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.               

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

                                         
                 

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

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.

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

Arigbe and rice.

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

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

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

His cooking was unconventional yet, always very tasty.

He would boil rice and then, in a weird manner (weird because, it differed from mama's ways which we had grown to see as the standard,) add different ingredients into the boiling rice.

Sliced tomatoes with Nsukka yellow pepper, sliced onions, sliced arigbe with curry, fish, crayfish and the rest. He'd then, let the pot boil for a while, filling the rooms of our flat in ofuluonu, with a beautiful aroma. And then, like magic, he would dish into our plates, the very tasty meal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Nnaemeka Ugwu.

Stories from home

When I was a boy, in university of Nigeria primary school Nsukka, I was always ashamed of many things. Things like the fact that I was always too close to first position but, never been there. Things like the fact that I never had fancy canvas shoes like every other kid in school.

I was ashamed about issues like the fact that I never had fancy snacks like wafer and Nasco biscuits and Ribena, in place of the fried akara and plantain which my mother always gave me – lowly looking balls of fried food that I’d never actually eat, anyway. Things like my father's motorcycle, each time he came to pick me up.

The other kids where taken home in cars. But for me, it was that blue Suzuki motorcycle. I was always sad, each time my father lifted me up, onto it’s tank.


He always had graffiti pasted on it’s warm surface. ‘Clear conscience.’ ‘Work hard’ ‘fear God.’ etc. Things that made me feel more awkward, considering that the cars that came to pick the other kids never had such things written on them.

But, there was something I was never ashamed of. The love in my father's eyes, each time he saw me coming towards him and, the pride in his voice, each time I did well in school though, not well enough to make me feel happy about myself; he was easily happy with my modest performance during those early days.

He would look at my report card and say "You did well, my son. Fifth position is not bad considering that you did better than forty other kids." Then, he would say, in our mother tongue, giving me a high five "Tijie m ekara, nna m."

I wasn't always the best but, he was always proud of me and encouraged me. And everyday, on our way home, while I sat on the tank of that strong motorcycle, feeling  thrilled with the cold Nsukka air, splashing on my face, making my eyes teary, as I tried to make out what lay in the eyes of the sluggish, happy and laid back people that  filled the streets of that cool town, he told me stories of how the great men of Ukehe all made it. "None of them had it easy but, with hard work, they triumphed," he’d enthuse. He always used prof Patrick Ngwu and Dr Nnabueze, as examples. “Hard work always pays, my son.”

Time strolled  by. Days rolling into weeks. Weeks rolling into months. Seasons of rain and harmatan strolling into each other.

Years crept by. Years of untold suffering in the land. Hunger. Pain. Fear. Gloominess. Abacha was in power and he ruled with an iron fist.

Soon I was in ss3. I stilI felt down, each time that bike rode up to the front door of my class, where my father normally Parked it whenever he came to pay my school fees or give me books and the likes. I was no longer ashamed but, the feeling of sadness persisted because, I saw in that aging motorcycle, how my father was suffering to pay my hefty school fees and those of my sisters. And each time, my determination to make him happy, grew a leap.

He had considerable grown older now and, each time I watched his hands shake a little while trying to stand the  bike, I cried some stifled tears. Warm tears caressing the curves and muscles of my heart, threatening to drown them.

After one visit like that, when he brought me an iron chair, after the one I had been using died, some of my classmates, laughed at me, at him.

“Look at Nnaemeka’s father. He’s been riding that bike since we were in primary school,” one jeered. The other said that “Nsukka people had no money.” And another pointed  “that’s  why Nnaemeka is always quiet….People without money are always too quiet.” And on and on they went.

It was sad. And I felt the pain. Then, I felt anger. A sudden anger. Something furious and stoic at the same time. The type of rage that is grating under the skin. The type that uses hate to do something good. The type that nudges one forward.

I quit the football team, the next day, even though I had finally just made the goalkeeper position mine, having beaten off  stiff competition from the impressive Ebuka Ọkafor in order to focused, solely, on my studies.

I wasn't remotely the best in a class that had Ozioma Uzegwu, Godwin Kalu ukah,  Chiamaka asuzu and nkiru Okafor, in it. But, I resolved to put up a fight for my father.  It  was he after all, who had once told me that “most times, the honor lies in the fight and not necessarily in the glory.

I fought and fought. I read and read and, many a nights, he-my father, would force me to sleep. And one night, he even beat me up, when I refused to sleep. “You want to fall sick because of book?,” he barked. “Not in my house. You’ll not go mad because of books in my house!” he switched off the light.

But, I kept on fighting. Studying with everything in me, every strength in my brain.

***

JAMB came out and I was among the top three in my school, (for those that were released, anyway, because JAMB had withheld lots of results that year). And everyone in our street talked about it. One man told my father, while they played draught, "Allied forces(my father's nick name), God has blessed you".  My father smiled and said  what he’d come to say all the time since the  ‘renaissance of my school life’ after that disastrous grade three results, "That's how he is. He has always done well. He is a good boy"

WAEC came out and I was number five or six, even though the principal, Mrs Erojikwe, had called it first, perhaps because, she loved me too much; she called me ‘my son.’ “You’re  a very cool child,” she’d often say.

But that wasn't my joy; I was rather sad that I wasn't the best. Why did I let Ozioma, Godwin, Chiamaka, nkiru, Nnamani Kierian Chinedu, beat me? Lolz! I laugh now because time  has shown that those guys would have been impossible to beat, considering the level they are in the field of academics now.

My joy was my father's reaction when he saw the result.

I had taken it to his office to show him. He wasn't feeling happy before then because, his salary  had been delayed. But, once he saw the result in my hands, his face lit up and, he punched the air. Childlike joy written on his face. "Tijie m eka!" he almost screamed, before giving me a high five and, barging into his oga's office to show him. “See my boys results sir,” he said  happily. “rejoice with me, sir.”

He kept showing everyone and I laughed at him, at his carefree joy. And that day, for now, remains the best day of my life- the last time I was truly, carelessly, joyous.

***

That's the story of my father's bike.
I remembered it because he just called to tell me he wanted to sell that bike  as scrap because that’s  what it is now. Scrap. But I said no. I've told him not to because, I love that bike now and, I'm no longer ashamed of it. And I wish I could ride it now. That bike that took me to and fro school, medical Centre and, church will never be sold.

***

My father is retired now and resting in his Country home. Just like that bike.

The old man is the light of his villagers and the chairman of every committee. He has a lot of passion for the progress of his people. And everyday he calls, he tells me stories from home.

He still tells me to work hard so, I'll become great, like prof and doctor. And funny enough, each time he says that, I get greatly inspired, like during the old days.

He however, complains that I’ve become too distant from him, that I don’t call often and that I’ve become less caring about his feelings.

It hurts me, gets to my soul, that I’ve not been able to show him the kind of love that he deserves. And I wish I could explain to him that life has changed me, that the struggle to survive has made me distant and less caring, that part of the reason I hustle so much, to succeed is  because I want to do something worthwhile for him when I still can, when he still can enjoy some things, that I don’t call too often because I  feel so much pain at not being able to proffer answers to the questions he now asks.

Oblivion

Oblivion

You're thinking about the one now lost in time. Grief overwhelmes you and you see the light no more.

But, you see the young girl coming towards your consulting room and she's laughing. She's obviously in a happy mood. And you wish her heart were yours. You need to smile.

When she comes to the table, you think she's ill but, she's not. She's just come to say 'thank you.' She has a sing song voice.

You remember her face now. She's the one who came some weeks ago with a skin condition. 'Rashes,' she called it and you assured her that she was going to be fine.

You ask her how she is doing and she says 'fine. It's gone.' Then in one breath, adds 'but, you've been unhappy, dear. You've been so unhappy and it's written all over your face. I've been watching you.'

She demands that you cheer up or at least tell her why you've been so unhappy. Her eyes stare at you,  imploringly. You've always liked her eyes.

She's bright eyed. She's beautiful in a way that's so innocent that it makes you feel like taking her under your wings and shielding her from evil. She's smart and the last time you saw her, you told her about your unfinished novel.

So, now, when she asks about your stories, whether she can read them, you're not surprised. You only smile and let her read.

First, you show her the ones on Microsoft. Then Facebook. 'Dim lights in the rain.' 'Rape, heels and love.' 'I took a few paces away.' Then your blog thephienix.blogspot.com. 'Stories from home,' and 'red dust in the rain.'

She loves them and smiles as she reads them ravishingly. You see her face through the corner of your eyes as you try not to cry tears onto the pages of the Julian Barnes 'Talking it over,' that you're reading. Love stories make you cry these days.

But, the girls presence and interest in your stories is keeping you from the tears.

But, soon the bell tolls and she stands up to say 'Iam going, dear friend. Try to be happy for me. Even though I don't really know yet, why you're sad.'

She smiles. 'you're a fine story teller. You're a good man. Will I see you again?'

As you watch her go, you feel a renewed emptiness. A hard ache localised on your heart.

'Will I see you again?'

That was the same question THE ONE asked when she broke the news.

Every pain seem refreshed now and you begin to think about the one who's now gone away because you didn't make her understand that you needed her more than anything in life.

Because when you hurt her, and she cried, you took her for granted. And when she asked for assurances, you said nothing reassuring. You did nothing to make her believe.

You waited and waited to be sure that you could make her happy. You wanted to be sure that you were what she needed. You were being too hesitant when all she wanted was a word to make a her believe. But, you only wanted to be sure that she loved you. You love her more than life itself. 

Until she went away and then you started playing passenger's 'let her go' on repeat and stopped eating and stopping sleeping and started thinking about death and the end.

Ashes and dust and the realisation that nothing else but her, mattered to you. That  you could burn down the world for her sake. That there's nothing you needed more than to have her forever.

'How could you not have seen that your life revolved around her?' was the question of the old woman who had seen you break down on the day she went away. 'You should've done something reassuring.'

You know it's all your fault and it hurts. You know. And there's a pain that comes with knowing.

By now, your teen friend turns back at the door to look a you. Her eyes are exactly like those of the one that's now gone. Like sunset in the middle of harmattan.

You open your mouth and try to say 'please stay a little longer' but, something keeps you from saying those words.

She's still a teenager. A young teenager. And you can only help her and not try to make her help you. Besides, you're the man.

Then, you realise that there's nothing else keeping you at the clinic especially now that she's going away. And so, you pack up your things to leave.

***

You're about to get in your car when you hear someone call out. 'Dear, wait!'

You turn and it's the girl, your young friend. She taps you on the shoulder and says, 'don't worry, you'll love someone again. You have a good heart. You'll find someone else to love.'

You are so startled and you want to tell her that you are not sad about love or a girl.

'You're wrong,' you try to lie but, she's looking straight into your eyes. So you say, half heartedly, 'the break time is over. Hurry now.' You're sure she sees through your soul.

***

You drive off, feeling the mist in your eyes as bastille's 'oblivion,' filters out from the stereo.

It'll be Sia's 'bloodstream,' playing later and after that , 'don't you forget me,' by Enrique Iglesia. You've arranged the songs in a certain order.

You know you'll never have her again. Yet, you know you'll never be able to forget her.

You found love but, you let it go away.