Nightfall events

Nightfall events.

Nightfall is beautiful when you hold me hostage.

The night sky twinkles in the rain when you stay in my mind,

goddess, for you pulled me along a slippery road to the level plane of kilmanjero , where the wind was warm,where I ripped out my heart.

See, my heart is standing still in your palms; scarred by the knives you thrust through your eyes,
your eyes that when I look into,
burn my lenses dry.

So, look me tenderly, when next I walk to your shrine, when next, I bleed for you.

Even, as you walk into the sunset, with my stillborn heart, goddess, let your tears fall on the chambers, lest, my soul dies of thirst.

Its always at night that I see the blurr of your face, shinny like diamond, as today.

And, nightfall is sad and, the dry sky, star-less and the wind, freezing.

You left me.

A few paces away

I walked a few paces away.

Just like I felt that night in UNEC. That night of light showers and noise from the common rooms of all the male hostels, full of sweaty boys, watching the champions league final. That night that I tried to hold chisolum's hands and tell her how I felt about her.

It had taken ages for me to muster the courage,  the 'liver,' to finally approach her, after years of crushing over her, right from secondary school, at which time I couldn't talk to her because father Nkume had told me it was a sin. "You're too young to have a girlfriend," he had advised. "Face your studies, for now." I loved father and I  listened to every advice of his.

But now in college of medicine, encouraged by my bruh, Tony, I decided to make the move. I  was in final year and I was "ripe for even marriage," my guy had advised. "Go now, or you loose her to someone else."

I decided to make a move. I couldn't let myself lose her. I understood the consequences.

So, I called her and told her I was coming to see her, to tell her something very important. I was staying off campus then, having 'escaped' from the stifling UNEC environment, to the mountain where I thought I could breathe freely. Only love could bring me back so soon. Only chisolum.

***

When I came in, it was night time and UNEC was buzzing, in spite of the light drizzle and the heat. I had been in the state library since morning, making up lines with which to talk to her. But, when she called, my heart jumped on seeing her name across the screen of the Nokia phone. "You can come now," she said. How I loved to hear her voice.

I informed Tony but, he was busy watching the match so, I went alone. "My love for Barcelona is important to me. Go for your love,"  he had laughed at me.

I headed for Manuwa hostel in an instant, uncertain, though somehow, harbouring a formless hope that she was going to say yes. I was handsome, I knew. I was a church boy, a good boy and, I thought that those were enough to win her heart. Above all, I loved her. I was sure she knew that I loved her more than anyone else could. So, I went to Manuwa.

What I didn't know was that my love for her was greater than anything I'd ever felt. I didn't know it'd overwhelm me, until I was standing in front of her, in all her glamour: coffee brown eyes that melted my soul, dimples that made me weak, skin the colour of fresh milk plus, that killer figure and, that mischievous laughter that made her throw her head backwards.

I loved everything about her; I still do. So much that even now, I have some tears in my eyes, as I type because, after I did all my best to say it, making all the effort to slow my fast beating heart, to still my quivering lips, to calm my quaking knees,  stuttering, "I want you to....... to.... be.......my lady. I want you..... to.... to..... let me love you, to give you all the love in the world, to die for you, if need be....," I looked at her face but, instead of a smile and deep dimples, I caught only a sad frown. And a distant stare.

I knew that all was not well, could possibly, never be well again. I knew because that look in her eyes set a furious shock that would cripple me from then on, down my spine. I knew it at that instant. There are things we just know, before they happen.

My heart beat faster. My knees quaked harder. My breath got more rapid and raspy. I tried to look at the her but, she didn't let me see her face. I tried to run my fingers through her hair but, she moved her head away.

Then, she slowly pulled her hands away from mine, looking away from me, saying ruefully,a word at a time..... "Emeka, amag m, I don't know know what to say." Words she'd keep saying day after day, until wrapped in depression, I told her I was walking away and she said, angrily, that I  should if that was what I  wanted to do.

It soon began to rain and I reluctantly let her go back inside her room.

Then, I walked a few paces away and stood to watch her receding figure, while the rain fell on me. It fell fast and hard till it drowned the buzz and noise from the hostels. And somehow, I felt it- that that was the last time I'd love someone. Except her.

Believe me because, there were  so much more that happened that I can't say on this note. I'll tell the story probably, one day.

***

Others would come to me- other ladies who loved me. Amaka, Ijeoma, Ugo, Ammy, Chi, Onyinye, Ifunanya, Chioma, Grace, Jenny, Uche, etc but, I couldn't let anyone in because, I  couldn't just forget chisolum.

***

When earlier today, my best female friend rebuked me for still pinning for chisolum, asking me what kind of spell she'd cast on me, I wanted to tell her that at times, love just refuses to die. But, I decided not to  because I knew she'd never understand.

By the way, read these lines from "The concubine." You'll love them. Ekwueme reminds me a lot of myself.

That's little me. I love like a little boy.

©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
19th January 2017.

Lost love

A girl once loved me and said it, in spite of the fact that I treated her poorly, towards the end of our years of crushing on each other. She said "I love you, in spite of everything."

She was my confidant and my friend. She defended me. She protected me. She fought for me. She tried to help me.

But, I let her go.

It was was back then, in school,  when I was still trying to find meaning in things.

Now, I cry each time I remember her, as I do now, while on duty, waiting on and watching the patients, trying to keep death away.

It is nightfall and memories are rushing back. Memories of our quiet walks down the streets, amidst chirping insects and moonlight. Memories of the only time, I've felt loved by someone outside my family. Memories of the person who made me smile at a time, when my life was full of sadness.

But, I let her go and now, I cry.

I  wish for the time to go back, for me to still be in Abuja building in UNN, sitting behind her, admiring her simple clothing and quietness.

But, I turned my back on true love and now, I cry.

Ain't no easy to find such love again.

Hamattarn

Hamattarn just arrived and it should have brought me joy.

But, the news is singing a different tune.

"The nation is going down," the news says. "And the developed world is getting tired of letting us in. We have to find our own way."

I am sitting in a ward and, thinking how to negotiate, how to breakthrough the chaos, how to find a way, out of the sinking ship.

I am still single yet, I  have intense fear about the future, intense regrets about missed opportunities, intense self loathing about the failures of the past and shaking my head, trying to avoid letting the tears fall.

There's enough misery in here and I'm trying not to complicate it for the suffering patients by letting my emotions show. Chief has always said that "the doctor shouldn't cry because the patient looks to him for hope." So, I am only letting the tears fall inside my soul. Not outside, through my eyes.

In the middle of it all, this very young pregnant girl walks in,  all smiles and giggly. Her clothes have the garish prettiness of cheap things. Her hair is poorly packed in a rough pony tail and the man that's by her side, her husband, is not older than I was in 4th year.  And from the tattered look, one can tell that he is poor. His hair looks weak and red. His facial bones are jotting out. They're signs of malnutrition.

Yet, he walks in, hand in hand with his wife, looking confident and accomplished. He is bouncy.

He is telling her that everything will be fine and that he'll soon finish paying for the Keke he is riding on hire purchase. He is telling her that they'll have another baby in two years time. He is telling her other things I can't hear now, because the babies have started crying, following their evening injections and, because my head is burning hotter.

I  stand up and walk outside, through the corridor and into the labour ward, where no one can see me. Then, I let the tears fall. I can feel my bones shaking. It feels like I'm left alone in a cold cold world.

Nightfall used to be my happiest moments of a day. But, not this one. Not tonight because, there's fire in my head when everyone else is smiling with the hamattarn cold.

"Sunshine and rain," plays in the background. It has a poignant sheen to it and it brings more tears.

I  wish I  could be like that girl, like her husband. I wish I were blind to the regrets from the past and fears about the future.

The song plays " Everything I need is everything you've got..... Sunshine and rain.... Make a beautiful thing."

I'll stay here,  with the tears, till the Theater is ready for the cesarean section.

" Sunshine and rain, make a beautiful thing," the song says.

Kids in the red dust

I took the shot before I got to them because I liked the way- the care free way, they ran along the unpaved village path, on their way to the bore hole, to fetch water for their parents.

My little sister was amused at the kind of pictures I loved to take, like the ones of a dilapidated shrine I had taken not long ago, like this one. But I told her she wouldn't understand.

And we rode on.

When we got to the kids , I pulled over and asked them " kids, how do I get to the parish house?"

I had been looking for an easy way to get there, to deliver a parcel to the priest. Mother wanted to give the priest a welcome present, like everyone else was doing. So, she had asked me to help her deliver the bottle of red oil, on my way to enugu.

My little sister was surprised and asked why I had chosen to ask the kids for directions when we could have just asked some adults who were sitting close by.

But, I  already loved the kids. I already loved their plain innocence. That's what my sister didn't know.

The kids looked on for a while, first at me and then, at my dust coated car. Their eyes were bright, twinkling with questions or should I say admiration. They giggled.

The tallest amongst them, whom I also thought was the eldest yet, still a kid himself, smiled and instead of answering my question, asked "how do I become a doctor like you when I grow up so that I can hang that thing in front of my car, too?" He became shy and covered his face using his palms.

Really?

I was taken aback. I  didn't know what to say.  Yet, their eyes begged for answers and I couldn't just ignore them. So, I said "You have to read your books everyday. Obey your parents and God. Pay attention in class. But, remember, you must read you books......"

They looked on, attentively.

Then, the small one asked "that is all it takes?" nodding thoughtfully, before turning to his brothers "then, it is very easy to become a doctor then, okwa?"

They all nodded in unison. But, they were silent for a while, their eyes focused on the Litman's stethoscope, hanging in my car.

I  wondered what they were thinking.

But, I was running out of time; Enugu Onitsha express way is not a good road to ply in the dark. Yet, I had to wait for the kids to finish their thinking. I  loved their facial expressions.

After a while, I asked my initial question once more and then, startled back to reality, they pointed me to the easiest route to the parish house. "Go through the back of the church."

I  got back in the car, almost in tears. But, it was tears of joy.

Those kids, living in the village, in poorly built mud houses, with poor parents who almost wouldn't be able to train them, full of hope, dreams and optimism, gave me a reason to be happy at that moment.

And there were facts to back up their hope.

Almost every big shot in the town of Ukehe, came from that same red dust. Father never stopped telling me such stories since I was in kindergarten.

That has been our way. From dust to greatness.

I  drove away, almost certain that those kids weren't going to fizzle away. There were strong flickers of light, in their eyes.

Husband material

Women say they love men who can cook and share in the house chores. Fine argument. I agree because, if both sexes now earn money for the house then, both MUST share in the chores.

Yes, I  agree. Goan hug transformer if you disagree. Smh! 😂

And here I am. A 'husband material' who, in addition to being able to do the 'manly' chores like splitting firewood, repairing the thatched roof, carrying the heavy loads, killing snakes and spiders, being the one to open the door and take the blows when the robbers visit, etc, I can also do the womanly chores like cooking. My sisters taught me well.

However, I've been in the 'eligible market' now, for two years, asking for a rich woman to propose, to come and marry me. But, non has come up with a ring. Even those that are not yet rich. Non has come up. They keep ignoring me.

The last time I nearly got one to marry me, makes me cry, shaa. She wasn't rich. Just a  fresh graduate. But, she still turned me down. She wasn't even that beautiful. Smh!

I met her at Nkwo market where both of us managed to price down a tuber of yam from one of those heartless traders who infest nkwo market.

I was at my humble, 'husband material'  best, trying to impress her. And 'true true,' she started falling for me after we finished our shopping and I told her that as a 'male feminist,'  I'd be the best man for her, that I'd cook and change diapers and clean, in addition to doing my manly responsibilities.

She was all smiles as I reeled out how I'd build a beautiful family with her. We were in my  small car and it all seemed to be working fine and, she kept laughing, in spite of the dust that coated out faces. She laughed until we got to her father's house where I  dropped her off.

I watched the wind play with her hair and felt a deep thrill as she swayed her hips, this way and that, walking towards her father's gate. I  had finally found a wife. Glory!

How wrong was I? 😧

Fast forward, some months later, after the initial 'wine carrying' and traditional rites and my fiancée left me. She left me. Just like that. No warning. I only got to see that she was about to wed someone else at the newspaper stand at Nkpọr junction.

She left me for a 'Malay' boy who had stormed the town,  with a barrage of land cruisers, at about the same time I met her.

The funny thing is that this 'Malay'  boy is one of those chauvinistic boys who can't even boil water. Smh.

The egusi soup is a proof that this story is not fiction.

Nama

I had big fear of failure, as a boy, growing up in slaughter Road, Nsukka. So, I always tried to suppress it by being at least among the best in class. At least, from my grade 4 and above, after that horrendous grade 3 final result, in which I got 40th position out of 50.

And talking about that, it was a terrible experience for me - that grade 3 result. I will never forget it.

I tell you, what my sisters did to me because of that result, using their mouths, cannot be described.

They kept ringing it in my ears.

"Emeka ị gbatara gịnị? Forty out of fifty!" they sang especially, each time I went to the pot to collect food.

"Iti mpataka, iti akwụ, sọ sọ nri ka ọma," they threw at me.

I  cried and cried and cried. But then, I  knew I had to change. But, I didn't really change wilfully. It was fear that changed me. A very palpable fear.

I developed that fear from then on and, never again was I a bad pupil.

It all culminated in me being that boy from 'number10 slaughter' who always brought home the best result. And when I gained admission, in the primary list, to study medicine, it was a big headline. Because, I was the first to do it in the hood. It was unheard of in the hood that someone could write jamb without 'expo' and still make it into 'med/surg'  primary list.

My matriculation was a big party, in spite of my effort to convince my parents not to 'do matriculation,' for me because it was vanity. As a church boy, I believed the money was better spent on the motherless babies.

But, no one listened to me. The people of our yard, just shoved me aside on the night I told them i didn't want a party, before they started making fire for the jollof rice and pounded yam.

One woman said to me. "You're talking because you are doing well. Go inside our room and see that N'ámá (cow) sleeping away on the bed. He couldn't even pass his WAEC." She shook her head, blew he nose and, continued peeling a tuber of yam. Smh!

African parents have bad mouths, shaa. I felt for the boy.

Chisom Idoko, sweetheart. Happy new year.

Papa

Papa is a very caring man; he has always been.

When we were small and mama was always busy with her trade, trying to help Papa negotiate through the difficulties of Babangida rule, Papa would always cook for us.

In addition to cooking, he would bathe us and comb our hair, carefully, applying that old 'hair oil' on our stubborn hair and then, creating side partings in them. He handled us one after another, until he had taken care of all of us.

His cooking was unconventional yet, always very tasty.

He would boil rice and then, in a weird manner (weird because, it differed from mama's ways which we had grown to see as the standard,) add different ingredients into the boiling rice. Sliced tomatoes with Nsukka yellow pepper, sliced onions, sliced arigbe with curry, fish, crayfish and the rest. He'd then, let the pot boil for a while, filling the rooms of our flat in ofuluonu, with a beautiful aroma. And then, like magic, he would dish into our plates, the very tasty meal.

We ate with relish. We always did, showing appreciation by shouting, one after another, 'thanks, sir,' from our room, after eating while he sat enjoying the fresh air, under the mango tree or getting his motorcycle ready for work, on the days he was on duty.

We always watched him. He let us watch so that we would learn how to cook and not burn down the house while using the kerosene stove and, he often used folk tales-interesting tales about 'mbe' and 'osa' to keep us interested in what he was doing.

He often told me, "Emeka, make sure you learn because one day you'll need to do this for your children." Papa always used soft advice to get into me.

So, I watched and watched, memorising every step. Just like I learnt everything else: how not to talk back at women, how to respect my sisters, how to stay out of trouble because as he put it, " trouble is money and akpata atufuo adịghị eme ọgaranya," how to keep trying to be better and better everyday in whatever I found myself doing; to focus on my studies so I'd become educated, like Prof Ngwu, etc,  from him.

That was how I got to learn how to cook the kind of rice you see in the picture. And boy, how has the skill saved my life. From my days on mountain Ararat, in front of imoke hostel, to my lonely days in ugwu'agbo village ituku, to NAUTH and then, now.

I'd just buy a few things and add them into a pot of boiling rice, like Papa used to do and boom, there'd suddenly, be something on my table to use and 'tachie ulcer,' like I have, this afternoon,  after two whole days of non stop work.

Believe me, the rice you're seeing looks unconventional, yes, but, trust me, it's very tasty.

The funny thing is that I'd just called Papa to thank him for teaching me a life saving skill and the old man was angry. He sighed very deeply, angry that I'd called not to tell him about how I'd get married but, some nonsense about food.

He told me to stop fooling around and go get married. Smh!

The burial

A man died close to my ancestral home and as the tradition dictates, I am supposed to go for mgbaru. Plus, the man was a friend of my father's. They grew up together and as my father says, "chased Squirrels together," when they were children. So, I just can't avoid attending, to see his family and tell them, "Ndo" and "kaa n," in spite of the financial implications. The guy is broke, my people.

My father has volunteered to accompany me.

It is quiet in the late man's house after the early wailing, hysteria and, dancing that followed the death and burial. We are now here with them, seated with the rest of their people who have come to fulfill the mourning rights, 'on' n'ekwa.' We have come with a carton of Hero,  beer. Red dust coats the bottles. Days of idle stay in my father's 'retirement' shop.

They're all thanking us and now and again, one person rises to pass a plate containing some bitter kolas, lobes of Orji Igbo, sweets and chewing gums, saying "wer' ọjị" to the people.

The plate comes to me and I  take a lobe of kola nut and munch. But, I'm thinking about things.

I am thinking even as the people laugh to the funny stories that my father and the other titled men are telling. They're telling stories to remember the man,  his youth and the time he was the hardest worker in the farms. They sigh. They heave their shoulders. Then, they laugh.

I am thinking that perhaps, 'hard work' doesn't really make people wealthy. Smh! Why are some people born, only to die on the same spot where they were born, with no fanfare, no memories of luxury?

A drunk man comes along and speaks some rubbish grammar and the people laugh harder. The drunk guy is a jolly good fellow but, I  wonder how he manages to be happy in this village that is getting increasingly, deserted. All the young men have left for the cities to look for money. It's now lonely and, too quiet.

The women begin to sing and dance. Red dust fills the air and the men throw money at the dancers. They're happy. But I'm feeling uneasy. Why do we really dance when people die? Why do we drink and eat? Perhaps, my mind is affected by my view from where I am seated.

I am seated behind the guy whose father died, thinking about how too young he looks to carry this family.

Everyone looks upon him to carry the family but, I am thinking that it's unfair on him, that he even looks too young to be seated on the ancient chair of his fathers. How will such a young man  carry the family?

They tell him, "try to make money and build a bigger house, send your siblings to school, take care of your mother, fight those people who are trying to take your father's lands."

But, he's only nodding, staring into the distant whirl of red dust. I am sure he's thinking how almost impossible it looks, that which they're expecting him to do, how bleak the future seems.

Time is against me and I  rise to go. I shake hands with the boy and I want to tell him to be strong but, I decide not to.

There are times when words seem to be weights on people's shoulders.

Humid day.

It was a sunny day. Very hot and humid. The harmattan had abruptly
stopped and most people including me roasted in the heat. People
were uncomfortable in whatever cloth they wore no matter how light the material was. Mine was worse as I always wore my nylon shirts.(nylon makes one feel hotter because it retains more heat from the sun) They were much cheaper and didn't require ironing.

And so, I suffered in the heat. My skin burned and my thighs itched from the scratch of my karki pant, as I took the long trek along Okpara avenue, from Ogbete Market to access bank head quarters to see if I  would be able to recorver my ten thousand  naira  which thei r ATM had swallowed.

The fair lady at the customer service told me they didn't have time for me.

''please come back next week,''
she said, immidiately looking away from me to attend to some other customer.

What could I do? I was just a poor youth Corper and they were Access bank. I stood there for five long minutes wondering why life could be so cruel.

How I wished that these people knew that I had only five hundred naira on me. That I placed all my hope for the week on that ten thousand naira, whìch my guy, Uchman who was  doing his housemanship at UNTH gave me out of his massive salary.  How I wished they knew that Adaora, the lanky damsel of a girl I h'd been chyking for 8month had her birthday coming up that same week and that I would lose out entirely on her if I failed to show up on her day. Offcourse by showing up I mean buying something worthwhile for her.

Anyway, I was soon startled by the
vicious ache in my stomach. i was  really hungry! I hadn't eaten since morning and it was already 3pm. I turned my back on the bank and left.

What a day it was.

The Igbo say 'ana asi na oria akaria,
ndi toro afo ana ada ibi'. That is 'we dey cry say sickness too plenty, people wey get swollen belle come begin dey get swollen scrotum add to the swollen belle.'

On my way back to the market to see If I could buy some garri with the last money I had, just as I was about to cross Chris Chemist round-about, a black Toyota Highlander sped past, its side mirror almost knocking off my left arm.

''your father there'', I cursed.

Anger everporated from my skin.

''Who the hell do you think you are?'' I yelled.

The car slowed down a bit but, did not stop. But, then it stoped just
after first bank and a hairy hand
beckoned me to come.

Imagine the insult!

'fuck you there', I muttered, hastening up inorder to get away from all the insult  of the Jeep man and vicous eyes of people whom I feared bored into me to see how small and broken I felt.

But, just then, my phone rang and it was Adaora. I was like ''Holy
father, do you really love me this much?''

My heart jumped up in ectasy. It was one of the very rare occasions she  called me; I did the calling and texting most of the time. I
savoured the ringing for awhile before I picked.

''hello sweety, how are you'', I greeted.

''hello, peter, where are you?'' her
voice was like music to my farmished ear. ''This was the time,'' I thought. I was
gonna start triping her right now.

So, with the most bossy voice, I answerd

''am at Shoprite, looking to pick up a
few things''.

She giggled. And then a
male voice flurttered in.

''Are you there, Adaora?'' I asked.

There was a pause. Then more giggling before she spoke again.

''Just turn right, am in the black Jeep''.

What the hell!
Had she just caught me lying?
What just happened?

Well, I had no option. I'd been caught lying. I crossed the road and walked  to the black Jeep, head bent, ashamed.
The window wound down and a head that belonged to no other but, Adaora- tall, curvey, dark and sexy Adaora, shot out and smiled at me, her teeth sparkling like diamonds, her eyes twinkling like stars. I was disarmed, my legs going limb.

''Where are you going?''  she asked. Her eyes going from my face which had poverty written all over it to my boots which told a story of weariness.

Hmm! I took a deep breath.

The guy in the driver's seat with whom I've been ''dragging'' her, looked at me and sighed arogantly before asking me to get in the car so they would drop me where ever I was going. I stared at him. This was the same illitrate playboy who had slapped Adaora and pushed her away at celebrity, on the first day I met her. I had walked over to her as she sat crying at the table she had been with him. She just took one look at me and stood up without even acknowleging my words of consolation. I only got her number because she had forgotten to pick up her phone which was on the table; I dialed my number with it before running after her with it. I was just being a good samaritan Youth corper, otondo.


After what seemed like eternity, I looked up at the quickly darkening cloud. It was already begining to rain. But, I wasn't worried about my cloth getting wet eventhough I hated it viciously. My soul was already drenched by internal rain and there was no need hidding from the physical rain.

''No, thank you,'' I said and as I walked away, to
Holy ghost cathedral I deleted her number.