…the land of the rising sun… 06/03/2013

In May, 1967 I watched the red, black and green flag with a golden rising sun over a golden bar in the middle, dance to the rhythm of the wind. Udoh had squeezed my hand gently as we stood side by side, our eyes both focused on the rising sun imprinted on the flag, the rising sun that told us that there was hope, a better day, a new dawn, a new nation. He turned to me with so much excitement and gladness in his eyes, one I had not seen in the past six months. I hoped for nothing more than this spark within him to remain forever. He deserved to be happy; he deserved to finally feel safe.

‘We’re home’ he whispered into my ears and I couldn’t agree more.

Nnem, my mother, used to say, ‘home is not where you build your house and make a family but where you find peace and comfort, and where you know is a safe haven’. That was Lagos city for us; the busy city which over flowed with human beings, a city which played the disturbing music of many voices, like the buzzing sound of flies hovering around ones ears, that was where we called home. Udoh was one of the many literate Igbo men; he was a lawyer who had been opportune to study at one of the universities in Britain. It wasn’t uncommon to see many Igbo men who could boast of such extraordinary educational achievement. Somehow the easterners of Nigeria had managed to take over every form of business and job in the country and had taken education very seriously.

It was a Sunday morning when Udoh stood in his dark green khaki uniform; I woke up to the humming of our new anthem ‘land of the rising sun’. The night before had been our very first night we slept in anger for each other.

‘It’s our nation we are talking about here…’

‘and it’s your life I am speaking of Udoh, what do you want me to do, celebrate that you want to leave and fight in a war, a war where so many have died’.

‘Which war is fought without the death of people Uju? Other women will stand behind their husbands and bless them as they decide to create a new life for their people, they would crown them brave men, why must you be different?!’

I kept silent, quietly sobbing in the dim room. I focused my attention on the burning candle which stood at the corner of the room, just beside the only bag we had filled with our clothes; the clothes we had managed to pack before we became prey to the monsters in human form. Just like that candle our peace and happiness had burnt so fast overnight.

The image of Kelechi’s body lying on the street had never been flushed out. It was the street which we had once called peaceful, where we had first laughed at a fight between a prostitute and her mother, where we had first become friends. She was one of those women who never got involved in fights and had a way with words; she trained her daughters well and taught them to be respectful. She was what we would call Ezinne, good mother. As her third pregnancy developed each day I always teased that she would have another girl.

‘Mba, no’, she would reply with all certainty,’ this one is going to be the opara, first son, of the house’.

Like a cow being killed without remorse or feelings, Kelechi was cut opened by her own security man and his friends. Her foetus was yanked out of her belly, her daughters ganged raped by these northerners who had gathered hatred for us- the people of our identity.

People would say it was the jealousy for the prospering Christian Ibo people, especially, which led to the bloody violence by the northerners. It was more of a political and economic tension between the east and the north. The coup d’état by some eastern military offices and its counter coup d’état executed by the northerners which had taken place in the past one year had spoilt the taste ofan already soured soup. In multitudes we were slaughtered, eyes were plucked off, arms chopped, human beings clothed in kerosene and painted with the flames of fire turning us into ashes, girls were raped and given to gangs of lepers to be raped as well. We, the easterners, had become nothing but human sacrifices pleasing the anger of the others. We were no longer welcomed as Nigerians; in fact Nigeria had become an enemy to us, it was no longer a safe haven… and so we the survivors journeyed to our new home, the land of the rising sun –Biafra.

‘I’ll be back for you’, he finally said in a calm voice, ‘Uju, you’ve always been a strong woman, you’ve always believed that we will conquer, you’ve always said that in our home we will find happiness, but this won’t be so if we, as men, don’t stand to fight for our land. Please let me go, let me fight for us, for the likes of Kelechi and others who were brutally murdered. Please’.

That ended the discussion for the night and in the morning Udoh hugged me as he sang the words of the Biafra anthem ‘but if the price is death for all we hold dear, then let us die without a shred of fear’.

Days passed, and months went, each day had taught me to enjoy the taste of thin air and water as food. Children were starving kwashiorkor became their playmate, mothers were weeping. Our ‘great currency’ could do nothing for us. People had turned to unlucky lizards, which couldn’t flee so fast, and used them as meat. We became walking corpses, endowed with rib cages fighting to run from our inside as they clearly displayed they’re shape. But we still called ourselves Biafrans till the war had been called off.

On the 15^th of January 1970, I waited for Udoh to return as he promised; night after night I had heard his voice in the cold, invisible air singing the Biafra anthem. He never came home, neither did his body. Udoh was gone, just like that burning candle, just like the red black and green flag with a golden rising sun and a golden bar below it, just like his favourite song ‘the land of the rising sun’, Udoh was gone.  After all these years I still hear him sing that song and I smile…for even though we had lost the war, we had kept our pride. The land of the rising sun, as we knew it, had somewhat become a safe haven.

 

…his story… 01/03/2013

The deep ugly scar sits right across his face, starting a race from his fore head, crossing  his nose and then settling at his once, gorgeous dark cheek. Somehow his right eye had managed to be saved from blindness. He sits at the bank of the river, yes right there where he looks into the flowing mirror called water, staring at his reflection with not a single expression on his face. Big bottom women come to the river everyday gossiping about him in loud whispers. These amebo women, with huge basketballs as buttocks and few strands of thread as hair, would call their sons at night and tell of a story they do not know, a story they think they know. He can’t be bothered by their wagging tongues or silly tales; he says it’s their story.

Dele; the man at the river bank, with no expression, his skin as dark as amala, his hair curly and full; that’s his name- Dele. People use to think he was Oshun’s son sent to earth because his broad, well formed chest and bright dark eyes, thick strong legs and gentle, muscular arms brought too many suspicions that this young man could not be a normal human being. Definitely he was a son of Oshun, the goddess of love and beauty; only she could make such a beautiful being.

‘But how could a son of Oshun be punished in such a way?’ they would ask without needing an answer, ‘obviously, the gods must still be punishing him for what he did in his past life’.

You see, they didn’t only speak of his scar, but of the misfortune that had befallen him ever since he was a child. He lost his parents at age three to a strange illness within two years. His grandmother had raised him ever since and finally died before her grandson’s graduation. His life was full of so many tragedies, tragedies that were considered not to be normal.

‘This young man had decided to get involved with the wrong gang’, these parrots would continue, ‘a cult! And so he had failed to pay his own human sacrifice and they had, in turn, given him that mark’. Their children would look, eyes wide open, fear in their hearts, and a promise said that when they moved to the city they would worship God with all truth and sincerity. Some other stories said he was a thief, who had been caught and instead of being killed, the people wanted him to live with such shame forever. These were their stories, stories they formed in their head, stories that made no sense. No one cared to know his story, the true story.

He was a final year student at the university one of those who knew why he was in university. Even though life had frowned on him and showered him with misfortune he remained honest, diligent and happy. His university days had been hard for him as well, searching for money to pay fees and a place to lay his head each time a friend threw him out from their accommodation, but things would change, he had always told himself.

The last week of his degree had been full with nights of gunshots playing music at a distance. The university cults were at it again, fighting a war between each other, a war which most times did not make sense. The new war had started when a member of one of the two rival gangs had slapped a girl who happened to be the girlfriend of a member of the other rival gang. He had thanked God that soon; he would leave this jungle of unreasonable wild beasts. As he went on his knee talking to God who had become his only family, they had forcefully found their way into the room which he shared with two of his friends. They had threatened him with a machete, asking him to tell them where one of his friend’s was. He had no clue of his whereabouts he also had no clue that, this seemingly quiet roommate which was being searched for was part of the rival gang. His answer had angered the blood thirsty students.

He could hear the neighbours scream, and in seconds, clear images had become blurred, loud cries had faded away, his white t-shirt had become a tie and dye print with blood. They had used him as a message to his friend, they had used their machete to dance on his face leaving that scar, and they had broken his ribs with thick blows and kicks.

That’s his story, the untold story. Their stories have become unpublished novels of a bad example of a young man, their stories are all lies. But he doesn’t bother about their story; he bothers about his future, he bothers about the pride of Lara, who sits right beside him at the river bank where they have laughed together, believed together, prayed together, and first fallen in love with together. He wonders how she would cope with gossips and mockery when they get married. She reminds him that she has always been there with him, through all the bad misfortune, she says it has never been about the sad stories in his life, it’s always been about the love she has for him, and as she slowly, but gently places kisses on his scar starting from his forehead down to his once beautiful cheek, she tells him that they would write a new story, one that speaks of love without second thoughts.

 

 

 

 

…goodbyes… 04/01/2013

In loving memory of my sweet sweet uncle…

The day uncle ken died, I saw a huge part of my family die as well. I remember the news like it was yesterday. I remember the strange quietness and empty compound. My cousins had trooped out of the house one by one, making me wonder if my mother’s poultry had been set ablaze or if a close family to us had lost their own. I stared into Aunty Evelyn’s eyes begging to please tell me why my brother had also been summoned to join my trooping cousins.

When you begin to plan the future and see the people that you see usually in those plans, you forget that life has no particular expiry date that it can end at anytime, that you may never see another birthday the next year. Yes, I sat on my bed that Moring after everyone had refused to tell me what was going on, even after my mother had also been called to the other house. I smiled as I remembered my uncle coming home promising to buy suya for us. It was a secret we hid from mum because she had never encouraged roadside cooking, but still, my uncle enjoyed having this little secret with us, the four of us. I was going to leave the country in a few weeks and I knew that I would get a call from my uncle saying ‘Emigelo, be good o, study hard, make us proud. In God’s time you’ll find a good man, and I know you’ll marry a white man’. It was something my uncle always told me. I always planned that wedding in my head, I always saw my uncle trying to get things arranged for the wedding, he had always been our help, he had always been the happy man willing to do such without a pay.

As I sat on the bed my new blackberry phone rang, and like always it was my daddy, who for some reason I enjoyed his constant calls. But he didn’t call to ask me how we were, or what information he needed to get for my preparation to travel, he called with a closed throat and a sad voice and then I knew that I was summoned as well, summoned to help my weeping mother who had just lost a man more than a brother but a son, I was summoned to know like every other person that my uncle was lying cold and stiff, lifeless and pale. I had never seen my mother cry the way she did, and I had never heard the voice I heard from my father that day. I had never thought that my uncle won’t be coming home to give us suya, or jokingly call me a fish when I made my baby sister cry. I held my tears  for my mother and as the first child I was expected to be strong for my parents and siblings.

I knew I couldn’t be hurting more than my parents who had loved this young man as their own son, but I was hurting, I was hurting more than anyone could believe. I thought of all the days I never called my uncle, and all the times he called and I would not say a proper goodbye, instead I would just tell him ‘uncle come and see us soon o’. I thought of the times when I should have been glad that he made us watch the discovery channel when he came around. I thought of his hairy body, his eyes, his laugh, his red shirt, that red shirt I saw him in so often. And then I thought of the time my uncle went on his knees, with only me in the room, and he told God to please give us long life and sang till I finally fell asleep.

My uncle was shot, and telling that story is a whole new chapter, but I could picture my sweet uncle bleeding, my sweet uncle leaving us. It’s 2013, and my uncle isn’t around, but sometimes I see him walk in the lobby of the village house, I hear him laugh so hard, I see him with his beard and his red shirt.

My uncle will never be forgotten, his life was short but it is being celebrated. I miss him everyday and for some reason I have refused to say goodbye.

…blabs from a crazy Nigerian girl(1)… 19/11/2012

The next time someone talks about my weight I will SLAP that skinny mouth of theirs, laying emphasis on the ‘SLAP’! I don’t realize that I have just screamed the word ‘slap’, my flatmate just opened his door, I’m sure he thinks I’m mad.

Ehen…I’m at it again…looking at myself in the mirror at 3am in the morning thinking if I should put on some light make up and wear something nice… I’m not going anywhere, I just want to take some pictures.  Yes, I do that a lot, stay up all night brushing my hair, changing into different clothes and standing at my mirror taking pictures…not because I want a new display picture or profile picture; it’s just something I do to remind myself I’m beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not vain. I know I’ve been saying I’m beautiful a lot these days but that’s because I have every right to say it especially after these ode people make me feel…what’s the word to use *thinking*….FAT. No they make me feel worse, they make me feel like a  wobbly bag of rubbish [Oyinkan taught me that].

I was a really tiny baby and anyone could have sworn that I’ll remain slim for the rest of my life because my mom used to beg me to eat. But over the years of living in another country which was not my birth place I evolved into this cute, chubby girl. I still had my big dark brown eyes and my innocent look, just now my arms were bigger and my face blown a bit. I never saw anything wrong with myself, no one ever told me I was fat or big or anything like that but Nigerians had to spoil a little girl’s mind as they always do.

When I first came back to Nigeria and saw my aunty, for what seemed to be the first time in my life, I was welcomed with,

‘Ahn Ahn Emi has grown o…she’s so FAT now’

Even though we had grown up in a country where children could stand up to their elders and speak their mind, my parents had taught us the Nigerian way of relationships with older people. So I kept silent while I was welcomed to my country with relatives and friends calling me fat.

When you get to boarding house you tend to lose a lot of weight. And that’s what I did for the only term I was in a boarding house. I lost so much weight that my mum would beg me to eat like before, and soon I realized I was finally getting attention especially from those boys I thought were sexy. I was enjoying my days of thinness. Finally I could steal my sister’s gown and not bother about it tearing. But something’s don’t last forever. I became a day student for about five years, and since my mum is an amazing cook, I ate till I began to transform into the chubby little girl again. Anyone can blame me for that, because in all honesty I didn’t bother to look after my body. I did start exercising after some years and my mum made sure I cut down on my food, but still I was termed fat or big.

My self esteem dropped when I changed school and people would actually walk up to me and say,

‘But how come you’re this big’

They made it seem like I was enormous when in actual sense I wasn’t even obese. Soon words started to hurt and I would keep to myself, trying to hide from what people said. Those five years were the worst years of my life, I forgot what talent I had that made m beautiful, perhaps not on the outside but on the inside, I forgot how to love myself and accept who I am.

I had another breakthrough in ss3. I bless God for that. That year was my year mehn! I lost all the weight again and I had finally learnt to walk in heels. Plus the attention was overwhelming. More importantly I met people who taught me to love myself again, so I was in therapy to increase my self esteem. But again, I transitioned into my normal thick self and the words started again. This time it was worse than before even though I hadn’t become as chubby as I was when I was younger. I finally started exercising again and cutting down on my food but still these olodo people would look me in the face and call me fat.

I’ve been in Sheffield for two months now, and the only person that calls me fat here is myself. I realized, even though I was the problem [self esteem issues and falling back to more food] , other factors [and when I say that I’m talking about the people who think they are skinny or thin enough to tell me about my weight] made me feel ugly within and on the outside. I have always learnt that if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything. And I’m pretty sure other people have been told this before but a lot of times we fail to respect this rule.

I’m sure by the time I return home people would still talk about how ‘big’ I am. But let me not catch you o. Don’t say it in my face because I will sit on you till you feel the effect of my weight [I’m not even joking]. I am beautiful the way I am and I try my best to be healthy and take care of my body. I’m not perfect and I’m not asking that I should be seen that way but I am beautiful even though you don’t see it.

So it’s 6.10am and I’ve spent two hours taking pictures and an hour writing and editing. If you have a problem with my body then you can hug transformer!!!

…whips… 18/11/2012

‘Where have you been?’ he speaks in a calm voice asking like he doesn’t need an answer.

You stand still frightened by his presence rather than the question. You know you shouldn’t look into his eyes, those charming eyes that make you melt inside, those eyes that make you also long to kill him; but you turn around anyway and look at him sitting on the bamboo chair at the corner of the small living room.

‘Where have you been?’ he asks again, this time with a bit of impatience creeping into his voice.

He doesn’t like repeating his questions; he’s said it so many times that he only repeats his questions to the ones he loves. That has always made you calm down, yet made you know that it’s just a trick to make you believe in him.

‘Dumebi where have you been or have you suddenly turned deaf?!’ he finally screams this time making you drop the glass bottle in your hand

‘You come home, and decide not to answer me and now you break a glass bottle in my house to hurt me?!’

The sound of his buckle rings in your ears, you know what is going to happen, you know you should do something but for some reason the fright is gone and you begin to feel indifferent to what is about to happen.

The first whip sweeps across your back and with force pushes you to the ground. In that moment you remember meeting him for the first time. It wasn’t like the other love stories, there was never a ‘love at first sight’, in fact you hated him, hated his pride and those eyes, even though they made you melt inside.

It was at the market square, when Oluchi had called you out to come and admire her bead; that was when you met him, when he stated that Oluchi’s beads were nothing compared to his mother’s. She laughed and introduced him as he cousin, no greetings were exchanged just looks of indifference to each other.

The second whip hits your left arm, no pain is felt…except the pain of the third meeting at the stream. The first time he mentioned he loved you.

‘Why are you walking away from me?’ he had asked calmly. No reply followed. He turned back and saw you had already walked a distance then he ran, catching up with you and forcefully dragging you back with your left arm.

‘Why are you walking away from me?’ he repeated getting impatience

‘Don’t you dare hold me that way’ you commanded as you pushed him away

‘I asked a question Dumebi, I do not appreciate repeating myself a second time which you have already made me do because I love you’

Laughter came out from within you like the cry of a newly born child; you looked at him with such stubbornness and anger and told him to leave you alone. He loved that about you, you’re stubbornness, your courage to fight him back. But it’s what he hated about you too; he knew you could drive him crazy with your authority. Things change though, love changes people.

It’s the sound of the third whip, rather than the pain that makes you move a little. The neighbours shouldn’t be woken by this thunder in your home.

The neighbours…you remember them now, their happy faces and praises as you carried the cup of palm wine to your new husband. The joy of a woman getting married; that was all they talked of all they knew. No one talked about how things would be after the wedding ceremony; no one cared to talk about it.

Your breasts begin to bleed as the fourth whip dances upon them with much gravity. Those succulent breasts, as he called them the first night. You remember his teeth gently, yet painfully, nibbling on your nipples and then you remember the first blood slipping from within you as he became the first man to be part of you. The pride you felt, the pride he felt. It was something that was meant to last forever.

What went wrong? How did things suddenly change? No more kisses or friendly arguments, no more music or love. All there was now was the hatred, pain, beatings, blood. You can’t be blamed for not giving him a child after three years. Three years was too short to justify his actions, there were other couples who had been married for fifteen years and they had no child.

‘Answer me you shameless woman, where have you been?!’ he says again as he lifts his belt in the air again and lets it whip across your face.

You lay there silent waiting for the other whips that would continue for the next thirty minutes, soon his anger would lead him to take the broken pieces of glass lying on the shelf and he would use this to roughly cut your skin, leaving deep wounds. He always did this; always saw your body as his play thing.

As his anger rises and you remain calm, he looks into your eyes, those eyes that once kept him awake, and those stubborn light brown eyes that made him long for you.

‘Why aren’t you responding Dumebi?’ he says as the whipping stops and blood stains can be seen all over your white t-shirt

You look at him, wondering why he is suddenly bothered, knowing that he wants nothing more than for you to fight back, to scream, to cry.

‘Why won’t you answer me?’ he says in a whisper, sounding like a child worried about his sick mother.

‘I’m tired Ikenna’, you say as you begin to stand from the cold floor, ‘I’m tired’, you repeat again in a tone he has never heard. ‘The white man tells me I lost my unborn baby. My three month’s old unborn child. He says my womb is destroyed too. He says the baby was destroyed because somehow pressure had been put on the head of the child. He says I have to get the baby out because it’s already dead, my womb will be gone too. So I have returned…with no child and no womb and I’m tired ’.

As you leave the dimly lit parlour, he sits in shock, in fear, in hope that you are lying. It’s shocking how news can change one’s mind, ones action and he begins to cry, praying that he doesn’t lose you. It doesn’t matter to you now; all you want is rest…perfect rest just as your unborn child has had its own perfect rest.

…her story… 05/08/2012

You see that little lady sitting over there; right there, beneath the mango tree…she’s been there for weeks. No one knows why, no one cares to know why but all everyone says is how she turned out to be an ashawo. Children pass by with water kegs on their heads and as they come closer they begin to talk, they begin to say what their jobless, stout, ‘I-too-know’ mothers have told them. She doesn’t curse these children though; she doesn’t curse their terrible mothers too. She says it’s not her fight, it’s not her worry.

She used to be the good one, ‘the child born to bring blessings to her father’, the town’s pride; she used to be the girl mothers told their daughters to be like. It doesn’t bother her that she’s now called a worthless rag or a stupid girl. She says she has other things to bother about; she has real issues of life to deal with. She says all she can think about is the unborn, the beautiful creature inside her. So she sits under the mango tree with her right hand placed upon her bulging tummy and as people pass her and talk she holds her tummy tighter as if to protect the unborn from the words of these strangers, of these blind stupid ones that do not know her story.

She’s called Adaku; the slim, tall, beautiful chocolate skinned lady beneath the mango tree… that’s her name- Adaku. She grew up in this town, the seventeen year old lady. Everyone called her mami-water because her beauty could only be that got from the water world. She was perfect. But perfect doesn’t always last long, perfect changes with time, with fate.

She lost her mother when she was ten and she watched as her father struggled for two years with an unknown disease. He was the only family she had, the only family she had ever known. It didn’t matter to her that she was too young to journey alone to buy some herbs the dibia had requested for. It didn’t bother her that things may go wrong; all that bothered her was knowing her father would die without her helping to change his story. So she went alone before the cocks could crow, she journeyed to the bigger city where this herb could be found.

The stars twinkled as Adaku boarded a bus back to her town, she was pregnant with gladness and it felt like the world smiled at her as she thought how her father would be on his feet again. She was still smiling as the bus came to a sudden halt, she was still smiling when those men told everyone to come down from the vehicle, she was still smiling when one asked her to give the money she has, she was still smiling when she replied that she had nothing but all she had was her father’s life in the bag, she was still smiling as she told this young man of how her father would live but couldn’t complete her story as she was slapped across the cheek and pushed to the ground.

She heard passengers scream for her, she heard herself scream for her life and for her bag not to be taken. Blood trickled down her thighs as he thrust himself into her, a virgin, a little virgin. Her clothes became nothing but ashes as his fellow robbers burnt them and as he finished with her he looked her in the eye and told her, ‘a mami-water like you shouldn’t be travelling alone’. Her bag was thrown back at her and for a split second she smiled knowing that her father would still be saved.

Adaku limped back to their little house and she was welcomed by the tears of her father who could see the blood flowing from her. She was raped; raped till she couldn’t walk properly, raped till she needed the same herbs for her treatment. Her father asked the dibia to use the herbs on his only child as she passed out in front of him, he said her life had always been about others and not her, he asked that his daughter be treated with those herbs while he lay and rest finally. He asked that his daughter live instead of him.

Their story tells of how she travelled not to get the herbs for her father, but to meet her lover in the big city. They say she never brought the herb that’s why her father died. Their story tells of lies, of things that never happened. She doesn’t bother about their story; she bothers about the story of her unborn child and as she does Chibuzor sits beside her, underneath the mango tree where they have grown together, played together, promised to love each other till death. He too lays his hand on her bulging tummy and he bothers about her story because her story is what should be told, is what should be heard. He says he’s not leaving her, he says the unborn child belongs to him as well. He also says she is his pride; he’s heart and his unborn story.

ARO [TABOO]

Hey Hey! so today’s post isn’t written by me…it’s by this amazing, funny awesome friend Toyin Oyatogun. Y’all better read this and have fun reading it!!! I did…

 

 

 

 

‘’But mother I am sorry” I kept on saying through my tears, as mother sat on the raffia chair in our living room, shaking her head and cussing at me. I couldn’t make out most of what she said but I kept on hearing ‘’onyeara, onyiberibe and onyioshi’’.

‘’You have always been an embarrassment to this family and I am tired of it!’’.Right from childhood, you brought embarrassment to this home!’’ she said. Before I did what I had done, I didn’t know the gravity of my actions, but apparently it was more of an abomination than I could imagine.

‘Mother I am sorry’ I said again. “Nne biko’’.

‘’You should be sorry for yourself oh!’’ She yelled!’

I couldn’t even think of what else to say. My father is late and is the only person that could ever calm my mother. He always had the softest words for her. Since he died two years ago from what was allegedly a witchcraft attack, mother has become so hardened and difficult! My brother and I sometimes secretly think she is the witch who killed him. Sometimes, she threatens us with fire burns and other things that a mother shouldn’t do to her child. So whenever she became so hot and furious over something we did, we just kept begging even when we didn’t think it was such a big deal.

My brother had been peeping from the crack in the wall of our living room, we had been taught never to interfere whenever people senior to us were discussing issues so he couldn’t come to intercede for me.

‘’You will have to go undo what you did oh! Because I cannot even show my face in front of those people. Right now they think I didn’t bring you up well!’’ Mother said with spite in her eyes. At that point I just wished I could melt and turn into mud so I could mix with the mud that was used to build our house and be gone forever.

A trip I had looked forward to had ended up very disastrous. It had been 12 years since we went to our home town and I was so anxious and curious about the trip. The night before we left, I tossed and turned in bed in anticipation. What will the place be like? What will the people be like? Will they welcome me with open arms or will they judge me? I had no idea whatsoever what to expect!

“Ogini!!!!!!!??? You’re still in bed? Its 9am and we are leaving by 9:30”, Mother shouted as she woke me up. I realised I had slept off, while thinking of what to expect of my trip. Reluctantly, I dragged my self to the bath and had the quickest bath of all time.

Eventually, we left at 9:45am and got to the village at about 7pm. We were so tired when we arrived, so we just went to our family house where we were warmly welcomed and then we were given okpacha soup and fulufulu to eat after which we slept. In the middle of the night, I had woken up to pee at the backyard since I didn’t know where the pit latrines were and everyone was already asleep. On my way to the backyard, I saw a very big cobra making its way to the room where my mother, brother, aunty and two cousins slept. I picked a big stone and killed the beast. Once I killed it, it was just as if I hag rung a bell in the village. Everyone woke up! Lanterns, torches and different sources of light came on. People came to my direction screaming and shouting with angry faces. I forgot I needed to pee and tried to understand what was going on. People screamed ‘demon, demon’’ others shouted “Amadioha oh!! The evil one has killed our god”. I was confused!

The whole village woke up and people tried to throw stones at me while some avoided me and called me onye n’ebu. After a lot of action and all, I realised the people in our village worshiped snakes as theirs gods and the cobra was the head of the gods, so I had just killed their ‘god’.  My mother rolled on the floor shouting ‘why me? Why me?’’. It was then I saw the gravity of my actions. Actions I had meant for good.

We were out there till the cock crowed. The ‘constitutional’ or traditional punishment for my abomination was death in the market square without the offender wearing any clothes, but since I had been away from the village for over ten years, I was ‘pardoned’ and my mum, my brother and I were banished from the land! We hadn’t even spent 24 hours in the village and we were asked to leave. Bad is an understatement for how I felt. My mother couldn’t stop crying and talking about how I had brought a curse to our family generation. My brother kept silent through out, looking at me with pity. Everybody we came across avoided us like a plague.

‘’Am I not talking to you!!!??” mother shouted “where has your mind drifted to!!?” ‘Did you hear the last thing I said?’’. That was when I realised I had drifted away and I was deep in thoughts of everything that had happened in the village and everything I was apologetic for. Next thing I heard mother say was ‘’I said you are no longer my child! Go to hell or wherever you were sent from!’’

To be continued…J

Onye n’ebu (killer in Igbo)

Onyeara- mad person

Ogini- what is it

Biko- please

Onyioshi- thief

Onyiberibe- stupid person