Professor: A Visit to the Professor

NEW HAVEN, Conn. - April 25, 2019 - PRLog -- Out of the blue, on the Saturday morning, I called the professor and said, "I want to come over." It was not really out of the blue, for lately I may have been thinking about him, the way people hold others at the back of their minds without much effort while they go about their daily business.

When his voice came over it was reassuringly strong but raspy, and I wondered if he was trying to fight off some aches and pains while at the same time talking to me. Well, it happened that I had been in his mind too, and he said, "It is a good idea to visit; you shall live long, and you know what? I thought about you yesterday. Is 3.30 pm all right for you?  Let me know whether the time is good for you; I do not want to get you away from your work." Before he could suggest any other time, I said, "Agreed."

Shortly after that, I began to think over my decision. Was it right or wrong to visit? I was not sure why I had the desire to see him. "Next time," I reprimanded myself, "think first before you promise to go over." Not that I needed to have a reason to visit him, but it helps when a man has a rationale for anything he wants to do.

Now that I had made the promise to visit the professor, I had to come up with reasons to justify the trip.  Perhaps it was because he would be turning 95 in a couple of months. He is the only person I know who is 94 years old. However, age did not seem like the reason I wanted to see him. Asking him how he managed to get to age 94 and still be wise and strong was probably another element nudging me, like the way palm wine propels drunks. "Forget that idea," I said to myself. "It is not likely the professor would know why he remains hearty at 94, going on 95. Nobody knows why he or she lives long."

Besides, one can only ask another person such a question if a perfect opportunity presents itself. Observations, not queries, are the better way to get answers to such longevity-related questions – especially in seniors, who may misconstrue the underlying intention behind the inquiry.

My childhood upbringing, I think, was another force nudging me to make the visit. When I was a kid, my father used to send my siblings and me to go visit our uncles. "Bother them, ask them how they are doing," Dad would say to us. Those childhood experiences do not disappear; they only remain quiet in our mind, occasionally breaking out into action.

After I had accumulated a basket of motives for my visit, I closed the books I was reading, shut my office door and got into my car. On my way, I congratulated myself on the omen which had prompted me to shave early in the morning. Grey stubble was one less thing to worry about when I got to see the professor, who would survey one with a quick look and say, "I am disappointed with that unshaved beard of yours," or "You got to do something about that beer belly."

My timing was perfect, which I hoped would please the professor, who demands nothing but punctuality. A few seconds before 3.30 pm I climbed two flat brick platforms, walked towards the front door and pushed on the doorbell. Since I did not hear the doorbell ring, I pressed a couple of times more and waited. Minutes later, an attendant opened the door, letting me into a small foyer that led to the right into a large carpeted parlor, made cramped by intervening couches and various tables containing picture frames of old and young faces.

Opposite me and near the end wall was the professor. It surprised me to see him in a recliner couch, with his legs stretched out. As I approached, I yanked off my cap, bowed slightly and said, "Hello, Prof." Then I walked up to him and bent my head so that he could pat the back of my hair.

"My dear, good to see you," he said. Then he waved me to a seat. As I sat, it suddenly occurred to me why I wanted to come to see him. To explain, I have to invoke the Iroko tree. Iroko is a rare, majestic, tall tree that grows in Igboland, Nigeria.

It is unfortunate that Igbo children of today miss out on the lessons we learned when we were growing up. Unlike the other trees that natives climb to obtain firewood, nobody climbs the Iroko tree. According to Igbo legend, if anyone dares climb the Iroko tree, they must endeavor to get all the wood they need.

Upon this realization, I sank down into the sofa and clasped my hands, supporting my head on them as I prepared to listen.

Part II of the visit to the professor will continue in a few days.

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