by extension his horde of followers, boys and girls, started looking up to me for leadership. It was an exhilarating feeling. That foray into medicine and science also played a role in my ultimate decision to study medicine.
I emerged into my lobby, expecting the worst, but then I found solace that my friend Andrews, at least the Emenike I know, will do me no harm. Fingering my rosary beads, heart full of trepidation, still nursing the bruises from the fall, I struggled to remember the rosary.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death”.
But it wasn’t death that greeted me. I walked in to a resounding ovation from the youths and chants of ‘The Doc!’, ‘Leader’, Leader! Ijebego!! You are headed for victory!! 
Andrews as usual was the spokesperson.
Andrews had taken a vantage position using my family altar as a lectern. I recall once again marveling at the slow melting fat candles and wondering what became of buxom and luscious Nneka. As he explained in very flowery Igbo, peppered with a lot of proverbs and idioms that as a natural Leader, the town’s people had asked the youth to beg me to run for Governor. Never mind that I didn’t think that anyone over forty years old should be addressed as a ‘youth. As he droned on and on I remembered that Chief Obi’s people had also paid him such a visit, to beg him to run for Governor, just before his house was assailed by a gang of Kidnapers. I recalled the violent clashes thirty years ago between the “Ikemba Front” and “Jim Vanguard” Youth militias. As the speech wound to an end I thanked Andrews and his team profusely for thinking me worthy of leading the people to the promised land but asked to be given time to consult with my family, to seek God’s face and revert with an answer by the next weekend, a response that received another thunderous ovation. 
As they settled down to merriment for Andrews had miraculously magicked some drinks from of my bar, I sent an SMS to my PA to urgently get me on a flight back to Lagos, back to my Gynecology practice. This charade was yet another Andrews solution. Clearly I was about to be raided!





Jekwu Ozoemene 2014