PASSING THE BUCK AN ESSAY ON RELATIONSHIP, RESPONSIBILITY AND BUCK-PASSING

The jangle of the telephone brought me out of a deep, very deep reverie. A lazy hand reached out and grabbed the instrument. "Hello." A weak voice said into the mouthpiece.

"Who's there?" A lady voice shrieked into the ear-piece. Reflexively, I moved the thing a little away from my ear. A punctured ear-drum is the last thing I wanted.

"Whom do you want?" I demanded in a not very friendly tone. I still don't know how to handle mysterious voices on the telephone.

"O, Femi, so you don't recognized my voice again?" The high- pitched voice demanded.

"No, I don't." I snapped back.
She persisted: "You men are all the same. Have a guess."

"I have better things to do than play 'Guess-it' on the telephone. You tell me whom or what you want, otherwise I'll put the receiver down right now.' I warned and meant it.

Defeated, the high-pitched voice replied, "It is me, Kate."

She waited for the aha of recognition, I simply said: "O, hi Ama. Why didn't say so before?" They refer to themselves by European names, but I always prefer to call them by their African names.

"I thought you'll recognize my voice. You of all people. How wrong I was. Anyhow, good afternoon."

"Fine afternoon." I kept my tone flat.
"Have you heard from Kwaku?" She wanted to know.
I haven't heard from him: "No, I haven't heard from him. And you?"

"That's why I am calling. I haven't heard anything from him since he left. Are you sure he didn't call or write to you?"

I was getting irritated. "Why would I lie to you?"

"I don't know. You men are all the same. Always protecting one another."

I didn't like the tone, the accusation and the insult. "I greatly resent your belligerent attitude and the unwarranted accusations and insults." My tone was downright hostile.

She was sorry: "I am sorry, Femi. It's not your fault. I have no right to take it out on you."

"You sure have no right. What's the 'IT' we're talking about?" It was my turn to be curious.

"It's rather a long and complicated. Can I come over?"

"You may." I said cheerlessly.
The creaky jalopy that passed as Accra taxi made a noisy appearance, carbon monoxide trailing its wake like some comet. I was shocked by the sight of Ama. The spare, athletic figure has given way to a fat, plump lady with a protruding belly. Ama is pregnant. I did my best to mask my astonishment. She refused a drink. I fetched her a seat and relaxed with my INSU. The Ama sitting in front of me is quite different from the Ama that I used to know. The Ama of old was a gay, vivacious, spontaneous lady with easy smiles. The lady opposite me is a melancholic figure looking like a depressed Chimp.

I was at a loss on how to handle the situation. "Would a congratulation be in order. Why are you looking so depressed?"

She gave a weak smile. It was a ghost of Ama's smiles. A false, forced, pale smile, bereft of life and amusement. I wondered why she made the attempt. "Thank you." She forced herself to say and quickly added, "This what your friend did to me."  Continued    Source: Femi Akomolafe

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