Many would declare proudly about how nice freshly tapped palm wine tasted, indeed it was lovely. The effort it took to get a significant amount of the liquid from the palm tree was incredible and risky. Many had died from falls as they climbed this high trees, it was worthwhile in every sense.
My father would chat happily with his childhood friends over cups of fermented palm wine. He would talk about how well his business fared, or how annoying his neighbors were, or how peppery the Yoruba stew tasted, he always had something to talk about. His friends would also dish him rounds of information, about how the village elder died, or how a man was forced to produce a goat to appease his ummuna, or how a woman left her husband for another man. The palm wine was a good excuse for gossip. Whoever told you only women gossip lied to you.
I always enjoyed watching the squirrels undertake their daily race, they seemed carefree and comfortable, they had everything they could wish for, good food and shelter, and that was what made village life less complicated.
Just like these carefree squirrels, the villagers were comfortable with good food and shelter, the women spent their mornings tending to farms or going to the market, for some jobless ones, they relished an early morning gossip over bottles of small stout. The men were no exception, they were always on their bicycles, ringing warning bells and climbing tall palm trees.
Brilliant smiles would always light up my face, when nostalgia takes back to those beautiful days, with cheerful people, living just like squirrels on palm trees.
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