Jelili is always clichéd to woes, even though he has never played a penalty to the throwing side. He is permanently a mess to the community because his grieves are bigger than the immoralities of those children of atrocity. Some says he is imprudent, some say he is cold-blooded, some say he is a gaffe, a child born on the festive day of Esu odaara. One malevolent god that bear the dexterity of Latopa!
The bugs has done more grief to the bed. The Kokororo (insect) has done more infliction to both the vegetable and the legume. It is actually inaccurate not to say more of what Jelili has done to the cycle of his town, for it is more ravaging than any other issues that traumatized. His issues has been unbearable. One will remember Jelili, one will remember him so well, if not for the good, it will be for the other. For ogun still smiles upon is deeds and still probes for a neutral pam-oil. Sango still sneers about his ways and causelessly dazzles with his lightening. For He constantly stifles quandaries with his face so obnoxious like an amoeba, an ill-defined organism with an out-structured figure
His attitudes is more of a threat. His ways has confounded the village people, so his destiny has been blighted with curses at the T-junction where bad heads are doomed to the grave and their whereabouts are tied perplexedly upon the coconut tree. He has one day snitched a porridge and eat its blazing with his bare hands. He has one day peeped comfortably through the bamboo space of a village bathroom and discerned how water flirted the hefty body of Iya Mogaji.
The way he sneaks into farms and snitches yams is a yoke bound to his calling. The way he devours sacrifice at the crossroad is more an accurate believe that his destiny has been damned. Sometimes he bombards the passerby and shield himself from been seen. Sometimes he question the elders erudite and struck their baldness with their caps, living them in their creepy disbelieve.
He is well known like that Alapansanpa Masquerade that gimmicks the city of Ibadan with a mystic wondering trick and a cryptic disappearing that awed the aww of bystanders. But rather to this Alapansanpa steers, he has tooled himself with an expedient of a simpleton, graced with a farting protocol that minced inconveniences. So his act has compressed an all-round kvetching from people’s lips
Jelili is gifted with the vibrations that band his rectum. He is one careless “Omobruku” with a teenage sense. His farts are highly gassed, emotional and flammable and his emissions are as cleared as a jingling bell. One release is with a mechanism, and the other is with that annoying explosion that stenches like the gas of ponmo. He is a fascinator of catastrophe like the character of “Opakan” — one tribally marked Sanyeri in his most unreasonable display. He doesn’t care, yes, he doesn’t care! Like a prankster loitering the shop of baba Ijebu, with the hope of making it anyway.
His fart is what he does without “Astagfirullah”. Wherever he is, he explodes. What could’ve been more ruthless than displeasing the market square with a horrific mess that causes pandemonium between the market spaces? What could’ve been crueler than foreboding the festival of Lagunja with a discomforting fart? What could’ve have been more disastrous than agitating the shrine of Orisha Iwase, with a dismaying mess.
It is not really until he gourmandize that former times beans or the one which has be warmed and rewarmed and its nutrient has gone soar (that kind of beans that permeates unpleasantly with no affirmative charms but like an “Olori-Eku’ herbs that smells from a pathway to the crossroad) before he gets out of hands. For we all know him in the village, and if not for his stupidity, it will be for his farting dexterity (thanks to his odorous flatulence that speaks more of his guts).
The lid of his anus is as open as a pit toilet with the desperation to bemoan the breeze. Anytime he moves around, there is always a sign or he is always airing and striking his way with his fart like a thunderous toot that vapors the atmosphere provokingly.
Jelili is heartless with his smells and simultaneously, he is confident but not like an Afonja, a belligerent one who rocks Ilorin with the imprints of war that gripped the elephants and ants of the Fulani descendants. His confidence is with an explosion. He is that notorious in his doings, for he messes around like the vulture messes with the ritual of Osoronga, and his characters has called for questioning of either his Ṣóri like virtue “a warm bait use in fishing” is born with the village fishes.
There was a day he ought to shame the air and he later shamed himself, when his short ruptured by his shoot and the “epidemics” on his ass got explored to the pregnant village eyes, so the scenario became comedic for the moronic Jelili Omo Gbajensimi.
We all know this incense that galls our breath, we can’t even pretend that we don’t. How we form and still fart boastfully with adventive Ouch! Oppps! I’m sorry. We all know how we terrorize the flying birds with the vapors of our smell, expelled afterward we bellied eggs. We all know about these dirty plays that enrage at night and turns into mosquitoes killers, when our farts agonizes so bad. We all know how we empty our bowels like Alapata (butcher) blending the festival ram, and emit a smell like a shit of 1960. So it is concerning to understand how disgusting Jelili his incessant and stinking fart is.
If one would dissect is ways, there will be struggle for the initial, if one would comment about his doing, it will be the day he dissed the mahogany tree, messing carelessly from the height of his tree, a well revered tree, a tree named botanically by the white-skin and with such name further disfigured by the Yorubas’ into something more honeyed, into something more soothing, into something more gigantic like the “iroko tree”. A tree so well revered and regarded as a castle for the night birds, a peak for divinities and a spot for mystical dwells.
It was an exceptional time the day a news break and feed well that there will be peace to humans and leafs of the villages. There will be peace to the king’s breath and the inhalants. For Jelili time around is no longer legalized, and his issues has enticed to travel with him. His brothers has come by to lead his way beyond the village borders and give peace to Iya Agba. It is said that when the squirrel climbs the iroko tree, the hunter ends his hunt for it. Same was the privilege that took Jelili far from the village to the civilised side of Lagos and no one was benevolent enough to wish his journey mercies. They wish he never return, they wish his things falls apart and they should never cross path.