My Yesterday at the Men’s Club (II)

Sometimes yesterday, in the late afternoon, under the sun that seemed to bake the earth like a potter’s kiln, I found myself lounging on my veranda, nursing a cold bottle of water while watching the neighbourhood retreating with pulse and some life. Kids darted like fireflies in daylight, vendors hawked their wares with rhythmic chants, and the occasional car horn pierced the air like an impatient exclamation. I was lost in thought, pondering the weight of the week, when a familiar figure emerged from the alley – Mr. Alalaye, striding with that purposeful gait of his, as if the world owed him a favour and he was collecting.

“Ehen, brother! You dey here dey cool off like say tomorrow no go come?” he called out, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that had seen better days. His eyes twinkled with mischief, the kind that promised adventure or at least a good story.

I chuckled, setting down my bottle. “Alagba, wetin dey happen? Which wind blow you come? You look like you’re on a mission.”

“Mission? Na Men’s Club na! Meeting go soon start, but we fit still join. Come make we go, no time to waste on wandering thoughts here.” He didn’t wait for a yes, just beckoned with a wave and kept moving, and with his quick but not hurried steps, like a man who knows the path by heart.

Why resist? I grabbed my face cap, locked up, buttoning up my shirt on the way as I fell in step beside him.

The walk was short, filled with his banter about the latest neighbourhood gossip. Something about a goat that escaped and caused a traffic jam. What a mischievous goat!

Not long, we pushed open the hall’s doors to a scene of easy fellowship. That same neat home, men clustered in animated knots, voices rising and falling like waves, sharing laughs over bottled water plucked from the corner stacks. The leather chairs stood in their usual circle, patient sentinels awaiting order. No rush, no tardiness, just the vocals of brotherhood before the call.

As we mingled in, heads turned to our direction. The slim, light-complexioned fellow in the face cap spotted me first, his tiny voice cutting through with a teasing lilt. “Ah, the prodigal returns! It’s been ages, brother—only one visit and poof, you vanish. Abi your Madam lock you inside with padlock, no parole?”

Laughter bubbled up, and the Albino man with the large beard chimed in, stroking his whiskers. “You’ve missed plenty o! Debates hot like pepper soup. Anyway, welcome back, but next absence, nobody can tell me, we send the ‘SARS’ guys on a search party!”

Mr. Alalaye clapped my shoulder, chuckling. “See? You be celebrity now.” We eased into the fray, exchanging nods and handshakes, the air was thick with that familiar polish of the leather chairs.

Then, the Chairman, our unflappable Olórí Oko, poised like a seasoned captain at the helm, cleared his throat. He has a commanding, yet a warm voice, drawing the circle tight. “Gentlemen, shall we begin?” “Let’s gather ’round and take our seats. Time to bring order to this fine assembly. As your presiding officer, I welcome you all, especially our returning brother who’s graced us after a spell. May his Madam grant more leaves henceforth!”

A big mocking “Amen”, with more chuckles rippled as we settled into the chairs, eyes meeting in that face-to-face intimacy.

“Today’s discourse,” the Chairman continued, leaning forward with measured gravitas, “centers on the art of rest for us men. We bear the weight of the world. The responsibilities piling like bricks on our necks, yet I think we must take things easy, acknowledge the load without breaking, and view challenges as recipes for growth. Rest isn’t surrender, rather a renewed strength. No man diminishes by easing up. The floor is open, gentlemen, let’s share wisely, and keep it concise.”

The Professor, that erudite beacon with glasses perched like wise owls, was first to rise in voice, adjusting his glasses with some scholarly flair that promised depths. He cleared his throat theatrically. “Thank you, my Chairman. My dear colleagues, the exigencies of masculine responsibility often precipitate a deleterious erosion of repose. You see, in this our journey of existence, we must prioritise some level of respite to fortify our resilience.”

As he wrapped, hands flew up, but the Albino man with the large beard, ever the plain-speaker, interjected with his earthy candour. “Prof, I grab am small. You mean say make we rest without feeling like we dey fail as men? But how? These responsibilities no dey sleep ke!”

The Chairman, nodding like a sage arbiter, pointed next. “Precisely the crux. Mr. Rahmon, your hand is up. Blue tie and all—looking sharp as ever. Enlighten us, but please keep it under three minutes.”

I personally see a picture of poised eloquence in Mr. Rahmon. Cool in sight, and as it’ll later turn to reveal: cool in brain, too. He straightened his tie and stretched his neck with a confident air. “Thank you, our Chairman. Prof is spot on. Yes, we are men, we carry the world; providing, protecting, pushing through storms. All that and even more. But rest isn’t weakness; it’s strategy. Take things easy sometimes, delegate if you can, see challenges as stepping stones, not chains. Feeling the weight doesn’t make you less of a man, ignoring it does. Our homes, our health, all thrive when we recharge. Equity in burdens, that’s the key, without losing our essence.”

Agreement murmured through the ranks. Reverend Edwards, the gentle shepherd with eyes soft as dawn light, raised his hand next. His presence is just a calming balm. “May I, Chairman?”

“Of course, Reverend. Your wisdom is always welcome.”

He leaned in, with voice flowing like a serene stream. “Brethren, the Good Book reminds us that even the Creator rested on the seventh day. We men are the stewards of our families and societies, and we bear immense loads. We talk of bills, emotions, and decisions, that is a whole lot if you ask me. But true strength lies in balance. Take rest, ease the yoke, let’s view the trials as part of growth. Don’t feel diminished; it’s human, not unmanly. In my church, I see men breaking under silence. Let’s normalise respite and compassion for ourselves. Amen to that.”

The mid-30s man, with his sharp voice slicing like a quick blade, interjected lightly. “Reverend, hmm, but if we rest too much, the bills ehn… and won’t the women take over? Or is that why more ladies fill your pews, men are out hustling?”

Reverend smiled patiently. “No, brother. Rest renews us to lead better. It’s partnership, not competition.”

The Engineer, that rugged innovator with callused hands and a mind like blueprints, piped up next. It’s obvious he was attending straight from site. With his grounded and practical tone, “Chairman sir, permission?”

“Go ahead, Engineer. What’s on your mind?”

“Simple: My site work drains me. Cranes, blueprints, deadlines. At home, my wife complains I no dey relax. But how? Responsibilities choke! Yet, Prof and Reverend are right. Rest makes me sharper, they sometimes turns challenges to wins. No feel small when I nap; it’s fuel.”

The short doc, our witty healer from the second row, grinned mischievously. “Engineer, you dey talk rest, but your big boots and jeans na armour! Try lounge wear at home, take am easy. Full length rest, not just site inspections. Calculate downtime like equations!”

Everyone exploded in laughter. It was a joyous thunderclap. “Doc, you no well!” someone hollered. “Engineer go full length? Na marathon!”

“I trust myself o. Length, breadth, all parameters covered!” Engineer fired back, wiping tears of mirth.

Even the Chief Whip, the stern guardian of rules with a hidden twinkle, cracked a smile. “Order, gentlemen! But doc has a point.”

The slim man added his tiny-voiced insight. “Rules na rules. But on topic…rest saves us from burnout. Guys, no dey die young over pride.”

Chairman steered the ship home. “Well said, all. We’ve unpacked it. Responsibilities are our badge, but rest is our shield. Ease up, embrace challenges as teachers, feel the strain without shame. True manhood thrives in equanimity.”

As time ebbed, he quipped, “Why did the man put his worries in the freezer? To chill them out! Get it? Liquid worries turn to ice, easy to handle. ” “You gahrit?” He winks.

Groans and laughs. “Chairman, your jokes dey freeze brain!”

“Closing prayer, our Ustadh,” he said amid the merriment. “Bismillah, Ar-Rahman Ar-Rahim…”

Prayers wrapped, men lingered in twos and threes. “Saw you and madam at the park last week. Resting abi?” one teased. “Na strategy!”

Outside, Mr. Alalaye and I strolled together under the cooling sky. The neighbourhood was already winding down like a satisfied sigh. “You see why you must come steady?” he advised, with a fatherly and playful tone. “Miss one, miss plenty—like that time we debated socks and sandals; pure chaos I tell you! Attend frequent, keep the spirit alive. Abi you wan make your Madam think we no serious? Next week, no excuse, unless she tie you to bedpost, then we understand!”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Alagba, hmmhmm…”

We parted at the fork with a lingering wave. “Keep resting smart, brother. Greet home.”

August 30, 2025.

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