Urhobo Historical Society
In
the face of a growing army of men and women around the world who have
readily taken
to inscribing tattoos of the serpent on their bodies, His Royal Majesty
Nengi Josef Ilagha,
Mingi XII, Amanyanabo
of Nembe, warns that to do so is to be
branded with the
proverbial mark of the beast and, by extension, to come under the
influence of
the devil.
Tattoos Are Forever
By His Majesty Nengi
Josef Ilagha
Mingi XII, Amanyanabo
of Nembe
Bayelsa State, Nigeria
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ICHARD SPECK. YORK and Latham. Smith and Hickock. These are only three celebrated
names amongst
several hundreds of men convicted of homicide. The common denominator
for most
of these men, a good eighty percent of them at least, is
that they love their tattoos the way women love their make-up.
These men will
tell you that there is nothing odd about tattoos, and even if they were
to take
a second shot at life, they�d settle for the tip of the needle and the
fanciful
images it can draft into their bodies. They will tell you how much they
love to
engrave their private totems, at whatever cost, and watch the inky
ripple of a
fire-breathing dragon, a serpent, or a skeleton framed by bones, just
beneath
the skin.
There comes a
time, however, when the hoodlum with a tattoo wishes he never had one.
I know
of a man called The Turk, for instance, a character in one of Alex La Guma�s short stories, who had cause to regret
the dragon he
had proudly won on his chest for years. As is common with much of La Guma�s apartheid fiction, the story tells of the
incarceration of several prisoners in a minor South African dungeon,
complete
with its first-class criminals, its sweltering heat and its lopsided
system of
prison jurisdiction.
In spite of the
killing heat and long months of incarceration, The Turk was never seen
without
a shirt on his back. Before long, it was discovered that one of his
myriad
crimes was that he had sunk a knife into the heart of a fellow man who
had,
just before he died, whispered to the brethren who hurried to his aid,
that the
man who had stabbed him wore a dragon-shaped tattoo on his chest. The
tattoo
had become like a dark identity card.
Tattoos may not
have had their origins in the slave trade, but they were certainly
popular body
d�cor at that time. For many Africans, it was the passport to hell.
With a
little fine-tuning, it was different for Richard Speck, York and
Latham, Smith
and Hickock, and of course The Turk. They
saw glory
in their tattoos, for all the entire world may care. For them, tattoos
are the
ticket to extortion, production rackets, loan-sharking, gambling, drug
dealing,
murder, prostitution and other syndicated crimes. It was only a matter
of
defining the particular area of specialization. It was like swearing to
the omerta,
the Italian mafia�s code of silence,
or imbibing the tenets of its equivalent in the American Cosa
Nostra, the triads of China or the yakuza
of Japan. You invariably sign a
pact with death. For, according to an old saying, �the only way to
leave the
mafia is in a coffin.� Indeed, very few people escape with their lives,
to say
nothing of their souls.
One of the lucky
few is a man called Tasuo Kataoka.
This fellow is not your everyday Al Capone, that infamous gangster of
the US
Prohibition Era. But Kataoke, a one-time
Japanese
mobster was pretty well known for his exploits among the yakuza.
He lived private fear to the hilt, and his favourite
saying was this: �if you die, you are the loser.�
And so, Kataoka preferred to kill.
At 18, he was at
the head of a band of primary school delinquents who lived their lives
along
the model of violence, the only model they could see in the backstreets
of the
city. At 20, Kataoka began to serve time
in the Nara
Juvenile Prison and soon graduated into Kyoto Prison, a haven for hard
criminals. When, however, Yasuo Kataoka
returned to prison for the fourth time at age 32, the three-year term
became a
complete ordeal. For once, this man who killed and extorted others to
feed his
family was not allowed access to his daughters who were only too ready
to visit
their father in prison. And that marked the turning point for Yasuo Kataoka.
The man has since
come out of prison and has become (surprise, surprise!) a minister of
God. As
he confesses quite readily, he could not bear the thought of his wife
and
children living forever in paradise while he succumbed to eternal death
and the
raging fires of hell. So, I hope you now understand Yasuo
Kataoka�s mental make-up. He feared death,
and often
it was this fear that propelled him to hit at others before they had a
chance
to hit at him.
Some year�s
back, Kataoka was finally
able to break all his yakuza ties. The only relic which remains
behind
the prim fa�ade of this ministerial servant,
is (you
guessed right) the intricate and extensive tattoo on his chest, arms
and back.
To Kataoka, it has become like an emblem
to be borne
forever. You can�t help but sympathize when the man says: �I long for
the day
when my tattoos will be blotted out.� It is a noble wish and I join Kataoka in his prayers. Tattoos are, in a way,
like blood.
They remain eternal stains on the mind of, let�s say, Lady Macbeth. And
�all
the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand��
It is bad enough
for a man to be blighted by tattoos forever. It is far worse for an
entire
nation to be tattooed. In so many ways, Nigeria is like Richard Speck,
York and
Latham, Smith and Hickock, The Turk.
Nigeria appears
to love the tattoos on its national psyche the way a gourmet loves his
food. At
birth, this was a nation with a skin as smooth as any baby�s. But then,
the
monstrous dragons crept into the body polity, and worse, the mind
politic, like
things that will never be exorcised.
Like
Yasuo Kataoka,
Nigeria may
well be labouring under a burning desire,
a pining
for the day when it will be free of its tattooed evils. You know the whole story so far. Organized
crime is still on the increase, drawing inspiration from the infamous
exploits
of the Aninis and the Shina
Rambos. Drug dealing is yet to abate, in
spite of
government�s spirited efforts to fight a growing cartel. Everywhere you
turn,
419 barons are perfecting their scamming strategies.
Elections
continue to be rigged under the grim watchful eyes of the law,
borrowing from a
legacy which dates back to the First Republic. The streets these days
are
peopled with prostitutes and unemployed youths who gladly turn
brigands. The
assassin is very often to be seen at work as well. He goes for the kill
in the
house of old men and women alike. He goes around exploding bombs in the
face of
innocent citizens for something as ordinary as a script they had
published.
And just when you
thought everybody would sit back and develop the local governments that
are
daily coming closer home, the common folk become so enlightened they
resort to
killing one another. Enthroned in high places, there is a god called
corruption, and on the city highways the police continue to receive
their daily
bread from the hands of hapless bus drivers. Verily, verily, injustice
rages on
in the corridors of power, against the better judgment of those who
should
know.
Yasuo Kataoka
is
bothered because he has tattoos on his arms, chest and back. He should
be glad
really. Nigeria has tattoos all over, from the hair on its head to the
calloused toes of the nation. The cynics say there is no foreseeable
promise
that one inch of this blight will be blotted out, even as we enter the
Jesus
Millennium. Are you one of those cynics? Think again.