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.