Outside is a mosaic of green and brown. The heavens look like it would once again weep. Every day has recently brought a different variety of a cat and dog rain. Whoever is in charge of the weather up there seems to have a damp sense of humour.
I drive down the narrow untarred road heading for my friend's house. The heavens open, drumming furiously on my car roof. Water from the rain snake through the damaged glasses into my rickety car. My dress soon becomes soaked as my spirit becomes cold . The bumpiness of the road adds a edgy tinge to my damp mood.
I inch the car exasperatedly along the water logged road. The drive is frustratingly slow and my car is quickly nursing a pool. I am tempted to curse but I restrain myself, consoled only by the prospect of seeing my friend Hassan who would make all the troubles worth it.
I arrive at Hassan's house twenty minutes later than I should have. I find him drenched in the rain, erect as a ram rod, waiting for me. On his face is his customary sunny smile, that has weathered all storms and could light up a dark auditorium. My damp mood is evaporated by the warmth in his smile.
Hassan is the only friend I have in Lau. His friendship has been a gift that keeps giving relentlessly. I stare into his brown welcoming eyes remembering how our friendship started.
It was on a scorching Sunday afternoon, a year ago after my move from Lagos. I was in the local market seeking to buy beer, a request that had all the traders in a frenzy of confusion. Hassan politely pulled me aside and told me that the largely agrarian sellers did not have such consumables in their wares. Hassan however told me that he could meet my need.
Later that evening, he brought me to his compound. And under a baobab tree he offered me a bottle of ''33'' Export Larger beer while the weaver birds sang above blissfully. He told me he had requested it from his elder brother, a high ranking military officer.
We sat on a wooden bench and drank the beer together, sowing the seed of a beautiful friendship. As the days passed by, our friendship grew stronger forged over more bottles of ''33'' Export Larger beer. Hassan later ensured that I never had to buy any local food stuff again, providing me with produce from his farms, while I ensured he never had to buy manufactured goods again.
We have only ever had a fight once, a misunderstanding that cropped up due to the death of a local dog I bought that died in Hassan's custody. But it was resolved while we shared a bottle of ''33'' Export Larger beer. Our friendship thereafter became stronger. The beer has indeed been the anchor of our bond and a nullifier of tribalism.
I open the door of my car and walk over to Hassan and embrace him under the heavy rain. We walk into his house and both change our wet dresses. We are served a hot meal of eba with vegetable soup garnished with local bush meat.
After the meal Hassan walks into his room and brings out a bottle of ''33'' Export Larger beer. The bottle seem to shine in his hands like a precious jewel. He tells me he had earlier collected it from his brother. He opens it and pours the content into two cups. I take a sip, my face bursting with a smile as I slowly savour the richness and smoothness of the beer.
I look at my friend, and wish that our friendship lasts forever. It seems as if my wish would be granted as long as there is a bottle of ''33'' Export Larger beer available.
