Njideka. (For all the mothers who believe.)

Mama often rues the fact that she didn't finish secondary school. It hurts her because she was good. And it was a big dream of hers. She wanted to be a nurse.

Her father was rich and was determined to train her. She often tells me how she was his special pet.

But, tragedy struck when her only brother died and grandma died and grandpa was ill and needed a grand child before meeting his gods, and so, had to make his young darling Bridget get married at the tender age of seventeen.

"I was so young," she often sighed whenever she told us her story. "But, Papa was very depressed following Goddy's death and I just had to get married to give him a grand child. I wanted to make Nnam happy."

Not like she's the first girl. Far from it. She had late aunty Theresa and aunty Rose ahead of her. But, as she often explains, they were already in college and were already too exposed to be asked to get married before finishing school.

So, mama was the one in line and a husband was chosen for her. Chosen for her by her loving Uncle, Duke. He was Mama's second father. A husband was chosen for mama.

A husband who came from a poor home, who had no money and who was way older than her. But who was nonetheless, very intelligent and exposed and punched way above his weight in politics. Mama's uncle wanted her to at least have a man who'd take care of her since she was getting married too soon

Yet, mama only wanted to please her father and got married. "My father's happiness was everything to me" she often says with something I'd term loving tenderness in her voice.

And soon the children would come thick and fast. My five elder sisters before me.

Mama recounts often how the society put too much pressure on her young anxious shoulders. "You're yet to have a boy."

A weight, she often says would have been too big for her were it not for how her husband saw things and treated her. A stack contrast to how the society treated her.

Mama often recounts how papa behaved the day she gave birth to Njide, my immediate elder sister who's still Papa's favourite. Another girl.

According to mama, she was back from the hospital after giving birth and was too ashamed to bring her baby out. And so visitors had to come into the room to see her, until Papa came home and asked her to bring the baby into the living room.

She often tells me that she was so surprised. Her husband didn't mind another girl? He'd asked her, "Mama Nneka, why don't you come to the parlour?"

And when she asked him if he didn't care about a boy Papa answered by showing her the best of baby cots in the market that he'd bought for his girl and the name he had for the baby, 'Njideka, I'll take care of the one I have.'

"I care only about children. And I'll not let the world take away my love for my girls." Mama says she will never forget those words said by Papa, how they encouraged her.

And even when I came, mama says that Papa didn't do anything special. He just did the same routine and gave me my name. 'Nnaemeka.'

And so, years would fly by like harmattan whirlwinds. Years of struggle to get us to school, to feed us and clothe us.

Years in which mother endured more ridicule from the world who sneered at her and father "you are training girls for men. A girl's education ends in the kitchen." Stupid words to which they paid deaf ears.

Years in which Mama toiled in the farm and in the market in order to help Papa with raising us, her aspirations to get education having now been buried under the ruins of the hardship that came with Buhari's, Babangida's and Abacha's dictatorships.

Years would creep by in which mama had to totally forget about the luxury of her father's house and cars and had to trek and toil with her husband.

But, like all strong women, Mama didn't give up. She was well brought up and Papa often says, "without her-your mother, I'd have been dead."

Mama trudged on under the weight. She kept vigil and fought the odds until she saw darkness give way to light as all her girls got the education she couldn't get.

Our family is such that there is no preferences to a particular gender. Papa and mama made their girls know that they could be anything they wanted to be. From the onset.

Papa often told them that a girl with education or a big wand of cash would become anything she wanted.

Papa never let me point a finger at my sisters or even raise my voice on them. "You must respect women," he often counselled.

Perhaps, that's why even when women insult me on Facebook, I let it go without insulting them back. I forgive easily shaa. 😂😂

Papa is a feminist. He believes in girl power. He even made me forfeit my first JAMB in which I made 264 simply because my elder sister was in school and the cost of keeping her was much.

Papa told me that my sisters where my elder brothers.

That's how my big sisters became my big brothers. I'd have a problem and before I could say a word they'd would be all around me.

Njideka was the one who made me strong when I failed pediatrics. She's strong like a man. "Nothing will happen" she often assures me whenever I panic.

I could go on and on but, one thing I want to say is this: In my sisters mama has realised her dreams.

I remember how she danced when big sister Nneka got into school. She was the first girl to do it in my village then, and the second girl to become an Engineer in my town.

"No one will laugh at me anymore. My girls' dreams will never end like mine," Mama danced.

She'd do the same dance years later when her first granddaughter, Janefrances Nwagugu would get into the university too.

"No one will say I have only girls now," she sang.

***

There, is Mama with her grand daughter, my brilliant niece. I wish them a happy international women's day.

©Nnaemeka Ugwu


                                         

Red winds and bended trees

                                                                 

Uncle Ifeanyi looked livid when I came into the living room. His singlet and boxers weren’t torn. He was holding a leather belt and beside him, Aunty Ifeoma stood, holding the belt too, as if trying to stop her husband from moving the leather up.

There were large red wheals on her arms. Tears on her cheeks. She was subbing. Quiet subs, her shoulders heaving up and down. It was instantly clear to me. They were fighting once again. Or so I thought.

Only that this scene was different from what I had become accustomed to since I started visiting now and again: Shattered glass, scattered rooms, torn clothes, voices rising to the heavens. This was a scene that had an air of absoluteness about it. It actually looked like one party had merely been beating the other. Because aunty wasn't shouting and wailing and trying in between sobs, to scream words like:
“You think I'll leave this place for you but, you're wrong."

"If you think that bringing other women will break me, you are wrong."

"You're a very stupid man...."

She was just sobbing, saying nothing. And her stare was so distant. So scary that I couldn't move to hold her as usual and help her out of the scene and her misery. For she was a lovely woman who'd raised me as her own when I was stranded in school.

She was the one who took care of grandmother when she was sick. Until her death. And everyone in the family loved her.

Except, perhaps, uncle who'd inexplicably gotten so violent and cold since they got married. I'd tried many times to find out from Aunty if she'd done something unforgivable to him but her answers had always been "all I've ever done to him was  love him."

She'd say those words with overwhelming emotions. Uncontrollable tears and runny nose. Her face would become so gloomy it buried her fair skin and beautiful eyes and dimples.

Thing is that their marriage had started on something I'd call a wrong foundation. I remember because I was there when it all began.

Aunty Ifeoma had been uncle's side chick without knowing it. She's often repeated her ordeal to me. "I didn't know he had someone else. I thought I was the only one. So I gave my virginity to him. And that was the beginning of this very sad story. She’d often end up in tears. Who wouldn’t cry when they’re in pains?

She got pregnant for Ifeanyi shortly before he could get engaged to his then fiancée Amaka. A very beautiful  lady who spoke English like a Brit. And had what an average adult would term a domineering personality.

Uncle was always going to marry her. But now, Ifeoma was pregnant and since everyone in our town loved Ifeoma, the pressure was on uncle to marry her.

“She’s a very good girl from our home,” grandmother often counseled. She’d also threaten in the same breath that there was no way she’d have let Ifeanyi marry a foreign girl from Mba Ise. “Never!” Grandmother had an air of authority around her.

The marriage would happen so fast and so sudden between Ifeanyi and Ifeoma that Amaka was so stunned that she left home and went to the UK. Never to return.

Aunty would have a child soon. A boy and his birth brought Ifeanyi closer to her. Or so it seemed.

Years strolled by with the changing seasons of rain and dust and with the fading of the white walls of their newly built house came a painfully sluggish fading of the love.

It came to a head when the boy died of leukaemia. A very sad event which took so much toll on Ifeanyi that he was sacked from his job in a bank. Sad events break people down, they say.

The boy had been so beautiful. I could remember him. He had curly hair like  a little Jamaican.

As we walked out of the living room, Aunty broke free from my hold and went into the room. "Let me get my things, I'm leaving today."  She sounded resolute.

I know I was supposed to have asked her to stay. To wait and pray, as her now late mother would’ve  advised. That was my supposed role as a relative of her husband but, I wasn't surprised when I discovered that I couldn't say a word. That a part of me actually felt relieved that finally, without it coming from my mouth, she was beginning to see reasons to leave before she got killed.

My eyes went to my Uncle and found him leaning on the wall. Belt in hand. Eyes on the ceiling. Tears in his eyes. I wondered why he often cried each time he beat his wife. He looked pathetic.

Yet, I couldn't feel pity for him. For I'd tried many times to explain things to him: that Ifeoma was the pendulum of his life, that without her his new business would crumble especially with his excessive drinking and poor business ideals, that he was going to regret it for the rest of his life, etc.

“Remember what grandfather often said,” I often advised. “Do not let  the light in your life go off.”

He'd often listen to me with a  lot of remorse but then the cycle of violence would reoccur. Repeatedly. A vicious cycle. He  appeared defeated, as if he could never be able to break free.

Ifeoma came out from the room, hauling two big trunks. "Help me. Nna, help me."

I looked at my uncle and then at Ifeoma and to be sincere, I was torn apart. Whom was I supposed to be loyal to?

Uncle suddenly jumped up, roused from stupor, and threw the belt away and came running towards us. "Ifeoma! Ifeoma! Ifeoma! Where are you going?"

His voice trembled. His knees quaked. He tripped and fell. But, he got up again and ran faster, fast enough to be able to get a hold on the trunks and on aunty before she could get them into the waiting taxi.

"Please don't go. Please don't go. I'm very sorry. I'll never do it again. Please, ifeee...."

“Please Ifeanyi don’t touch me. Let me go.”

“No I won’t. What will I become without you?”

“I never meant anything to you.

“Perhaps, you can find Amaka and be happy again. It’ll always be her. I’ll never mean anything to you.”

“I won’t let you go. Not while I’m still alive.”

I stood watching, listening to the emotional exchange. I felt sorry for them yet, a part of me wanted her to leave.

I watched them drag on for minuets. The wind was beginning to blow red whirlwind here and there. It was the beginning of rainy season.

I watched uncle move seamlessly between extremes of emotions. Sadness. Sorrow. Tears. Desperation. He had a tendency to always act like a man possessed whenever something deep hit him. I’d been observing ever since the violence Started. And at no time was it as apparent as now. Because for some inexplicable reason, he suddenly left the trunks and the hands of his wife and ran to the gate to lock it.

“I’ll have to die before I let you  leave me.”

Just then Ifeoma asked me to go help her get her diary. She needed to call the police.

I  found myself doing her bidding. She was irresistible when her emotions went full flowing. Tears  seamed to magnify her beauty. And for someone who had been keeping her cool for years, her sudden cold resolve stirred up a certain fear in me. I  knew it was best to just let her go.

I went inside her room and found the diary on the dressing table. There were blood stains here and there. On the walls. “They remind me of the pain and injuries my love for Ifeanyi has brought me. I’ll  always look at them,” she often told me. The room got a little dim and I had to start walking outside . I hated darkness. They say that evil resides in it.

From the door I saw my uncle pick up the belt again and made for Ifeoma once more.  I ran after him. But, he ran faster. A man possessed. A man rushing to his ruin.

The wind blew more furiously now, throwing a ballast of dust into our faces. The trees  swirled as though about to break. The clouds got so dark at an Instant. The devil was out of hell.

And then, I saw it. The broken bottle. It was held firmly by Aunty Ifeoma’s left hand. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Until a few seconds Later, before I could scream with all the strength in me “Noooooo! Ifeanyi, stop! Ifeoma, don’t do it!” the bottle was plunged  deep into my uncle’s neck. Blood, deep crimson blood shot up the Sky. My uncle let out a guttural moan. “Anwugo m. I’m dead!”

     
                                                               

I shrieked. I screamed. I  tried to run but my legs felt heavy. I tried to walk but, my knees quaked. My eyes went straight into Uncle Ifeanyi eyes as he fell. From the speed of blood flow one could tell that the bottle had gotten one of the Carotids. He  could die in a matter of minutes.

Aunty Ifeoma still held the bottle. She stood at the same spot, astride her husband’s  twitching body. “You brought it on yourself. I only wanted to love you.”

“Aunty he is dying. He is going. Let’s take him to the hospital.” It was the taxi driver. He was trembling too. An old man who had a face that told a story of a life time of deprivation.

He  turned to me. “Nna, let’s get him into the taxi!”
***

I was trying to apply a greater pressure on the bleeding point on my uncle’s neck when I heard the Sirens. The police had come. Aunty had called them.

I watched them drive in. Over the blood stained sand. I watched them bring out the cuffs and walk towards my aunty who had her hands raised up.

The neighbors had started trouping into the Compound. And their screams drowned the howling of the wind and the sound of the engine of the Cab. I watched until all I could see was red whirlwind and bended trees.

©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
 February, 2019.