Saturday, 27 October 2018

Dim lights in the rain

It was the year 2010 and I was still in college of Medicine, feeling through my way, trying to find meaning in things.

I  was a church boy because I sought answers in the church but, I didn’t get all of it. At least, the ones I wanted. Like why I wasn't the best in spite of my efforts. Like why God didn't seem to be with me anymore. Like why I felt so much sadness each time I tried to study. A lot of questions remained. A lot, unanswered.

There was only a little relief when I joined nwokike literary club and met Gold, Uzo, Mezie, Jennifer, Kenneth, Ebube, Ifeanyi and the others. Kindred spirits.

I felt at home with them, sharing poems and stories, spending some evenings with Gold Odenigbo, talking about life, drinking coke at Jọpa with her,  trying to  find out why Gold’s  eyes always  twinkled, like  stars.

But, a lot questions remained.  We don't get all the answers we seek.

I left the hostel and went to join my guy in town. A new Lodge had been built on a hill, and 'it is cool for study,' my guy had said.

I got a room, close to my friend's, and we started having some good time, playing Playstation, watching the premier League, talking about girls. And, I took my first bottle of beer . It made me feel woozy, not thinking clearly. Still, I kept asking questions.

My  guy saw the questions  in my  eyes,  one  day  at  the  bar,  while  we watched  a champions League  game  between  Inter Milan and  Barcelona, and he  tried  to  help.

He advised me to go against fathers Diego’s teaching, and find a girlfriend because, “that is the only way to find meaning and development as  a man,” and I obliged.

He was my good friend from primary school and he always told me the truth. But, that was not really why I had obliged. I'd obliged because, I was really falling for someone.

And being an idealist, I could only go for that someone whom I loved. You already know her name.

So, I approached her and asked her out.

Under the moonlight, along a very cool spot, as we took a walk,  close to the stadium.  I held her hands and said to her "I want you to let me give you all the love you need, I  want you to be my girlfriend. Let me be your guy."

My eyes were fixed on hers. That was what my guy had said I should do.

"Do it like a real man,"  he had advised, the night before. "Look into her eyes, hold her hands and if possible, kiss her."

And I did exactly those. Except kiss her because of the way she'd  reacted to those 'passionate'  words of mine. A weird sort of way.

She'd  quietly pulled her hands away, suddenly looking sad,  her fair skin turning red in patches,  immediately I finished speaking those emotional words.

"I  don't know," she'd  said. "I don't know," she'd  looked away. And in her cheeks, I couldn’t see the dimples no more.

I tried to get her to explain more, days later but, she wouldn't explain. She kept saying “I don’t know, Emeka.”

She, shaa, didn’t finally give me a definite answer, as our friendship continued, nonetheless,  and we still spent time together, still walked down the road in the  evenings,  still  discussed her  studies and talked about our families and I still  felt  giddy whenever she called until, months later, when she finally turned me down.

Same spot,  same evening time, same full moon-lit night, full of brilliant stars.

She held my hands and said, "find someone else, Emeka. I do not feel what you feel." She wasn't looking into my eyes; she was rather staring into the empty distance. An empty, empty distance.

Those words were a thousand swords, through my heart. I tried to hold her but, she moved away.

Something like an eternity passed without any words between us.

Suddenly, I knew, I would always hate moonlight and that spot in UNEC. I knew I would always hate holding hands.

My walk home; I had to walk because I didn’t know what I was doing anymore, was exactly like that of Peter, when he realised he had denied Jesus. Lonely. Long. Heavy. A sad walk home.

Then, I cried. So much. Although, inside my dimly lit  damp room on the hill, facing Imoke hostel. My cold and stuffy room whose floor was always covered with old TIME, ECONOMIST and NEWSWEEK journals, which I read  more than I read my  Medical  texts.

Enrique Iglesias 'maybe,' always played in the background as I cried, for several days. Days that passed so slowly,  giving birth to nights that were too long. I suddenly found myself Googling 'insomnia,' in my Nokia express music.

Days ran into weeks. Weeks ran into months,  and I began to change.

I didn't know it but, I  began to change, goaded on by my guy,  who started blaming me for my loss. "You lost her because you are a juuu man," he barked, angrily. Always.

"Girls like it when a guy is a bad boy, a ‘De Angelo,’ ‘A Tank Turner,’" he said, always stopping my  Enrique Iglesias and  Enya sad songs, replacing them with Culture and Peter Tosh.

"You have to man up and listen to reggae, guy. Find a  better girl and forget about that your so called, Ogoo. Start having sex, relate with women, understand them or you'll forever be a juuu man, a loser."

I always listened, like a child, envying my guy’s authority and confidence. He had a girlfriend and was always emotionally stable. He was everything I aspired to be. He gave me some websites to visit and read about ‘how to get any girl you want.’

I read and read and read.

Yet, I couldn't just forget Ogoo, in spite of every indications pointing that I quit. I couldn't just forget her face, her smile, her laugher, which made her throw her head  backward, her dimples. I couldn't just forget her voice, her eyes and everything about her because that love was just too overwhelming.

To make matters worse, I always saw her, each time I went to the teaching hospital. Her white gown fitted her so much and I always noticed her fine figure. Pink lips. Hair which always overflowed. Skin, smooth and, the colour of milk. Laughter that sounded like birdsong.

Food began to nauseate me. The days became dark. School became irritating. Liverpool was always losing, since the sale of Alonso. No  light in the horizon.

I began to rebel against my morals. Against God. I began to lose my religion.

I started talking to other girls, gradually becoming polygamous.

I met the dark black Beauty whom I'd come to also love so much; whom, after that rainy day, I’d ask to visit and I’d  kiss- my first kiss, a long and desperate sucking of lips and teeth and, licking of tongues, starting from a standing posture and ending on the matrass- an event which would leave me feeling so guilty because I felt I was corrupting her; she  was  so innocent, so open and lovable.

Then one day, Ogoo called me. She called and called but, I couldn’t pick. I'd been too  shocked to pick up the phone. Then,  she sent a text “please, come and see me, I need you, Emeka. I need you. I'm not feeling too happy."

I was dumbfounded. As much as I was thrilled. But, I was so glad that she needed me.

So, off I went. Dressed in my favorite stripped shirt and jeans. I ran to Ogbete and took a bus from old Park to Obiagu. Then another one from Obiagu to UNEC gate. Not minding the brutally dark clouds and imminent rain. And a violent storm that plucked branches of trees and smashed them on the tarmac.

Then, I took a cab to Ibiam hostel, hustling to go save her, to be to her, the hero. I was so keen to be her night in shinny armour. She was the great love of my soul.

But, I ended up in front of Ibiam,  only to wait. I  waited and waited; called and called but, she kept ‘cutting my calls.’ Until it began to rain.

I thought of going somewhere for shelter but, the kiosks were closed and Ibiamites  wouldn't let me in because they were having some official elections.

So, the rain beat me,  fell on me. And somehow I let it beat me because, something in me wanted her to see me drenched, all because of her, all because of my love for her. That something wanted her to see it- the love, in its palpable form. Smh! My naivety was stinking.

The water droplets fell in slants and the lightning was fierce, just like the roaring thunder and wind,  that threw fast water droplets on my face. But, I stood my ground,  forlorn, under the mango tree. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Watching the little bits of wood and leaves fall under the weight of rain.

Then, they came.

They looked dapper in their blue 'end of discussion' and perfectly cut suits. Three handsome men, in a wealthy sort of way. The rain couldn’t stop the fragrance from them, filling my nostrils. Soft fragrance that one knew must have come from expensive perfumes.

They pulled over, just close to the mango tree, under which I took a flimsy shelter. They waited and in five minutes, Ogochukwu came walking close to us.

Heck! I even smiled for a few minutes, thinking she was coming to me, until she walked past me and straight into the arms of the tallest one, with healthy looking beards,  who took the umbrella from her, and opened the car door for her.

I wiped the rain from my face and my shirt suddenly, felt too tight. I felt like going to pull her back and punch that guy and burn his car. But, I was raised to be wise enough to know when to let go.

And so, I stood and watched as they drove off.

Their tires spurn in the mud and splashed some muddy rain water all over the place and, on me. I tasted some grains of sand.





***

The rain had reduced to a flimsy drizzle but, I could still feel the pounding on my skin. Soon my teeth would begin to clatter against one another and my tears would mix with the rain.

I watched them drive away, until the lights of the car became tiny red dots in the rain and haze. I watched until, a branch  fell from the tree, almost hitting me. Then, I had to go. I  knew I had to go if I were to survive the rain.

***
By Nnaemeka Ugwu.

To be continued.

Wednesday, 17 October 2018

Rape, heels and love.

After I reminded her that she'd just done the very thing she'd warned me severally, never to do-talk about my exes, (because she’d been talking and talking about her ex and all his qualities, placed side by side with mine), she retorted, “before nkọ? Don't you know that you're a guy and so, you should be able to forgive me even if I don’t  forgive you for a similar crime?”

She smiled and placed a finger on my lips, “shush! Girls have earned the right to get away with murder.” Then, She giggled, a little too loudly, considering that we  were not in the isolated recovery room at the moment and the fact that the theater was grave silent; I always insisted on being very careful, even though the teaching hospital was on strike and the population of workers was negligible. But, she giggled some more, anyway. It made her dimples sink deeper in a beautiful way, reminding me of those on Chisolum’s high cheeks.

Her statement was meant to be a joke, or so I thought, and to be sincere, I laughed. A hearty laughter, though stifled, which resulted in her tickling me. And to tickle me properly, she had to hold me, resulting in her breasts pressing on my back, and one thing leading to another, until my lips got together with hers and our tongues started dancing in our now fused mouths. Ravishing kiss. A build up of passion. And our hands moved too, reaching for some secret places on our lustful bodies. Until soon, when we ended  up on one of the recovery beds-the one hidden away from prying eyes, and got into some more intense passionate stuff.

Our bodies felt cold because the AC was on. Thanks to the generator man who’d decided to put on the big generator. So, our bodies didn’t get drowned in sweat like they did the first time we had such a romantic tangle in that teaching hospital, just a few days after I’d met her half dressed in one of the gynae theaters and she smiled and apologized  profusely for ‘assuming too much,’ for ‘thinking that no one would ever come into the theater at such an odd hour, searching for vicryl 2-0 sutures.’

So, we lay down a little longer, held each other a little longer since we needn’t bother about how to get our bodies dry in order to conceal the bright sweat that usually covered our skin each time we made love, in case someone bumped in on us.

However, instead of laughing and giggling and asking her whether she enjoyed this move and that move and why she always almost convulsed after I did ‘that thing,' as was usually the case when we cuddled after making love, I found myself thinking about what she'd said earlier. “Women should be allowed to get away with certain things because, they're women.”

I found it difficult to understand. Why should women be treated differently? Why were they always given a softer landing? Why would she, Ada, get so furious whenever I talked about Chisolum, making me apologize for weeks yet, there she was just a few minutes ago, in her pristine white gown and flowing black Indian hair, talking about Ikenna’s great qualities for minutes on end, and I wasn’t supposed to get furious?

I got lost in my thought; I always did whenever something serious came up on my mind. And, I kept thinking until she started to get worried, asking whether I was thinking about my failures and life difficulties again. And I give it to Ada. She’s  very caring and sensitive to my feelings and mood swings which often went from  sky high ecstacy  to crippling depression. She looked at me with something that looked like tenderness in her eyes, as she sat there on the couch, strapping on her bra, probing my mind for answers.

But I couldn’t answer, couldn’t  tell her what I was thinking because, I had to be a man; men aren’t supposed to let women know about their fears and jealous feelings. So I simply told her “I’m fine, don’t worry,” planting a kiss on her navel, as she in turn started  running her tongue on my nipples. It felt good. It always did, and on a normal day, should have taken away my worries.

But, that particular thought wouldn’t go away. The words: ‘women should be able to get away with murder,’ kept ringing in my head, until Papa's words of many years ago, each time he had to rebuke me for exchanging words with my sisters came up fresh on my mind. ‘A man must learn to ignore the women-their privileges and excesses- most of the time, or he'll find himself living a very troubled married life.’

He always held my hand whenever he said those words. He would explain and explain until he’d end with the statement “be a man, try to shield  her from herself.”

And with that I smiled a little. I’d let it go today. I’d try to find answers another time.

It’d soon start raining, a sudden kind of rainfall that came with furious wind and dust in the beginning of the rainy season and we’d get dressed and run back  to my flat in the house officers’ quarters where we ended up doing some more and more romantic things.

And things went on fine. And time went by, as the seasons came after one another and my posting neared completion until, the day I found out that she  was seeing another guy.





***
Thing is that I wasn’t supposed to look at her phone because it wasn’t just my thing to look at my girls’ phones. But, the day before I found out about the other guy, she’d literally forced me to give her my passwords after she saw me hugging Ebere too tightly at the ER. So, it was normal for me to have felt the urge to also look into her phone but, she wouldn’t let me see because “men aren’t supposed to look into girls’ phones.”

I didn’t argue. No need arguing with Ada- opinionated Ada with her high-pitched voice and faultless English acquired during her time in England for her degree. Ada, with her fierce Chimamanda Adichie’s kinda matriarchal ideologies 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂. I couldn’t just argue. I’d never win.

However, I waited for her to sleep before I used her fingers to unlock the phone and the gods hear me, I regretted  my action immediately because, my heart couldn’t just contain the pain inflicted by what I saw in her WhatsApp. Pages and pages of romantic  chats with a guy named Mike. Pages and pages of nudes sent and received.

I got furious, and without thinking, yanked her off the bed, almost  tearing the purple sequined night gown I’d  bought for her just about a month ago for her birthday, demanding an explanation.

“Who’s Mike?” I asked, my heart about to go through the walls of my chest. “When did you accept his proposal without telling me, without even having the courtesy to ask me to return the ring I’ve been trying to put on your finger?”

There was something burning in my head and my chest. Furious flames born out of the unparalleled love I had for Ada. A kinda love that saw me let go of Ebere, the tall beauty who’d taken away my pain following the bitter break up with Ọkuchi. The kinda love that makes one vulnerable to pain and anger.

I tried to tame it but, I couldn’t. You know how difficult it can be when you  try to tame a wild fire? I knew the tears were about to fall because, my voice was about to crack and so I stopped talking, in order to avoid crying. Men aren’t supposed to cry you know? Men who cry are nothing, you know? I wanted to be a strong man.

So, I waited for her to speak instead but, she wouldn't, no matter how hard I tried to get her to. Until after what seemed to be like a year, filled with total silence, only broken by wisps of our onions tinted breath, following the suya we’d eaten the night before, she said that “I should please let her sleep and I’d get my answers in the morning.” She sounded formal, like Dr Mrs Glad, my young and beautiful consultant in cardiology unit, for whom I’d developed a crush on, at first sight.

I looked at her. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to kick her and remind her how I hated the way she kept things too close to her chest, away from me, even when the said things affected  my own life. But, I remembered my father’s words. “It is better to let a woman’s go than to fight another man or anyone else over her because, ana emelụ nwanyị, nwanyị an emelụ onye ka ya mma (when you're loving a woman, she'd be loving someone else).”

So, I’d keep the screaming demons under the leash until morning. But, I couldn’t sleep anymore, even though the cold wind of early rainy season was supposed to make me sleep. All I could hear through the night was her voice, her moans during lovemaking, and the stubborn chirping of the insects lurking at every corner of the quarters.

***

Morning came and I’d demand for an explanation again, this time ready to force it if I had to but, I froze midstream, midair, when she gently put down her already packed bag and dared me to touch her. “Touch me and see if I’ll hesitate to sue your sorry ass for rape and assault.”

Her eyes appeared ominous. Her lips glowed deep red. Just like  her skin that had the color of newly made coffee. She looked crisp in her tight  black jeans which made her more curvy than Beyoncé, in addition to giving her a super thigh gap. Her body fitting red top, propped up her breast, made them rise in unison with every breath she took. She was supposed to look beautiful enough to have made me drop the will to fight and hold her instead. But, those words of hers chilled my blood. “Sue.” “Assault.” How’d she come about them so suddenly? I stepped back a little and watched her.

“You really meant that?” I asked, hoping to get a different answer, and possibly a mischievous smile and the word ‘no.’ But, I got non of those. She only said “your time has come to an end. Thanks for the mind blowing sex and that thing you often did with your tongue. Now, I must go. Mike and I will be wedding in Frankfurt, soon.” She sounded so cold I could feel my skin freezing from the cold. I tried to speak but no words came from my mouth.

The room suddenly felt too hot in spite of the fan. It felt stifling. And  utterly quiet, except for the 'koi koi' sound made by her supper high heels.

“Tell me I’m dreaming?” I asked rather tamely but, she said nothing. She just kept walking until the sound  of another rain drowned the sound made by her heels.

BY Nnaemeka Ugwu.
©All rights reserved.

Thursday, 27 September 2018

Stifled thunder

Stifled thunder.

He warned me sternly before pouring the vomit on me. On my well ironed white shirt which goes back to pediatrics, back in UNTH. The same white shirt which holds my most traumatic memories.

But, I guess it's all my fault. I'd been too stubborn to listen to his warnings, to his slurred words that came out like stifled thunder.

"Don't fucking come close, you bloody civilian, you ungrateful child of easy times," he'd warned. His eyes glistened.

"Don't give me any treatment. Don't hold me back. I've had enough."

He struggled to get up as he spoke. But he couldn't.

Perhaps because, his bones and muscles weren't now, as strong as they'd been when he was in the fronts, at uzuakoli in the 60s. When, in his own words, he'd disarmed a machine gunner with only one bullet in his bolt action rifle.

Since his admission, he'd been muttering words like "Uzuakoli must not fall! Uzuakoli must not fall. Biafra or death."

He'd fleet into consciousness and say some current stuff but ultimately, he spoke mostly about the war and uzuakoli. About corporal nwafor, about Ifeajuna and Onwuatuegwu.

"All the men are gone. All the heroes. Where is our commandant?"

He'd mutter the words and then, he'd cry a little. Tears that flowed like a river. Tears of a youthful soul in a dying body. Tears that'd make even the strongest of men cry.

Then, he'd struggle to get up.

Time and again. Time and again. Time and again.

He tried again and again and again and each time, he couldn't raise even a fist. And then, he gave up fighting.

"finally!" I felt relieved.

Then I went ahead with what I had come to do for him - to intubate him, to make his feeding and drug administration, easy.

'Now, is the time,' for he'd been objecting since he was admitted. He'd been asking to die because he didn't want to see Uzuakoli fall once more, 'into the hands of the enemy.'

"Why did you people allow them to get Nnamdi when we never allowed them to get Ojukwu? Why? You cowards?"

I'd thought they were just mere words of a demented old man until a close relative of his said that the latest relapse of the old man's' 'stroke' had started on the day that Kanu was last seen. That the old man had tried to put himself in front of an Army armoured vehicle but, fell unconscious in the process. That since he woke up, on their way to the hospital, he'd been asking to be let go, to die.




***

So, why didn't I heed his warnings? Why didn't I let him die? Why did I let him pour the faeculent vomit on me?

Perhaps, the drive to save him was overpowering, made me impervious to warnings?

In our profession, most times, we see only the disease and not the man. The disease is the enemy.

Perhaps, it was my undying soft spot for men like him whom when they were children, were forced to become men by a bitter war that took three million of our people with it.

Perhaps, it was guilt. A burden emanating from the fact that we'd totally abandoned men like him who died so we'd live, that made me do it.

***

The sun has gone down now and the birds are returning to their nests and, I have to wash the shirt. Now that the old veteran has gotten his wish.

It'll rain, soon. The clouds are full of flashes of lightning and the thunder rumbles on.

©Nnaemeka Ugwu
21/9/18

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

Rape, heels and love



After I reminded her that she'd just done the very thing she'd warned me severally, never to do-talk about my exes, (because she’d been talking and talking about her ex and all his qualities, placed side by side with mine), she retorted, “before nkọ? Don't you know that you're a guy and so, you should be able to forgive me even if I don’t  forgive you for a similar crime?”

She smiled and placed a finger on my lips, “shush! Girls have earned the right to get away with murder.” Then, She giggled, a little too loudly, considering that we  were not in the isolated recovery room at the moment and the fact that the theater was grave silent; I always insisted on being very careful, even though the teaching hospital was on strike and the population of workers was negligible. But, she giggled some more, anyway. It made her dimples sink deeper in a beautiful way, reminding me of those on Chisolum’s high cheeks.

Her statement was meant to be a joke, or so I thought, and to be sincere, I laughed. A hearty laughter, though stifled, which resulted in her tickling me. And to tickle me properly, she had to hold me, resulting in her breasts pressing on my back, and one thing leading to another, until my lips got together with hers and our tongues started dancing in our now fused mouths. Ravishing kiss. A build up of passion. And our hands moved too, reaching for some secret places on our lustful bodies. Soon, we'd end up on one of the recovery beds-the one hidden away from prying eyes, and got into some more intense passionate stuff.

Our bodies felt cold because the AC was on. Thanks to the generator man who’d decided to put on the big generator. So, our bodies didn’t get drowned in sweat like they did the first time we had such a romantic tangle in that teaching hospital, just a few days after I’d met her half dressed in one of the gynae theaters and she smiled and apologized  profusely for ‘assuming too much,’ for ‘thinking that no one would ever come into the theater at such an odd hour, searching for vicryl 2-0 sutures.’

So, we lay down a little longer, held each other a little longer since we needn’t bother about how to get our bodies dry in order to conceal the bright sweat that usually covered our skin each time we made love, in case someone bumped in on us.

However, instead of laughing and giggling and asking her whether she enjoyed this move and that move and why she always almost convulsed after I did ‘that thing,' as was usually the case when we cuddled after making love, I found myself thinking about what she'd said earlier. “Women should be allowed to get away with certain things because, they're women.”

I found it difficult to understand. Why should women be treated differently? Why were they always given a softer landing? Why would she, Ada, get so furious whenever I talked about Chisolum, making me apologize for weeks yet, there she was just a few minutes ago, in her pristine white gown and flowing black Indian hair, talking about Ikenna’s great qualities for minutes on end, and I wasn’t supposed to get furious?

I got lost in my thought; I always did whenever something serious came up on my mind. And, I kept thinking until she started to get worried, asking whether I was thinking about my failures and life difficulties again. And I give it to Ada. She’s  very caring and sensitive to my feelings and mood swings which often went from  sky high to crippling depression. She looked at me with something that looked like tenderness in her eyes, as she sat there on the couch, strapping on her bra, probing my mind for answers.

But I couldn’t answer, couldn’t  tell her what I was thinking because, I had to be a man; men aren’t supposed to let women know about their fears and jealous feelings. So I simply told her “I’m fine, don’t worry,” planting a kiss on her navel, as she in turn started  running her tongue on my nipples. It felt good. It always did, and on a normal day, should have taken away my worries.

But, that particular thought wouldn’t go away. The words: ‘women should be able to get away with murder,’ kept ringing in my head, until Papa's words of many years ago, each time he had to rebuke me for exchanging words with my sisters came up fresh on my mind. ‘A man must learn to ignore the women-their privileges and excesses- most of the time, or he'll find himself living a very troubled married life.’

He always held my hand whenever he said those words. He would explain and explain until he’d end with the statement “be a man, try to shield  her from herself.”

And with that I smiled a little. I’d let it go today. I’d try to find answers another time.

It’d soon start raining, a sudden kind of rainfall that came with furious wind and dust in the beginning of the rainy season and we’d get dressed and run back  to my flat in the house officers’ quarters where we ended up doing some more and more romantic things.

And things went on fine. And time went by, as the seasons came after one another and my posting neared completion until, the day I found out that she  was seeing another guy.

***
Thing is that I wasn’t supposed to look at her phone because it wasn’t just my thing to look at my girls’ phones. But, the day before I found out about the other guy, she’d literally forced me to give her my passwords after she saw me hugging Ebere too tightly at the ER. So, it was normal for me to have felt the urge to also look into her phone but, she wouldn’t let me see because “men aren’t supposed to look into girls’ phones.”

I didn’t argue. No need arguing with Ada- opinionated Ada with her high-pitched voice and faultless English acquired during her time in England for her degree. Ada, with her fierce Chimamanda Adichie’s kinda matriarchal ideologies 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂. I couldn’t just argue. I’d never win.

However, I waited for her to sleep before I used her fingers to unlock the phone and the gods hear me, I regretted  my action immediately because, my heart couldn’t just contain the pain inflicted by what I saw in her WhatsApp. Pages and pages of romantic  chats with a guy named Mike. Pages and pages of nudes sent and received.

I got furious, and without thinking, yanked her off the bed, almost  tearing the purple sequined night gown I’d  bought for her just about a month ago for her birthday, demanding an explanation.

“Who’s Mike?” I asked, my heart about to go through the walls of my chest. “When did you accept his proposal without telling me, without even having the courtesy to ask me to return the ring I’ve been trying to put on your finger?”

There was something burning in my head and my chest. Furious flames born out of the unparalleled love I had for Ada. A kinda love that saw me let go of Ebere, the tall beauty who’d taken away my pain following the bitter break up with Ọkuchi. The kinda love that makes one vulnerable to pain and anger.

I tried to tame it but, I couldn’t. You know how difficult it can be when you  try to tame a wild fire? I knew the tears were about to fall because, my voice was about to crack and so I stopped talking, in order to avoid crying. Men aren’t supposed to cry you know? Men who cry are nothing, you know? I wanted to be a strong man.

So, I waited for her to speak instead but, she wouldn't, no matter how hard I tried to get her to. Until after what seemed to be like a year, filled with total silence, only broken by wisps of our onions tinted breath, following the suya we’d eaten the night before, she said that “I should please let her sleep and I’d get my answers in the morning.” She sounded formal, like Dr Mrs Glad, my young and beautiful consultant in cardiology unit, for whom I’d developed a crush on, at first sight.

I looked at her. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to kick her and remind her how I hated the way she kept things too close to her chest, away from me, even when the said things affected  my own life. But, I remembered my father’s words. “It is better to let a woman’s go than to fight another man or anyone else over her because, ana emelụ nwanyị, nwanyị an emelụ onye ka ya mma (when you're loving a woman, she'd be loving someone else).”

So, I’d keep the screaming demons under the leash until morning. But, I couldn’t sleep anymore, even though the cold wind of early rainy season was supposed to make me sleep. All I could hear through the night was her voice, her moans during lovemaking, and the stubborn chirping of the insects lurking at every corner of the quarters.

***

Morning came and I’d demand for an explanation again, this time ready to force it if I had to but, I froze midstream, midair, when she gently put down her already packed bag and dared me to touch her. “Touch me and see if I’ll hesitate to sue your sorry ass for rape and assault.”

Her eyes appeared ominous. Her lips glowed deep red. Just like  her skin that had the color of newly made coffee. She looked crisp in her tight  black jeans which made her more curvy than Beyoncé, in addition to giving her a super thigh gap. Her body fitting red top, propped up her breast, made them rise in unison with every breath she took. She was supposed to look beautiful enough to have made me drop the will to fight and hold her instead. But, those words of hers chilled my blood. “Sue.” “Assault.” How’d she come about them so suddenly? I stepped back a little and watched her.

“You really meant that?” I asked, hoping to get a different answer, and possibly a mischievous smile and the word ‘no.’ But, I got non of those. She only said “your time has come to an end. Thanks for the mind blowing sex and that thing you often did with your tongue. Now, I must go. Mike and I will be wedding in Frankfurt, soon.” She sounded so cold I could feel my skin freezing from the cold. I tried to speak but no words came from my mouth.

The room suddenly felt too hot in spite of the fan. It felt stifling. And  utterly quiet, except for the 'koi koi' sound made by her supper high heels.

“Tell me I’m dreaming?” I asked rather tamely but, she said nothing. She just kept walking until the sound  of another rain drowned the sound made by her heels.

BY Nnaemeka Ugwu.
©All rights reserved.

Wednesday, 25 July 2018

Allz well. (For Blessing, my trusted personal assistant.)

                                                                 


Oninye is that girl who is very obedient and who's always willing to work and help and learn. I've never seen her angry.

She'd smile to her special need patients all the time and tell them "allz well."  And they believed her. Because she makes one believe. She likes the movie 'three idiots,' and the character 'Rancho.'

She's always looking happy even in the midst of adversity. Lives life like it's a walk in the park.

So, one day, a few days after I'd lost the most precious thing in my life, she came smiling at me.

"How have you been?"

She sounds like our last born, at times. And that's why I didn't snap and reply sharply, "I'm fine. Thank you."

Like I'd been doing of recent out of some irritated anger and fear that when people ask "how are you doing?" they do so at times, just to know if you're suffering so they could laugh and talk about your suffering.

But, Onyii is different. Her easy laughter makes it clear that her intentions are genuine.

So I replied, "I'm fine, dear, I'm coping."

I too, tried to smile, for something in me felt soft, each time I saw her.

I wanted to stop talking and get back into my shell but, her warmth made me say more. Beyond the limit I was ready to breech. There's this thing about good people that makes us drop guard when we're with them.

So, I continued talking, telling her how much I loved the thing, how the loss felt like my heart had been violently ripped off my chest, how it's difficult to see the last pale light in the west, at the moment.

She listened. Like she's known to do. All the while, having that smile plastered on her innocent young face.

Then she came and held my hands and said.

"You should be glad that you're able to love something so much you felt the pain. Some people are not blessed that much. You're a are breed. A breed of people who can truly love."

She looked at the me and said again.

"Don't stop loving because pure unadulterated love, never returns to you..... void."

***

As she left me in order to attend to her clients, I was left astounded at the utter brilliance and charm of this little girl whom I've practically watched grow from a carefree girl into a woman. Only in a space of three years. I knew I'd miss her so much.

I wished she were older. And I wished I could love something again. But, a certain darkness had grown around my heart.

                                                             

©Nnaemeka Ugwu.               

Monday, 23 July 2018

The queen. (for Kossy) written on August 2017.

                                         
                 

Monday, 16 July 2018



Mother's not feeling very fine. Little sister calls to inform me. “But, it’s not serious,” she assures. “I just wanted to tell you so, you can tell me the drugs to buy for her."

I have very little change in my mobile account but, I tell little sister to send her 'easy to withdraw account number' so I'll send that little to her, no matter how small, so she'll buy apples and oranges for mother, at least until I can send something more. I also, in the same breath, ask her to give mother the phone so I'll listen to her complaints.

Little sister informs mum and gives her the phone.

But, mother sounds healthy and laughing. To  my surprise.

"I mee aga, how are you?" she asks, instead. "I hope you're feeding well?"

Those words, I’ve heard them everyday since I left home for the first time, for school. And, I’ve learned to swoosh them away by instantly replying “Don’t wooorrrry mama!”

Sometimes, it makes her laugh. Sometimes, it makes her complain. “You’re always saying ‘don’t worry!’ ‘Don’t worry!’" she complains.

"I am OK, mama," I answer offhand. "How's your health?"

I want to shift the discussion towards her health immediately, before she'll make me forget about her and worry about me, as she usually does. Mother knows how to give up her own desires just to fulfill mine.

So, I try to find out about her symptoms. But, she's being aversive until little sister rebukes her.

"Won't you tell him about your symptoms?" she rebukes.

But, mother snaps back. "Please, don't let him starts worrying about me. The boy has a lot of problems in his head already. Let my son be. I’ll be fine."

So, she tries to allay my fears. "Nnam, don't worry about me. I've gotten some medication. Lonart and paracetamol. It’s  just malaria. And the fever is gradually going away."

Then she goes off, asking:
"Hope you have paid your school fees?
Hope you're studying your books? Hope you're taking care of yourself?"
“Hope you’ve  seen the girl?”
“Hope you’re not  having any problems?”

And on and on and on.

Until I stop her. Until I begin to wet my book with tears. Until I begin to feel guilty because I've never done anything for her,  to deserve that kind of love, the same love she’s  shown me since I was born. Until little sister takes the phone away to tell me that she’s gotten the credit alert.

***

Now, I can’t see the letters in my book anymore because of the tears which has clouded my view, like the rain cloud has done to the sky above.

Now, even  after clerking her and prescribing drugs on the phone- just some antihistamines to add to the antimalarial she’s started taking, I feel so much guilt and despair and shame because I’ve never really cared for mother half the way she’s cared for me.

Even the cool breeze of nightfall is not changing my mood. Even  the fact the I’ve just understood the topic I’ve been reading, is not making me happy. There’s only shame and guilt and tears.

“Mother, I am sorry, I’ve never made you proud. I am sorry.” My soul bleeds.

"You're my blessing, son," I hear hers say in reply.

And I’m mortified.

I’ll try to work harder so, I’ll be able to give her the best, the things she deserves.


©Nnaemeka Ugwu

Stories on a Zebra crossing

                                                     
                                                       



The market, Eke market, is scanty today. I wonder why it is so because, it's been a long time since the sun set out on its daily journey towards the eastern end of the big river.

It surprises me because the people here are not known to be lazy. They are not the type of people that let the sun rise before they do. And I am annoyed, in addition to being surprised because, I’ve already decided  to cook ofe akwụ today, only to discover now, that whereas there's akwụ and ụgụ in the market, there's  no one selling the other ingredients: okpeye, mangala, arigbe, kpomo, etc, used to make ofe akwụ.

The sheds are deserted and the stalls are locked up. It reminds me of the day they reportedly, shot people around here.

The market was deserted for days. One could only see the rows and rows of broken tables and thatch made of nylon  bags but, no wares to buy. Those days were difficult.

I ask a woman beside me, who’s hurriedly parking her wares of wraps of pounded akpụ, what is going on, why there's no one in the market and she answers “they all ran off, not long ago, all of them, to their children's schools to go get them. They say some killer northerners are forcibly injecting the children with poison.” She talks excitedly, high spiritedly and, somewhat happy. It confuses me.

And so, I ask her why she's so excited with the situation, with all the uncertainty and confusion (not more than a minute ago, I’ve seen at least three mothers I know, running, frantic, looking for their children,) and she says that it's because God has exposed the evil doers.

“They want to kill our children or give them disease that’ll kill all of us but, God pass them,” she says, raising her hands up to the heavens, in apparent gratitude. “Thanks to God, my own children are on their way home. Let me go and cook lunch for them,” she hastens up.

I stare at her, at the simplicity of her clothing, at the shinny sheen of the cheap sequin design on her wrapper and blouse and how little her wares are. A few wraps of cooked akpụ in a transparent plastic bucket.

I wonder whether she is a little bit more complicated in her head. I figure it'll do her a lot of Good, help her understand things better before running.

Yet, I don’t blame her, she’s only but, a reflection of the society in which is one of the many downtrodden,  grappling with things in the dark,  forgotten by the government.

The sun is blazing high with fury now, as if it’ll rain shortly. The weather is not good for me, considering the hunger gnawing  on my stomach lining and the banging in my head, following a sleepless night at work; I had it hot last night with late night emergencies.

I feel so hungry and so, I cross over to the other side of the road to look for akara and bread or something but, I find none. Apparently, the woman who usually sells akara has some little children too, to look after.

My  knees ache and so, I sit on the little stool in my customers shade which is also deserted. My Benue woman customer is a very scared woman with a lot of scars from what’s  seen in her home town in Benue state. She always tells me stories about the horror she experienced in the hands of armed cattle herders.

I try to read some short stories but, the light from the phone hurts my eyes so, I settle to looking at the dirty things surrounding me, like this basket of akwụ. Like the stagnant drainage channels. Like the tangle  of nylon waste bags on the narrow tarmac.

I am also, trying to make out why the confusion? Is it that there’s an immunization drive and the people were not informed? Could there actually be a terrorist attack?

I know the latter is highly unlikely. But, like they say, one must always try to consider all possibilities. Is there anything that’s not possible in this country? Just tell me. Is There? I am distracted by raised voices.

There’s a group of women directly in my view,  across the narrow path, just in front of the shop that sells things  for native medicine. They’re chattering about the same thing. Rumors spread like wild fire down here. And some of them talk with raised voices.

Yet, there’s is a  relaxed mood in  their midst. Apparently, they have all packed their wares long ago and most of them have brought their kids home. It shows the glee in their faces as they chatter away, gesticulating, snapping their fingers, heaving their shoulders up and down, waiting for their friend’s  children to return home before they resume the days affairs in the market.

One  of  them says that her husband has just driven off to go pick up their son. “By God’s  grace, they’ll  be back soon.” She’s the slim dark one with an accent that suggests she’s from Ebonyi state.

The fair one, whose skin is the color of ripe  mango, says the same. And the fat rotund one with a big ass and massive  flabby breasts  gets furious and says, raising her voice, beating her breasts, “to God who made me, if the northerners ever touch my child, I’ll personally lead the war against them. Idiots and blood suckers. They want our land but, they’ll  never have it. They think they can kill our children? But, they’re  going to fail!”

She feels satisfied and tensed up at the same time. Satisfied, I guess, from the support she has around her, as most of the women cheer for her.


“Iron lady!” “Nwanyị Obosi!” “Action woman!” They hail her. Tensed  up I guess, from the fact that she’s tying and retying her wrapper as if preparing for an actual fight.


But, there’s one among them who doesn’t seem to agree that there’s an attack on the children. She’s slim and wears a heavy makeup. But, it doesn’t mask the apparent burns on her skin. Possibly from Bleaching.

I recon she’s just a frustrated customer like me who’s finding the situation difficult. I become certain when she starts speaking because, her English is impeccable, though with an accent that gives her away as a Yoruba. She doesn’t speak the common tongue, the one that's spoken at Eke.

“It is not a terrorist attack,” she begins, to the utter chagrin of the market women. “It’s just an immunization drive. It must have been announced but, since people no longer listen to their radios I guess only a few heard about it. Thus, the pandemonium.”

She speaks with certainty. She’s helped by her towering height and polished words and I guess that’s why they’re giving her a lot of time to explain herself. Normally, the women here don’t  like a counter opinion when they’ve  agreed on something about ‘the enemy.’

But, something tells me that the they aren’t going to let her speak for long. I remember the last time a man tried to diffuse such a rumor at the paper stand at the junction. That one was about the operation Python dance or something. The guy got a beating. So much beating that he was shut up, immediately.

And just now, someone is countering the polished  lady. It is the rotund one and she shouting “shut up! You’re  just like them, you think you can cover evil with big grammar? Mechie gị ọnụ there!”

There’s another round of cheer from her cheer leaders.

“Oké nwanyị Obosi!” “Agbala nwanyị!” They raise their voices and fists.

“Tell her, iron Lady. Tell the educated idiot!” The fair one put In.

And the polished lady replies her with some fast English. “For your information, I am a nurse and I know what immunization is….” But, she doesn’t  finish her words.

The  rotund one doesn’t  let her finish. She springs up like a leopard and grabs the other woman by the collars of her pink colored, well ironed shirt.

“Osi na bụ nọsụ?” the short black one laughs. The others join her.

And soon, the slim polished one is feeling uncomfortable. I notice because she’s picking  up her bags and looking for a way out of the circle of angry women, forming around her, and from the firm grip of the fat woman.

I notice too, that I’m beginning to feel sorry for her, and so I stand up to go help her. I know that the women-some of  them, know me and will listen to me. They always listen to doc.

But, there’s  suddenly a smile on the fat woman’s face as I cautiously approach the circle of women. The smile widens to a wide grin, loosening the tension that’s been on her face and the power  in her hands and so she let go of the  polished woman, breaks the circle of women, and  runs towards a little girl who’s also running towards her.

The other women are watching. Just like the other spectators like me. It’s a beautiful thing to see-mother running to embrace child, in spite of the fear or should I say relief on the little girl’s face which is  unmistakably that of a little child who’s just seen what she shouldn’t be seeing at her age.

The little child and the woman both embrace. The girls piercingly touching cry “mummy mụooooo!,” meeting the woman’s joyous purr “my beautiful child!”

The woman lifts the child up and before I could blink they both stop in front of me. “Please examine her doc,” the woman pleads.

A lot of people know me around here even though I find it difficult to place their faces.

“Please doc,” she sounds desperate. “I don’t know what those pythons want with our children?”

I notice that I’m about to cry because the little girl has a combination of painful emotions on her face, a combination of fear and relief and more fear; I can even see the dried tears on her cheeks. And so, I check her up quickly and assures the woman that her child was not touched by anyone, that she’s safe.

I tug at the child’s cheeks as I make for my Volkswagen.


***

On my way home now, and I’m still tired and hungry. I am trying to listen to Sia and come to terms with the fact that instead of the brilliant ofe akwụ I had in mind last night, that I am going to be cooking some bland tin tomato stew, shortly but, all I can see in my mind is the look on that little girl’s face as she ‘ran for her life.’

I  realize how it reflects the broken nature of our country, the sad situation in which we find ourselves. Disunited and dispirited. To the point that people do not trust the military anymore, an arm of the government, meant for protecting the people.

I realize that I’d have run too, had I seen soldiers who were reportedly shooting people some time ago, coming to probably, forcefully, give me some injections, in the midst of a strong rumor that they’re trying to kill me and my people.

There’s a zebra crossing in ahead of me. It was put there for school children from the missionary school. A lot of children, apparently, running home are trying to use it.

I am usually impatient but, now, I stop to let the children pass.  No impatient blaring of my horn. I feel sorry for the kids.

I’m really hurt that they’re growing up in such a hostile country as ours.






©Nnaemeka Ugwu

Sunday, 15 July 2018

Ifeoma, Chisom and Egusi soup



Ifeoma

That's how I was seating in the 608 bus, feeling the cool breeze of the day, (because the clouds were darkened and heavy with rain water), along Awka road, dreaming about the most beautiful pair of eyes in the world- Idoko Chinenye Elsie Ifeoma 's eyes and the beautiful egusi soup I was planning to make, which made me think of Chisom Idoko, when trouble 'come nearly, fall on me.'

And it’s not a small trouble o. It was that kind of trouble involving a huge woman seating directly opposite me, exploding suddenly, on me for no reason. And If I tell you that her voice sounded like thunder, you will say I am lying. But, I’m not lying. She even threatened to beat me up for no reason at all.

“If you do nonsense nah, I wee slap you,” she threatened.

Her eyes blazed like that of a hawk. Her breasts jumped up and down, as if they were going to suffocate me to death. And I hadn’t done anything to deserve such a painful death. Because, before she sprang up, I had been minding my own business in the slow moving bus in the ever present evening traffic, head tilted backwards, a pair of ear piece stuck in my ears, Sia blasting high, my eyes staring at nothing but my mind and the dreams in it.

That's how I spend my time in the traffic when I’m not driving. Who driving epp in this onitsha where if you just make one mistake, or take a wrong turn, the agberos in yellow shirts will just come and jump into your car and ask you to pay twenty thasan naira, just like that?

So, most times I don’t drive but use the buses that even though they are so old one could hear the creaking in their joints, they  still offer  one the chance to sit and think and dream. And to catch every bit of life in this old city of chaos and hustle

I was dreaming about Paris and the Eiffel tower and me walking down the isle with ifeoma and Chisom Idoko. Nwodo Ogenna Ọdịdịka Chimezie was the best man, wearing that his funny blue jacket and bow tie. He was with the camera, clicking away.

“Smile”…chick!
“Hold her hands”…click!
“Lift her up gently”...click!

Beautiful dream. The kind that I love.

Chisom and ifeoma were very happy and were all smiles, each smile bringing out their beautiful dimples and shiny eyes. I was smiling too, my heart melting each time I beheld the beautiful sisters. In my mind, within the dream, I was singing praise to God and Dr Idoko for making those awesome sisters.

My suit was deep ash and my GUCCI  pants a deep black, matching my Armani bow tie. I looked like Edris Alba. My legs were covered by the most beautiful pair of brogues by Clark and I had a bounce in my steps.

We were in front of the big cathedral when Mark Zuckerberg came to congratulate me and hug me. He and Dr Chan said they were honored to have been invited to my wedding, that they were happy to meet my beautiful bride, that she’s the most beautiful pair of eyes in the world.

They gave me an apple I phone. “It’s from Apple Inc.” Mark said. “They deeply regret that they’re not here to celebrate with you,” Dr Chan added.

Another man in the most perfectly cut and sewn suit I’d ever seen came forward and gave  my best man a package.

“It’s a laptop, from Bill Gates,” he said, bowing, smiling.

Ogenna collected the package and thanked the man. The man eyed Chisom as he walked into the reception hall. I could already imagine him falling for her and I felt intense jealousy at that moment. But, shaa I told myself to just calm down because, no body will ever take my chisom away from me, my chisom with the most radiant skin in the world.

Meanwhile Mark and Chan came back and gave me something else. A beautiful little computer. “It’s from our Child,” Mark apologized. “He couldn’t make it because of school,” Chan explained.

I smiled and told them not worry because “we’ll meet them, everyone, soon in New York, anyway, since we’ll be having our honeymoon there."

Chan smiled and said something about New York being a noisy place not fit for a honeymoon but, my bride explained that we’d chosen the place because we were also going to have a meeting with Donald and Melinda Trump on some important issues like the corrupt nonsense that is APC, even though Chimamanda Adichie had warned us not to ever talk to Trump because as she put it, "he said he’d never cook for Melinda." But, I no send Adichie. Who she epp?

***

The  wedding party was about to be started when that thunder of a voice startled me up. Or rather, jolted me up. And suddenly, I was back in Nigeria.😭😭😭😭😭. Onitsha😭😭😭😭😭. Awka road.😭😭😭😭.

And just like that, I was back in an old 608 molue, facing a possible deafening slap from this woman who was so tall her head was touching the roof of the big bus. A woman who’d mistaken my empty stare into the distance and lines and lines of cars in the traffic, for an erotic ogling at her massive flabby breasts, barely covered by her scanty sequined  top that had the garish prettiness of cheap things.

She screamed and screamed.

 “Shameless he goat!”
“Idiot with no comparison!”
“Potential rapist with no ‘meKwantalism’!”
“A nonentity nicompu!”

And on and on and on she went. And not even my jittery  explanation that I wasn’t  staring at her breasts, that I was just sleeping and dreaming with my eyes open, that it wasn’t  even breasts I was dreaming about but, the most beautiful eyes in the world, was enough to calm her down.

She was even about to raise her massive hands when I cried for help. In fact, it was a shriek, a last  ditch effort to save myself from a possible deafening slap. Trust my voice nah, when I am in trouble. It got everyone’s attention immediately and they all came to help me, by restraining her and begging on my behalf.

The gods would soon send the rain and the leaking roof got the big woman so uncomfortable that she forgot me and instead, got preoccupied with keeping her hair from the drops of water from the leaking roof.

***

Anyway, I shaa survived and my bag of ingredients for egusi soup, which the big woman had also threatened to throw away, also survived and now, here we are.

Okeke Chizzy, tell the little angel to come come chop. How's she?




Carlie Chinenye Emecheta, darling, I just want to tell you that I love you. 😍😍😍😍😍


©Nnaemeka Ugwu

Almost like home



Almost like home

Before Solum, there was Neche.  A very beautiful, brilliant and, caring lady who’d always say to me when I complained too much about the strange happenings in my life, ‘make the best from what the world throws at you, Anthony. That’s the only way.’

She was beautiful, in that sort of way that is lovely and soft. In that sort of way that makes a heart feel as if it were swimming in honey. And by God I loved her! I loved her to the extent that my heart jumped each time I saw her. Or heard her call me by my baptismal name ‘Anthony.’  Her voice sounded crisp always,  like that of Daenerys Storm born.

“Anthony, make sure to attend lectures,” she’d often advise. “Always try to be positive about life,” she’d  console each time my depression surfaced. Her words were life to my soul. They’d would go on to help me shed one of my biggest flaws as a student. A deep seated pessimism about my chances in exams.

***

It  all started from the first night that I met her. A humid Nsukka night that  was full of fireflies. And distant faint  cries of the town’s  masquerade, Akatakpa; the  university was like a small town surrounded by the deeply practiced Akatakpa culture.

We were in first year. We were in the same class. The place was St Peter’s Chaplaincy, where I’d gone to join a legion of Mary presidium. The legion of Mary – a pious society in the church, referred to as ‘the army of our lady,’ set up a century ago, to pray and do works of charity and soul winning for the mother of God, was very important to my soul, during those very religious days of my life. I just had to join.

I had been a member since grade three and you know what they say about legionaries? ‘Once a legionary, always a legionary.’ So, joining a presidium was the first thing I wanted to do once I’d parked into my room, room 419 Akpabio hostel.

So, I stood at the door of the large legion hall eager but, uncertain. I couldn’t  pick out a presidium, easily. There were many of them. They all appealed to me at the same time. In the same way.

Groups of solemn looking people, sitting on plastic chairs arranged in circles around alters bearing the statue of our Lady and the voselium, speaking in whispers, greeting each other ‘brothers and sisters’ before speaking; reciting the rosary. ‘Hail Mary full of grace…..’ And the catena, ‘who is she that cometh like the morning, fair as the moon….’

Candle lights cast shadows on the walls, made the faces in each group difficult to decipher, just like the voices which seemed to be sounding alike when they greeted ‘Ave, Maria!.’

The flimsy flames fluttered in the cool breeze that characterized the campus. The pines whispered in the breeze. And I was peering into faces. Not that I was actually looking for any thing in particular, in the faces. But, I looked, anyway, because.. curiosity. Grandfather always said that one sees the soul of men on their faces.

That was how my eyes came in contact with Neche’s and her slight dimples. Eyes that looked so piercing, laid back and calm, like those of a happy child.

Her impulsive, instant smile immediately our eyes met, made me smile and, I  felt my soul and body gradually being dragged towards her. In an instant.

And by the end of the evening, I’d joined ‘mother of God Presidium,’ her presidium and walked home talking Chem 171 and Zoo 151 with an angel.

Neche was an angel. And each wednesday, I’d attend our weekly meetings unable to keep my mind away from her, away from her face that glowed like the full moon. Away from her voice that always spoke wisdom. Words like, “you must be strong enough to survive this world, Anthony.”

She’d become my first experience of love.  The feeling. And when I say love, I mean that type that is pure and innocent. The type that made one content to just sit and watch another sleep, to derive  joy from just knowing that another existed. The kind of love that’s not self-serving. The kind of love that made me happy to sit each day at the back seat in class, just so I could stare at her simple body, intermittently.

However, first and second year would come and go with all the stress and all and, I’d never be able to express that love to Neche. Not even on our first year dinner night when she was dressed in that silver colored gown that made my head spin and my words stutter when I had to go over to her table to ask her to take a picture with me.

The seasons came and departed and my tongue would remain sealed. And not even the euphoria of the new rains that came and departed could get me euphoric enough to speak out my heart. Not even her sweet words, like the ones she spoke to my mother once, when my  mother came visiting, “ Your son looks so much like you…no wonder he is so handsome…” could untie my tongue.

I was naïve and scared. Plus, her grades were far better than mine. Those days, my self worth and happiness were determined by my performance in school. And medical school made me turn average, overnight. My class had the most brilliant people I’d ever met. It was difficult, almost impossible, for me to measure up.

And so, I kept the feelings buried in my heart, waiting for a time when my performance would at least, catch up with hers.

But, third  year came with a lot more average grades and, the realization that I was never going to do better than Neche. Nor even catch up with her. Thus, I was never  going to be able to utter the words. Until that rainy day- that cold day that it rained so heavily that the anatomy room got flooded to the knee level and the students panicked.

***

We had just finished harvesting the heart of the cadaver, a now blackened body of a dead man. The wrist band read ‘died in 1985.’ And the bullet holes in his chest, one of which also went through his heart, made me think of the movie ‘saving private Ryan.’ I  imagined the bullets flying into his chest and blood splattering all over the place and then his body falling like a heap of sand.

Still, I wondered how many people the owner of the body must have killed before he met the firing squad.

They say that life is just a big circle and that whatever goes around, comes around. Looking at the heart being dissected nonchalantly by medical students in white coats made me think about that big circle of life.

Perhaps, that’s  why ripping out the heart had been difficult for me; that day, was my turn to dissect. And it’d gone pretty well until I got to the point of cutting out the heart when  my fingers trembled. They say that death is not always the end. So, why would I cut out the heart of that body?

Morality. Good. Bad. Wrong. Right.

The battle raged in my heart and when Neche saw my trembling finger, she smiled, before reaching out  for the scalpel. She dissected with an artist:s precision.

“It was to protect you,” she’d explain to me, days later. “It’s not good for them to know that you couldn’t even rip out the heart of a dead man.”

***

We were almost  done with dissection for the day when the rain came with a heavy, sudden bang! Heavy  angry droplets of water falling on the roof of the low dissection hall. The sound of rain falling on the asbestos, drowned our voices. The light went off. And we could barely make out our individual faces.

Nevertheless, the rain brought me joy, because I loved rainfall. It  was the first rain of the year and the smell of freshly watered anthills and leaves, filled the room, overcoming the strong smell of formalin used in the preservation of the dead bodies, the same strong smell of formalin that made our eyes water and our nostrils drip of mucous.

The rain fell as hard as the  thunder  that roared in the distant. It fell until we started feeling the creeping flood in our shoes.

But, we thought it’d stop raining soon. Storms don’t happen in the coal city. So, we stayed back, waiting. Waiting for the rain to stop.

But, instead of the rain stopping as we hoped for, the  flood got bigger and bigger, till we could take it no more. The panic spread rapidly and the students decided to swim in the rain rather than swim  with the broken parts of dead men. For the dead bodies were mostly torn apart now. We all made for the door, almost at the same time.

The  door was narrow and so, many fell. Into the muddy flood. I wouldn’t have looked back to see those who fell but, I heard a voice that sounded crisp and sing-song. It called out ‘Anthony!....Help me!’ My Neche was about falling into the water.

I didn’t know when I dived  into the water, my white coat and all, laying my  body  as a soft landing for her. My  knees were strong and so, was able to help me stand again, after the dive. When I got up, I had Neche, resting safely in my arms. And that- the fact that I was able to help her, made me feel so good. The memory will never be erased from my heart.

We both were stained and the muddy water kept falling from our white coats as we scampered away. The chaos was everywhere, still. But, I managed to get us to the safety of the gate. At which point I had to keep her on her feet as we took shelter under the roof of the gate house, waiting for the rain to stop.

And then, I don’t know how it happened but, I said it. I found myself speaking the words. “I love you Neche,” I said, wrapping her face in my hands. I still  don’t know what came over me. I said those words and I was shocked by my own voice. How did I manage to say those words?

She stared at me. Her eyes fixed, unblinking.

I trembled, unsure of what to say next or what to do. But, one thing I was certain of was that I didn’t want to see her frown. That’d kill me. Perhaps, that’s why when I saw the wrinkles appearing from  the corners of her eyes, I  got scared and apologized.

“I’m sorry, I said that, I’m really sorry…..I…” but, she raised a finger to my lips and started laughing. A hearty laughter that came from her belly and bared her snow white teeth .

She smiled too. A deep feminine smile. Then, she hugged me. A tight clasping or should I say wrapping of her arms  around me. It created a feeling I’d never be able to explain. It felt as though, my mouth was full of melting sugar.

“let’s go to the hostel,” she smiled into my eyes. “I’ll tell you something.” She lead the way and I followed. I was never ashamed to follow her lead.

***

Then, we walked back to the hostel. I was Silent. The rain had stopped suddenly but, the lightning still flashed menacingly above the trees. The smell of the new rains filled my lungs with a deep longing that I knew had Neche’s face all over it.

She held my hand as we walked and suddenly, I regretted apologizing for the words I’d said earlier. Her soft hands felt so comfortable, almost like home.


©Nnaemeka Ugwu.

Drenched in rain



Drenched in the rain.

She ran to me for solace many times, each time her husband beat her for, according to her, having only girls. She'd come crying, and the last time, drenched in rain. Apparently she'd been beaten and sent away in the downpour. Like many times before.

I always tried my best for her. Taking her in to stay at the health center. Letting her know that it's never her fault, that the difficulties she was facing weren’t going to last forever.

She was pregnant all the while shaa. But, it didn't stop her husband from beating her mercilessly. The most recent time, the reason was that she failed to wash his clothes.

She said that he’d shouted “being pregnant with girls all the time shouldn’t stop you from washing my clothes” before kicking her in the belly.

This is Ebonyi, rural Ebonyi, and the teachings of gender equality do not really trickle down to the masses. So they act in ignorance. Still think that having a male child completes a woman. And so, some go maltreating their wives for not having  male children. Women like the one in this story.

But, she’s a strong woman. She resolved to survive. Against all odds.

Soon she’d go into labour.

It was the dark skinned nurse who called.

"Doctor, our friend is in labour. Her water has broken and she's having contractions. Strong regular contractions. More than three in 10 minutes."

The nurse sounded excited. She loved catching babies. Always said that it's the most beautiful aspect of the practice.

But, I was free on the day and so I replied. "Set a line.  Pass a catheter. Get everything ready. I'll be coming soon."

The wait was not to difficult. I sat in the car in between checking up on the woman. Cervix. Fetal heart sound. Rate of dilatation. Etc. And teaching the new students nurses.

The cloud was blue. The birds sang. Light breeze whizzed through the palm trees that lined the compound from time to time. The woman cried intermittently.

"God, help me! Virgin Maria nyere m aka! Chukwu Mbaka! Mere onwe gị eha!"

I consoled all the while. A resounding amen here. A rub on her shoulders there.
"Nne jisie ike. Ọ ga adị mma. Be strong."

I made sure to sound as polite as possible.

I'd developed a connection with her all the while she'd been running to me for solace. And now, that connection was being made manifest. I know it because, I never teased her for once. And her cries felt like they were mine.

Soon, first stage of the labour would be over. A little more decent beyond the brim. I used the opportunity to show the student nurses.

"Here, check her cervix. Can you feel the perimeter? You can see it no longer palpable. It's now "rolled up" like the end of a condom. It means that the baby is getting into the birth canal proper. Now, she'll have to try and push with each contraction........ watch  to see that the anterior lip is not too thick or you’d have a possible cervical tear. Etc"

The young girls listened with attention. They loved the experience. They, too tried to console the woman.

They too joined in the chorus. "Push! Push! Push! A little harder! One more time! Breathe! Wait. Push!"

Till the baby yelped. A very pink baby with lips the colour of strawberries.

Soon, the nursed would clean him up and wrap him in a piece of old wrapper. The man had refused to buy the necessary things.

***

The rain had started falling by the time the husband of the woman came running. Drenched in such a way that reminded me of his wife the night he'd locked her out.

His eyes were wide, full of questions whose answers he probably already knew. Yet, that uncertainty, that fear still remained.

But, I love teasing people. So, I made a sad face once he'd come close to me.

And that changed his, at once. He looked scared. And I loved it. Momentarily. Wanted him to know what it felt like to be afraid, just like he loved making his wife.

But soon, the nice guy in me would prevail and I smiled. Then said to him "it's a boy. A very pink boy. Go on. Go and see him."

I  couldn’t now control the smile, borne out of fact that I’d been able to help. For  I hadn’t asked for deposit and all before using my own money to run the show, till the present moment.

I watched him fly into the room.
I watched him pick up the boy gingerly, placing his fore head on the boy's and muttering, 'Papa m!'
I watched him look at his wife on the couch. The blood, urine and stool already all wiped off.

I watched him lower his gaze upon her. I watched his lips part in apology, as his eyes got misty and he muttered in a tearful voice “thank you, Mama. Thank you, nnem. I am sorry.”

I watched him reach out to hold her hand and say more consoling words.

But, the woman turned away. She asked the nurse to “please, inform the doctor that she’s hungry.”

©Nnaemeka Ugwu.

Saturday, 14 July 2018



Each time I  feel like the sun is going away from my life, I turn to stories and poetry. Stories like the ones in Adichie's "A thing around your neck;" poems like Okigbo's "labyrinth" and Soyinka's "Memoriam." I  also turn to songs and now I'm listening to "mask,"  by Lucky Dube.

I read Adichie for the first time when I was in 4th year. "Purple hibiscus." The book had made a lot of wave and everyone talked about it. But, I was reluctant because, I  didn't believe it'd be as good as classics like "Things fall apart" and, "The joy of motherhood." I only read the best.

But, then, I fell in love with a girl who wasn't even aware of my existence. She was very beautiful and everyone wanted her. Wonder why I decided to fall in love with the most desirable girl in unec? Plus, I was too naive to approach her until, the day I saw her being dropped off at her hostel, in a Toyota 'spider'.

I felt a sharp knife through my heart. I felt so foolish. I had to go away, to the only place I found solace, during the sad days of medical school. I walked straight to the library but, I couldn't study old Nwokike journals because the section of the library that held them was being refurbished and the other sections were too stuffy. I walked out and headed for the canteen, JOPAL, where I called Gold Odenigbo.

You guys remember her? She's an angel, walking on this earth.  I had met her earlier, at a nwokike meeting and she had smiled at me.

I told her my pain and sorrow and she listened so attentively, like she's known to do. She smiled so charmingly, her eyes sparkling like the mid night stars. And she told me to smile too, that I'd find more love than I ever needed. She didn't even mind that my story was useless and a waste of her time.

"Find more love, than I'd ever need?" the clause, sounded so beautiful and I asked her where she'd got it from and she answered "Purple hibiscus." I knew then, that the book would be worth it. I had to buy it, though a pirated copy from Kenyatta market; the real thing was scarce, then.

Flip, flip, flip. I read voraciously,went through the plot, setting and characters, savouring everything, every bit of the lives of Kambili, my love, Uncle Eugene, the one that I pitied and, father Amadi,  the charming one.

I read the pages over and over, kissing the sweetest paragraphs. I'm sure the people who sat close to me, must have thought me mad. But, I didn't care. My undying love for Adichie had started. It'd explode and from then, I'd read more literature, than medical texts. I wanted to become Adichie.

That was how I got to read each of her other books and every single short story she has ever written. "American embassy,"  "A private experience," "Since Monday of last week," "Birdsong,"  "My mother the strong head historian," "Ghost," etc. I'll never forget them. I still read them.

I read stories that make me feel the world at its purest form. I read from granta, I'll never forget "come Japanese."  I read from any site that hold good stories. New yorker introduced me to Junot Diaz and Julian Barns. I have "Talking it over," one of Barns' novels and a short story of his  "Sleeping with John Updike." I remember, have them all. They are now part of my life, my companion, my shoulders to cry on. There are others, too. Chika unigwe, Jude Dibia, Uwem Akpan. I'll talk about them, some day.

I cry on the shoulders of literature because, unlike humans, literature will never hurt me, or say hurtful things like " Why are you always listening to sad songs?"  Or "Why are you always writing sad stories?"

So,  after waking up today and hearing for the 1000th time that Nigeria is in crises and all other bad news, I've been focusing on literature, thanks to low patient turn out today. Could it be that the economic crisis is keeping sick people at home perhaps, because death is cheaper than medical treatment, in Nigeria?

I've just finished reading "Nightfall in Soweto," and it has got me inspired to write a story about the worst experience of my life, a time when, I earned the unenviable tag of "............"

Tears, fall as I write. I hope to finish the story . I have to say how I feel about the world, how no one seems to ever understand me.

Through the song "mast," Lucky Dube,  is saying to me... "the world is a stage, we all have our stories and our masks on. Go on,  tell me, what is your story..... Go on, don't be shy, what is your story.......?"

"Behind the mask of the clown, lies the trail of tears........" Song on repeat.


©Nnaemeka Ugwu

Long case.

Long case ( for all the guys who's ever been pedoed. Lolz!)

I never liked white shirts. But, while in college of Medicine, it was forced on me. The school authority was so obsessed with making us pliant, subservient, loyal, for our own good because, one could not have gone through the process, without being pliant. So, there were many rules, just like we have in boarding schools. And I hated those rules.

The uniform was white shirt and any tie colour, for the boys, even under the scorching sun and, white gowns, a specific style that was buttoned down in front, for the ladies. Plus lab coats for every practical or clinical secession, to protect us from contamination. The rules were enforced all the time. And at times, to the point of turning students back from school or the teaching hospital, for breaking the rules.

Still, I rebelled. As soon as I passed 3rd MB, I stopped wearing white shirts. It was colorful shirts and matching tie 'ti take over,' that is, I chose to wear only the colours of shirts and matching ties as it pleased me.

Waking up, after nights of sadness and insomnia, as my college days were and, spicing up the days by wearing some colourful shirts with matching tie, was, sure as hell, better than putting on dull,  faded white  shirts.

And I only put on lab coats on extreme cases. I needed colour in my life to fight the boredom of medical school. And I was successful; many girls called me handsome and I loved it until, that sunny morning of pediatrics long case. Lolz!

It had been preceded by a frustratingly long period of one preliminary exam after  another. One course yet, it took almost four weeks of multiple choice test, another multiple choice test.  Then,  another one,  followed  by theory and then, another multiple choice test, to arrive at the main thing- the long case. The almighty long case which had the power to make or mar.

There, one could be veto-failed, or passed. One’s life lay in the hands of the examiners and, even the gods had no power to save one. And it was my third attempt. And it had cost me an academic year.

It  was the first time I was experiencing such a set back and life and college didn’t give a shit about how angry I felt. They were ready to fuck me up again, if I failed again. The only way was to prove myself worthy of 50% of the marks.

And so, even though I had done relatively well, in the preliminary exams and was poised for the long case, I  made sure to attend all the tutorials, even as I hated being in the same class with students who were once my juniors, absorbing all the shame and indignity, all the self loathing and pity that came with it.

But, that was the beginning of such feelings. The more, 'archival' guys had laughed at me. “You wey still get new reg number dey complain, what about those whose reg numbers na 199 something?” they asked me often. Yet, I had to damn all the shame and do my best or worse could happen.

I even had to, shamelessly, 'front' myself to the consultants, to see me, to recognize me, to know me so that if push came to shove, someone would take pity, even as I knew that in college, 'I. M,'  ie, ima mmadu, ie, cronyism, meant nothing to the examiners.

Still, I tried the very shameful, running after lecturers, after classes, to ask questions, to ‘form’ serious student. Smh.

I tried to do my part. I left the rest to the gods.


***

The D-day came and I woke up very early, having not slept a wink because, I couldn’t stop dreaming of the possible evil scenario of failing again.

I had spent the night thinking about going for a deliverance or exorcism because I had started fearing that someone in the village had a hand in my ordeal. The night had  been full of horror and I had woken up with a headache.

Simple pediatrics that children, little boys and  girls, passed without stress. Imagine how much self pity I had in my head?



I took my bath, using cold water, even with the rain and cold; I always tried to punish my body for betraying me and, put on my best shirt and tie combination and then, my black pull over and went off to the teaching hospital, carrying that big back pack my little sister, Chioma, had given to me the last time I visited home.

Of course, I couldn’t eat anything. My stomach was too ashamed to eat, like it was every time, those days. I said my rosary, as I walked through the bush path, to the hospital.

Once there, I brought out my ‘rule of thumb’ and started reading, revising, in between closing in on the people who had gone in before me to ask: “How was it?” “Who did you meet?” “Is Obidike, there?” “What about prof Ibe?” And that day, I found no favorable answers to those questions because those powerful teachers where there, in the wards, waiting for me, to  make sure I was not too  dangerous to be released on the masses, prompting me to keep asking the gods, why me? Why was it that in each of the previous attempts, I always found a way to meet those powerful and detailed teachers, teachers who left no stones, unturned, in the quest to raise safe doctors?. But, I had to keep fighting, in my mind.

I  needed to win the psychological battle because the faces of those who had gone in earlier, weren’t favorable at all. When they were done, most of them had come out wearing sad faces.

The men, heaved their shoulders up and down, sighing, muttering,  “O ka m si jee? But, why? Why did I fuck up this clinical? Is this how my journey ends?”

The ladies simply came out crying. One even refused to proceed to the last exam which was viva. She told the tale of how the consultant had told her to come back in six months time, crying,  running to her Lodge, in the village which hosted the teaching hospital. Still, I fought the battle to be strong.

The time for recess came and I stood up to stretch my legs while waiting for the consultants to have some snacks. As I walked towards the paper stand, my eyes met that of prof. He beckoned me to come.

Jesus! What did I do again? Couldn’t he have waited for my turn, before failing me?

The questions came heavy, even though I  knew that they never failed anyone, willfully, that the student who failed,  failed because he or she was not good enough.

I walked, my knees, knocking together. I greeted him. “Goooood, after… aft….. . after nnnnoon sir!”

I never knew I was a  stammerer, stuttering, as my eyes were fixed on his glasses- clean glass, shielding his grizzly eyes, topped by fine white brows, exuding brilliance, wisdom and pediatrics.

He did not acknowledge my greeting. He just asked me, “How many attempts?” he looked up from his newspaper.

“Third,” I answered. “Third attempt, sir.”

What is it again? I asked in my mind.

“Make it fourth.” He waved me away.

The gods of my fathers!!! What did he just say? What’s the meaning of that? What just happened? Another failure?

A fourth and  last chance beckoned. My liver, instantly, cut into two. My heart sank into my belly, even though I knew somewhere in my head that he could not possibly have meant it-that I had failed, already.

I pleaded, begged, knelt, cried, all in a matter of minutes, to no avail. He only watched me, with an inscrutable face and when he got tired of my histrionics, he stood up and walked away, his petite stature, in stark contrast to the powerful aura he exuded.

O Kam si jee? I was suddenly sure that what had been happening to me must have come from the village.

I ran after him, feelings like an overfeed fool, the hems of my lab coat, flying about.

He just kept walking, till when he got into the consultants’ room and I tried to follow.

He stopped me using his left hand and looked me over and over. Then pointing at me, he asked Dr Obidike, “Obidike, how long will it take this idiot to buy white shirts?”

I stood there, willing the gods to direct the answers.

Obidike, the legendary pediatrics 'lord commander,'  looked up from his text book, which he had been reading,  getting ready for the next student that would come his way. Lolz!

“Six months or even forever,” he answered.

They burst out laughing. And they laughed for quite a while.

After the while, Obidike said to me,  “I thought you were a  good boy, why are you dressed in a coloured shirt? What kind of foolishness is that?”

It suddenly dawned on me, what foolishness, actually meant- thinking I could rebel against the authority,  any how I liked, up to the point of coming for a clinical exam in the wrong uniform, expecting to be ignored.

I had become so used to wearing coloured shirts, that on that very morning, I had forgotten about the exam, at that brief moment when, under the influence of the antidepressants I had taken at night, I had thought nothing about uniform, when I dressed up in the purple shirt and matching light purple, black patterned tie and black trousers. Wonder why people had cast some strange glances at me while I walked along the verandah of ward 6? But, Everyone had been very busy and tensed up and,  no one had the time to call me to order.

Nna mehn, guy had to do something, urgently.

Ozigbo Ozigbo, mua ebido gabkiriwa ala. I started running upandan. But, I couldn’t decide whether to run home or not to.

I ran here and there. Tried to borrow from those who had finished their own exam but, just looking at their faces, discouraged me because, they still had viva to go through, though it hadn’t started. And time was ticking.

I called my bike man and told him to come pick me, ‘sharp, sharp.’ But, he was not around. I tried to run but, my legs were heavy with trepidation. What’s if I left and they called my number? I felt like a buffoon, now.

But, there was no other option but, to look for another bike. But, bikes were so scarce on that day that many people had to trek to their destinations.

I started running when I found non. I ran like a he goat, like a frightened child, running from an aggressive chicken until, something happened.

I fell on the dirt road, leading into the village I was living in, in order to be closer to the teaching hospital.

I fell and my back pack fell apart, while the red dust, covered me. A group of women, carrying heavy loads on their heads, walking under the scorching sun, stood by and,  pitied me.

But then, I regained my strength, immediately, when I looked at the flayed back pack and, found a white shirt. A well ironed and, packaged ‘F&F’ white shirt. It was so crisp, so white, in the contrasting dust of the dirt road. It was so full of hope.

I felt like crying. In fact,  I felt the tears of relief, tears of joy, roll down my cheeks and mix with the fine grains of red sand. I’d later remember,  after everything, that my darling aunty, Nkem itanyi, had put it in the back pack, when I visited a few days ago and I was yet to unpack it.

I quickly got up from my lowly fall, pulled out the beautiful, purple shirt and used it to wipe the dust, put on the white shirt and then, in a short while, appeared in front of prof, all sweaty and ruffled.

My God! Prof. Again? My  mind flashed back to my first attempt when he had asked me how to administer 50% dextrose and I had stupidly, answered “ I’ll just hang it and let it run fast,” and, of course, failed instantly.

But, I had to force my mind back to the present, in order not to get too jittery because, the past was full of horror, and horror rolls with jitters.

I greeted prof and began my presentation.

My clerking had been a little dramatic, when the mother of the baby I was asked to clerk, refused to give me any attention, looking away in anger, sighing. “Bia, mind yaself,” she had retorted back at me, when I begged her to tell me the things that were wrong with her baby, how and when they started, etc- the things I needed to know about the baby.

She had been asked such questions by many before me, and normally, being human, she was fed up with having to keep answering the same question over and over again.

But, I'd sort out the problem by bribing her with five hundred naira, which would bring instant smile and cooperation, from her. My diagnosis was bronchopneumonia. And now, I was presenting to Prof.

Questions came. Left, right and center. Faster, more rapid, than I could take. And my knees jerked and my tongue fluttered and my liver cut to pieces  and my heart melted,  my extremities, feeling cold.

But, in the end, I got the answers right. I knew because, he hadn’t walked away while I spoke, he had waited for me to finish answering.

I thought it was over when he listened to the baby’s chest and said  “You might just be right, you’re free to go.”

What? I was free to go?

I hesitated awhile before taking my first step. But, he called me back after some time, to come and examine the abdomen of the child.

What has abdominal examination, got to do with bronchopneumonia? I dared not voice the question, though, because when you’re with the deity, you dare not talk.

I returned and stood at the side of the baby that was the right side when I had clerked him, before prof changed the position of the baby and, occupied the correct right side.

I was about to start examining when he pulled out his score sheet,  from his ward coat pocket, and readied his pen, perhaps to finally fail me.

What was he writing again? I thought he had already scored me.

Bang! I felt hot flushes down my spine. And something came over me,  like a demon. I became possessed and,  I was ready to fight if he wrote down anything else on that sheet. Because I knew that whatever he was about to write again was not going to favour me. But, the gods came to my aid and I realized my error.

Quickly, I ran to the other side of the bed, the current, correct, right side and shoved prof, gently. “Sir, this is the right side.  I should stay here. Can you, please,…….”

He began to laugh. Imagine? The legend, the amadioha of pediatrics, began to laugh? And said “You can go now,” putting back the score sheet and the scary pen, into his ward coat.

***

The result was released on a windy evening. I had finished cooking egusi soup but, couldn’t eat it.  Tension.  Real para bein dey hol me.

I was writing something about becoming a monster, if I failed again, about becoming every bad thing a human could be,  like a sexually immoral man and everything a sinner could be; I could no longer stomach the pain of failing after being a good boy from birth,  yet,  the ‘badt’ guys who clubbed and drank and carried women, etc, excelled.

I was writing “why are all the ‘bad’ guys excelling while me, way no dey go club, way no dey carry woman, go dey fail……..?” when my guy,  Ejike, called. He sounded serious. He was the one I had asked to check it and call me.

“Guy, you have to be strong, take a cup of water and calm down. There’s more to life than pediatrics…….,” he consoled.

Instantly, I felt the world crumple on me, I felt the devil laughing at me, ready to welcome me to his fold. I saw my death, at the door. Certainly, that was the end.

I put down the phone and tried to listen to the many voices that tormented me, during those days but, I heard nothing but, the rustle of the wind outside. It was so strong that I could hear the breaking of branches of the many trees that lined the compound. The rain would soon come.

I felt dizzy and was about to fall on my knees when my idiot friend started laughing….. I still can’t remember how I had heard him, since I hadn’t put the phone on loud speaker. I just heard him laughing, saying, “you passed.”

I picked it up and he was still laughing. I could hear the others laughing, too. I had passed pediatrics. Indeed. Like many others, like my fellow archival men. Lolz!


©Nnaemeka Ugwu