This post is dedicated to the controversial pain-in-the-behind-sometimes-cute-angelic boy called Ibrahim Bello, a.k.a my little brother. IB is like a permanent needle in my skirt -a human whirlwind if there ever was one. He wrecks havoc of epic proportions; he’s smart and witty, with the cutest little button nose, as soft as butter. He torments me to the point of lunacy; he absolutely adores me. He has the blackest, shiniest skin I’ve ever seen; but he has a heart as white as snow. We’re complete opposites -he’s fire, I’m ice; we share our trademark chubby cheeks and an affinity for attracting trouble. Worlds apart….yet a full circle and back.
I decided to write this specially because IB was getting the idea that had completely forgotten about him. In his words, “I thought you had two brothers, You seem to only talk about one”. No, Ibrahim. I haven’t forgotten about you. Not after all you’ve put me through.
The general story is that Ibrahim was born an old man -hairy, very chubby and black! There’s nothing old about my little box of dynamite though. When he was little, he tortured our mum’s nipples so much that she forced him off breastfeeding. I cannot remember his metamorphosis from crawling to walking. It’s like he’s been jumping around all his life. His earliest encounters with Literature included throwing my Princess and the Frog storybook into a well. My cousin once drove all the way to the express, on the way to IB’s school, only to discover that he wasn’t in the backseat of the car. The little devil had jumped out the car window, even before the car left home. And how can I forget Ibrahim telling his sports tutor that he couldn’t swim, march, or do any other thing because his family was not sports-inclined. This is a family where both mummy and Muizz did excellently at athletics; daddy loved football; and I was goal keeper for my teams through most matches in high school. Neither was he adopted, nor delivered to our doorstep by a bird.
But my brother is the most perceptive person I know. He’s a delight to meet; brightening up every room like a star. He loves to cook and can wash a bathroom -both with care and skill worthy of a Nobel. He has no time for annoying male egos; he’s really quick to apologize. Ibrahim is my personal fix-it guy. There’s hardly any situation he hasn’t bailed me out of……from our father’s anger; to my many wardrobe dilemmas; financial jams; and even unwanted ‘toasters’.
And if he was reading this right now, he’ll probably have an emotional moment, then hide his face -he does have a reputation to maintain. He’d probably need to look up a word or two in the dictionary and wonder how I have these weird things in my head. And instead of telling me what he really thought about the post, he’d probably just go, “My friends liked it”. But then, he wouldn’t be Ibrahim if he didn’t do all that, right? Here’s a toast to the dare devil who reminds me to remain young at heart and neglect the word ‘conventional’.
PS: Muizz Bello, I love you more than you can imagine. This is not an excuse for you to request an eulogy as well. No way am I turning my blog into a family fan page. Muah!!