I am sitting in my living room reviewing with horror stories from Nigeria and asking myself how did it get to this?
when has joblessness and poverty changed us so badly that we are gradually becoming carnibals? I'm reffering to senseless killings going on in my beloved country! the 40 students in Adamawa, the harmless 4 student of UNIPORT, the gruesome rape vidoed and posted on youtube of a girl from Abia...to mention but a few.
What went wrong with peoples reasoning and conscience enough to turn them into monsters?
When did we go back to the early twenties when it was okay to burn witches at stake or Roman arena where it is entertaining to throw people to the lions and watch them devoured?
For a country with so many christian worshippers and moslem faithfuls, THE LEVEL OF EVIL PREVAILING IN THE LAND IS ALARMING!!!
Whilst the leaders are too busy embezzling funds and police too corrupt to see injustice, the hapless citizens are turning on themselves in most inhuman manner.
What is going on?
Enough already...enough!!!
Enough of corruption, enough of all barbaric acts, enough of robbery, kidnapping, rape, debauchery, embezzlement, larcenry, murder, injustices...ENOUGH!
Join me and together lets all say in one voice: ENOUGH!!!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Where is Nigeria?
I read with anger and shame the barbaric and ruthless way some demons from the pits of hell kill four harmless students of UNIPORT in Nigeria and I'm still shaking with rage that nothing was done by either the police or government to intervene!
I'm wondering where is the Nigeria i thought i knew? where theres love and respect for human dignity, where there is fear of God, where everyone is their brothers keeper.
I dont know the Nigeria where killing in the most gruesome way is justified, where people take the law into their hands in the name of Justice.
These demons from Aluu village are not citizen of the Nigeria I used to know.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Ultimate Prize
May 4th 2007, Ajah.
I had woken up that Saturday morning with an unforgiving headache; although I slept late and woke up early but everything I needed for the trip to Abuja was ready.
Like an eighty-year old woman with arthritis, I groaned and crawled out of the bed.
More groans and stretching got me into the bathroom.
An hour later, I was in the process of making coffee when my four sisters came in unceremoniously and filled my little living room, they put on the TV and were watching some soap, ordering me around for breakfast as well.
My phone rang immediately after I heaped three spoons of coffee beans in the maker and switched it on.
We usually gather most weekends to drink coffee/slim tea, gossip about men and our spouses and watch our favorite soap on TV.
My first guess were my sons, David and Abraham, they where on their way back to school and probably were calling to tell me where they were. I promised them I would stop by their school after the ceremony to show them the pictures.
I had bought the eldest, David, a new phone so I could reach them to know how the journey was progressing.
When I checked, it was a strange number.
I answered anyway, frowning because my coffee was ready and I longed for a steamy sip; my sisters were already gossiping; I could barely hear what Hellene was telling Janet in whispers about her new Admin Manager. She had informed us earlier on that he studied abroad and had an ego the size of Taraba state! I suspected she had a huge crush on him and was dying to know more.
“Hello”
“Hello, is this Elizabeth?”
“Speaking, who’s this?” as I attempted a sip, I was thinking who could it be?
“This is Dr. Daniel, don’t panic, madam, your son wants to talk to you …”
“Don’t panic?” is this 419? Or was he one of the passengers in the car? Why was David not using his own phone to call me?
My eyes hurt because I had one of those headaches that came from waking up too early or not sleeping right on pillow; in my own case, it was caused by anxiety; both trips were on my mind.
I was more nervous because it was the first time they were going back alone without an adult. No one was on hand to take them including myself as I was flying the next day for my call to Nigerian Bar ceremony; passing the bar exams was the ultimate prize for all lawyers; after six years of rigorous sleepless studies coupled with mega fretting and nail-biting exam, I won.
“Hello, David, where are you guys?” they should be approaching Ore town by now. It was few minutes after nine am and they left the house around six am.
“Mum, our car had an accident…”
An Accident! My whole world froze in time. I could hear my heartbeat flip-flopped.
“Accident?” I repeated stupidly. Seriously or are they just pulling my legs? “Where is your brother Abraham?” it was more of a croak.
My God! And I was worrying about how bitter the coffee was, whether to add sugar or not because of my spreading waistline, wandering hips and things I must do before my trip. Wow!
And it’s not the even first of April!! My sons had an accident…for real…O God!
“I’m fine mom; Abraham is…em... fine…” David said.
Why the pause?
“Let me talk to him!” after a gap, the line went off.
By now, the conversation had stopped; all my sisters and her kids gathered around me wanting to know what happened. Nobody watched episode nine we had waited a whole week for.
“David and Abraham were involved in an accident.” I actually sounded like a rock star because there was a squeaky huskiness made out of sheer fear in my voice.
“Are they ok? Are they in hospital? We need to go get them! Where are they?” everyone was talking at once.
I shook my head, redialing the number, after three agonizing trials, it rang again.
“Where are you David?”
“Madam don’t panic, they’re here in the hospital at Kajola…” I need to put on my robe and go right away.
Panic? I was petrified. Where in the world was Kaj-ola??? I was already going out of the door barefoot before someone gave me slippers to wear.
This was one of those few times I wish I could fly.
I needed to be with them right away.
“They’re fine…”
“Let me talk to Abraham!” I was already shaking; if they didn’t put my youngest son on the line then I’ll know something terrible happened to him!
“Ok hold on…” I waited for eternity (actually for three seconds) then I heard faint voices in the background.
By now, I had my phone on speaker so my siblings crowding me could hear.
After a long pause, very faintly, I heard a voice said:
“Hello mom” it was Abrahams’ voice.
A lone tear slid down my cheek; it was the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.
Right there, I realized I had already won the ultimate prize to aspire for and it wasn’t passing the bar exams…it is the gift of life; the one every parent deserves-not to lose a child…it beats all other prizes…
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Madly in Love
“Madly in Love”
She was on the phone again; “…Mama…it’s not my fault if no baby after 6years…doctor said there’s nothing wrong with us…I’m not God....”
Abigail sighed. Though it was only 11 am, she was already exhausted.
Talking with her mother-in-law always did that to her.
The phone rings again; she checks the time before answering; it was few minutes after 3pm; could be her husband, Raymond.
Her heart leaped at the thoughts of him.
He’d told her not to call him because he had a meeting in the office.
He promised to call whenever he was less busy.
Smiling, she said: “Sweetheart…” then her face fell; it was Benita, her best friend.
“Hello…hello… She listened and frowns.
“My husband?” She toyed with her hair. “When? No, it can’t be… Raymond is at work…maybe it’s his driver…” Suddenly, her scalp itched; she scratched the spot. “...no, it’s not my husband… Ok, bye…”
Then she sat staring unseeingly at the newscaster on CNN; after a while, she leaned forward and picked the phone; fiddled with it, scrolled down to her husbands’ number, went down further then came back to it and dialled the number with one hand on her chest.
She realized she was shaking.
The burr, burr sound from the other end lasted for like a minute and a pre-recorded voice said: “The number dialled is switched off…”
He said he would be in a meeting; he probably switched off his phone.
Made sense…No need to panic or jump into conclusions…
She dropped the phone, picked it up again and scrolled down to H, she stopped at ‘Hubbys’PA’, leaned back thinking for some minutes, then pressed the dial button.
She had to breathe rapidly from her mouth because her chest felt congested.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was scared of what her husbands’ PA might tell her.
She switched off the phone before it rings.
People have a way of getting under your skin with false insinuations. It’s a mistake; Raymond couldn’t have been with another woman.
Suddenly, the phone started ringing; she jumped. She put the phone to her ear and said: “Hello, Hello…let me talk to my husband…he’s left? When…ok thank you.”
She dialled Raymonds’ number.
“Hi sweetheart, I…who’re you…his wife? I’m his wife! Who’re you? Let me…” the line went off.
She redials the number.
“Hello…hello…”dead again.
My God! Another wife? Is Raymond cheating on me?
I need to talk to my sister…she dials her number.
“Hello, Hello Sis, I’m fine…no... She was crying.
“It’s Raymond…she sniffed. “I just need to talk to someone …” I’ll kill him if it’s true! She thought. I will!
“…I think he’s…” she cut the line because from the corners of her eyes, she saw Rose and some men standing in the room; Rose, her maid, sometimes bring visitors into her room without her consent.
I’m going to warn her, the next time she usher people into the house without asking me first, I’ll fire her!
“Yes, how can I help you? Who do they want to see Rose?” she said.
Silence.
Abigail noticed they seem to be studying her expressions and movements calmly.
She redialled her sisters’ number again...
Without answering her question, Rose, the resident psychiatrist, said:
“… Meet Abigail Oyebode, 31yrs old… psychosis… jilted at the altar by her lawyer boyfriend, Raymond… she stabbed him twenty-three times while asleep and called the police… she was charged for manslaughter... brought to this facility from Federal Neuro Psychiatric Hospital 6 years ago…” she was reading from a file.
Timidly, the eight psychiatric students peered at the young lady sitting on a bed, holding a white plastic cup to her ear shouting:
“Hello, Hello…” she totally ignored them.
This call was more important.
She was on the phone again; “…Mama…it’s not my fault if no baby after 6years…doctor said there’s nothing wrong with us…I’m not God....”
Abigail sighed. Though it was only 11 am, she was already exhausted.
Talking with her mother-in-law always did that to her.
The phone rings again; she checks the time before answering; it was few minutes after 3pm; could be her husband, Raymond.
Her heart leaped at the thoughts of him.
He’d told her not to call him because he had a meeting in the office.
He promised to call whenever he was less busy.
Smiling, she said: “Sweetheart…” then her face fell; it was Benita, her best friend.
“Hello…hello… She listened and frowns.
“My husband?” She toyed with her hair. “When? No, it can’t be… Raymond is at work…maybe it’s his driver…” Suddenly, her scalp itched; she scratched the spot. “...no, it’s not my husband… Ok, bye…”
Then she sat staring unseeingly at the newscaster on CNN; after a while, she leaned forward and picked the phone; fiddled with it, scrolled down to her husbands’ number, went down further then came back to it and dialled the number with one hand on her chest.
She realized she was shaking.
The burr, burr sound from the other end lasted for like a minute and a pre-recorded voice said: “The number dialled is switched off…”
He said he would be in a meeting; he probably switched off his phone.
Made sense…No need to panic or jump into conclusions…
She dropped the phone, picked it up again and scrolled down to H, she stopped at ‘Hubbys’PA’, leaned back thinking for some minutes, then pressed the dial button.
She had to breathe rapidly from her mouth because her chest felt congested.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was scared of what her husbands’ PA might tell her.
She switched off the phone before it rings.
People have a way of getting under your skin with false insinuations. It’s a mistake; Raymond couldn’t have been with another woman.
Suddenly, the phone started ringing; she jumped. She put the phone to her ear and said: “Hello, Hello…let me talk to my husband…he’s left? When…ok thank you.”
She dialled Raymonds’ number.
“Hi sweetheart, I…who’re you…his wife? I’m his wife! Who’re you? Let me…” the line went off.
She redials the number.
“Hello…hello…”dead again.
My God! Another wife? Is Raymond cheating on me?
I need to talk to my sister…she dials her number.
“Hello, Hello Sis, I’m fine…no... She was crying.
“It’s Raymond…she sniffed. “I just need to talk to someone …” I’ll kill him if it’s true! She thought. I will!
“…I think he’s…” she cut the line because from the corners of her eyes, she saw Rose and some men standing in the room; Rose, her maid, sometimes bring visitors into her room without her consent.
I’m going to warn her, the next time she usher people into the house without asking me first, I’ll fire her!
“Yes, how can I help you? Who do they want to see Rose?” she said.
Silence.
Abigail noticed they seem to be studying her expressions and movements calmly.
She redialled her sisters’ number again...
Without answering her question, Rose, the resident psychiatrist, said:
“… Meet Abigail Oyebode, 31yrs old… psychosis… jilted at the altar by her lawyer boyfriend, Raymond… she stabbed him twenty-three times while asleep and called the police… she was charged for manslaughter... brought to this facility from Federal Neuro Psychiatric Hospital 6 years ago…” she was reading from a file.
Timidly, the eight psychiatric students peered at the young lady sitting on a bed, holding a white plastic cup to her ear shouting:
“Hello, Hello…” she totally ignored them.
This call was more important.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
How Selfish!
Three years after her wedding, Adaora, pregnant again, was hospitalized after chief
Timothy shoved her down the stairs for responding slowly when he called her.
Mgbafo, Adaora’s mother, came to the hospital.
“…Didn’t I warn you not to wear those heels during pregnancy? Thank God your
husband was around to rush you to the hospital when you fell and dislocate your ankle.”
“I didn’t wear heels…” Adaora said, wiping her overflowing red eyes. Her left ankle
wrapped in casts.
“Ok, but Chief confirmed you have been very clumsy; maybe I should come over…”
“No, I just got dizzy and fell; you don’t have to. I’m ok”
“You should’ve listened to him and rest a lot; you’re just too stubborn…I’ll ask him to get
you a maid”
“No need, It was my fault…he didn’t mean to push me…”
“Push you? OMG!! It’s him…again!!!” said her mother.
“Not really…I said I’m fine! He didn’t push me. And please don’t ask him!”
“Why not? This has to stop! When he vowed last time never to hit you again I thought…”
Mgbafo wondered why Adaora was so scared.
“Mom, I’m fine and I’m not leaving my children. Just let it go…” Adaora looked away.
“You can’t go on like this; how can I help?”
“Stop asking questions.” Now dry eyed, she stared at nothing.
Adaora got her first punches for burning dinner a month after the marriage.
She ran to her parents; her husband, Chief Timothy, pleaded, Adaora went back; then
he beat her again for unapproved outing one day, another, for disturbing his sleep,
another for arguing.
Every week, she got bruises.
When she reports, she got beaten for telling; so, Adaora started lying about her injuries.
It was a cut, gardening accident…an allergy; the list was limitless.
“Don’t do this; I’m aware since after retiring, your father smiled again when you
wedded…but it’s your life; the punches will not stop...I should know…” said Mgbafo;
fifty-eight, defeated, fully grey and wrinkled.
“There’s no punch, just accidents! He needs me to stay” Adaora said, making eye
contact. Tears flowing.
Mgbafo recognized that look, thinking: He’s so selfish!
Mgbafo, plump, short and naturally subservient went through it; Mgbafo’s mother,
Adaora’s grandma, also.
They stayed married.
“Ok, I understand but please stay safe; try not to provoke him, talk back or argue.
Always flee whenever you sense his temper rising… you can talk to me anytime. I know
you’re scared of him.”
“I’ll be fine...” Adaora said emotionlessly, purplish bruises all over her face. At twenty,
sagging and weighing two-twenty pounds, she looked forty-five.
“I know you’ll be fine, just be careful” Mgbafo said.
A month later, Adaora, beaten with a broken arm, returned home again; Livid, her
father, Ichie Okonkwo paced his living room, arms held together behind him as if cuffed.
Finally, he got hold of himself.
“Ch-ch-chi-e-e-ef T-t-timothy ought to be pa-a-tient with you and not d-d-drive you out of
ma-a-trimo-ny…this is s-s-so unfair. W-why is this ha-hap-hap-happening to me now?
Why did he d-d-drove you out of the ha-ha-how-se….Did you dis-s-sobey him? Is that
why he sent you back like this?” he asked. His stuttering was more pronounced when
he got upset.
“No papa, I mistakenly broke his reading glasses.” Adaora said with head bowed.
“N-n-n-nonsense! This f-f-fa-family doesn’t d-d-d-de-serve this!!! F-f-f-f-for us not to
become the la-a-aughing stock of t-t-the village, you must go b-b-back and apologize
and m-m-m-make sure he send me the m-m-m-mo-mo-money he p-pro-o-prom-ised me
for my upcoming udu ceremony and s-s-s-stop being careless; it’s very selfish of you!!!”
Ichie Okonkwo said vehemently, offended.
Timothy shoved her down the stairs for responding slowly when he called her.
Mgbafo, Adaora’s mother, came to the hospital.
“…Didn’t I warn you not to wear those heels during pregnancy? Thank God your
husband was around to rush you to the hospital when you fell and dislocate your ankle.”
“I didn’t wear heels…” Adaora said, wiping her overflowing red eyes. Her left ankle
wrapped in casts.
“Ok, but Chief confirmed you have been very clumsy; maybe I should come over…”
“No, I just got dizzy and fell; you don’t have to. I’m ok”
“You should’ve listened to him and rest a lot; you’re just too stubborn…I’ll ask him to get
you a maid”
“No need, It was my fault…he didn’t mean to push me…”
“Push you? OMG!! It’s him…again!!!” said her mother.
“Not really…I said I’m fine! He didn’t push me. And please don’t ask him!”
“Why not? This has to stop! When he vowed last time never to hit you again I thought…”
Mgbafo wondered why Adaora was so scared.
“Mom, I’m fine and I’m not leaving my children. Just let it go…” Adaora looked away.
“You can’t go on like this; how can I help?”
“Stop asking questions.” Now dry eyed, she stared at nothing.
Adaora got her first punches for burning dinner a month after the marriage.
She ran to her parents; her husband, Chief Timothy, pleaded, Adaora went back; then
he beat her again for unapproved outing one day, another, for disturbing his sleep,
another for arguing.
Every week, she got bruises.
When she reports, she got beaten for telling; so, Adaora started lying about her injuries.
It was a cut, gardening accident…an allergy; the list was limitless.
“Don’t do this; I’m aware since after retiring, your father smiled again when you
wedded…but it’s your life; the punches will not stop...I should know…” said Mgbafo;
fifty-eight, defeated, fully grey and wrinkled.
“There’s no punch, just accidents! He needs me to stay” Adaora said, making eye
contact. Tears flowing.
Mgbafo recognized that look, thinking: He’s so selfish!
Mgbafo, plump, short and naturally subservient went through it; Mgbafo’s mother,
Adaora’s grandma, also.
They stayed married.
“Ok, I understand but please stay safe; try not to provoke him, talk back or argue.
Always flee whenever you sense his temper rising… you can talk to me anytime. I know
you’re scared of him.”
“I’ll be fine...” Adaora said emotionlessly, purplish bruises all over her face. At twenty,
sagging and weighing two-twenty pounds, she looked forty-five.
“I know you’ll be fine, just be careful” Mgbafo said.
A month later, Adaora, beaten with a broken arm, returned home again; Livid, her
father, Ichie Okonkwo paced his living room, arms held together behind him as if cuffed.
Finally, he got hold of himself.
“Ch-ch-chi-e-e-ef T-t-timothy ought to be pa-a-tient with you and not d-d-drive you out of
ma-a-trimo-ny…this is s-s-so unfair. W-why is this ha-hap-hap-happening to me now?
Why did he d-d-drove you out of the ha-ha-how-se….Did you dis-s-sobey him? Is that
why he sent you back like this?” he asked. His stuttering was more pronounced when
he got upset.
“No papa, I mistakenly broke his reading glasses.” Adaora said with head bowed.
“N-n-n-nonsense! This f-f-fa-family doesn’t d-d-d-de-serve this!!! F-f-f-f-for us not to
become the la-a-aughing stock of t-t-the village, you must go b-b-back and apologize
and m-m-m-make sure he send me the m-m-m-mo-mo-money he p-pro-o-prom-ised me
for my upcoming udu ceremony and s-s-s-stop being careless; it’s very selfish of you!!!”
Ichie Okonkwo said vehemently, offended.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
THE MOMENT...
Finally, I was going to be released from the prison I had been in for almost a year.
There has been a lot of preparation for this day; several times, I had thought with despair, I wasn’t going to make it. Solitary confinement wasn’t my thing; it was tedious and trying! What kept me going was my mothers’ voice constantly praying or reading the bible and encouraging me from the other room because we were not allowed to meet and sit together.
Often despondent, I had hung on words of encouragements from my mother to ‘hang in there and not give up or quit’ while I did my time.
There were times I had considered dying; those were the times my mother was most confident in me; she would pray for me and let me know she was always there for me and that we will get through it together.
Mostly, we communicated telepathically; just when I was thinking of something, she would start discussing it with me!
Unfortunately, I do not feel that kind of closeness with my father. He doesn’t bother to spend time with me or ask how I was coping.
He was always too busy to listen to me or ask me my problems and frustrations whenever he was around.
Funny, despite the tears, pain and headaches I caused my mother, she still believes I am Gods’ blessing to her.
So with determination, she endured whatever pain serving my time cost her.
As the months flew by, I started getting used to keeping to myself and listening to music or voices of people out there. It was fun eavesdropping on conversations going on around me outside as I shower and prepare for dinner. Over time, I had begun to imagine how the people I listen to looked like and that kept me preoccupied; I was even able to tell who was who and also imagine their expressions and emotions from the inflection of their voices.
Another time I enjoy most in my little room was shower time; everything I needed to use the bathroom was crammed up in my little room.
I’d soak for a long time in warm water relaxing and dreaming of what I intend to do once I get my freedom.
Now that the day has come to join my family, I was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs and sure my parents were nervous as well; even when we both counted the days for so long and anticipated how our first meeting was going to be after my release, I could hear my fathers voice shake as he tried to calm my mother down, he seems to stutter a lot as he spoke quietly to her out there, that was how I knew he was nervous too.
Inspecting my little cosy and simply furnished room I had been in for these past months, I couldn’t quite quell the wells of emotion that rose up with memories of when I first got here and how lonely I felt; I fought tears as I replay all my happy and sad moments in this little room. It felt like dying and watching your whole life pass before your eyes.
With heavy heart, I hugged the walls and kissed the floor.
My eyes swam when I surveyed the room one last time while thoughts of going home with my parents gladden my heart.
There was a lump in my throat as I tried to smile and say my goodbye to this place that had become my sanctuary and home for the last time.
Once home, I intend to get a grip on my life as soon as I can get on my feet, be obedient; do the right things, make good friends and keep to myself if I have to.
I’ll also start attending prayer session with my mom; I’ll be prayerful, I’ll go to school and get a degree and become a great person who would do my mother proud.
I intend to buy her a house and a beautiful car.
I had overheard her once telling her friend how she dreamt of owning a brand new Mercedes Benz 350 and live in a five-bedroom mansion when she was a girl and when she got married to my father, she knew she would never get that.
Another time, I also overheard her say she was happy she got me, that I was better than any house and car combined. I vowed that that once independent, I would work hard to buy her her dream.
I can’t wait to tell her how much I value her confidence in me and undying love despite all I put her through. She has been through so much for my sake…endured a lot because of me… and not for once did she complain.
I believe it is only in fulfilling her dream, that I will be the blessing she always said I was to her.
I would take her around the world and show her how much I appreciate all she has done and gone through for me.
Though it has cost me so much to patiently wait for this moment, I was used to my room and the privacy (solitariness) it offered.
And as always, change has its price.
That feeling that after today everything would change forever; that this moment will pass never to come back ever again always has a way of dousing the joy of the arrival of expected change…don’t get me wrong, I really can’t wait to join my family, especially my mother-bless her.
The hour finally came-9:15am on Friday morning of February-time for me to leave. My heart beat unevenly loud in my ears as I fought tears and approached the door with combined joy and sadness.
I heard the voices drawing closer to my room and became increasingly uneasy.
My heart kicked when I heard my mothers’ voice loudly now; she was praying, thanking God for my release and crying at the same time in shaky little whispers.
As I opened the door, I heard a mans’voice scream: “hold on!”
But I was so impatient to leave; I struggled and pushed the door with my head and shoulder further to let myself out. Initially, there was some resistance causing me sharp stabs of pain which I ignored.
My mother noting my struggle to get out started pleading with the stranger, saying “please…please…help…” there was helplessness mixed with panic in her voice.
With one more push, I got into the outer room and couldn’t move, blinded by the brightness, I was overwhelmed and broke into tears as pairs of hands grabbed me roughly. Most of the people were dressed in white and blue.
The man holding me studied my expression unfeelingly. All I wanted was to enjoy my mothers’ warm embrace.
The room was unusually cold and voices sounded louder and jarring.
Crying uncontrollably, I held unto the hand as I searched for my mother in the crowded room.
The same time our eyes met, I heard the man holding me say to my parents; “Congratulations! It’s a baby boy!!!”
Finally, I was going to be released from the prison I had been in for almost a year.
There has been a lot of preparation for this day; several times, I had thought with despair, I wasn’t going to make it. Solitary confinement wasn’t my thing; it was tedious and trying! What kept me going was my mothers’ voice constantly praying or reading the bible and encouraging me from the other room because we were not allowed to meet and sit together.
Often despondent, I had hung on words of encouragements from my mother to ‘hang in there and not give up or quit’ while I did my time.
There were times I had considered dying; those were the times my mother was most confident in me; she would pray for me and let me know she was always there for me and that we will get through it together.
Mostly, we communicated telepathically; just when I was thinking of something, she would start discussing it with me!
Unfortunately, I do not feel that kind of closeness with my father. He doesn’t bother to spend time with me or ask how I was coping.
He was always too busy to listen to me or ask me my problems and frustrations whenever he was around.
Funny, despite the tears, pain and headaches I caused my mother, she still believes I am Gods’ blessing to her.
So with determination, she endured whatever pain serving my time cost her.
As the months flew by, I started getting used to keeping to myself and listening to music or voices of people out there. It was fun eavesdropping on conversations going on around me outside as I shower and prepare for dinner. Over time, I had begun to imagine how the people I listen to looked like and that kept me preoccupied; I was even able to tell who was who and also imagine their expressions and emotions from the inflection of their voices.
Another time I enjoy most in my little room was shower time; everything I needed to use the bathroom was crammed up in my little room.
I’d soak for a long time in warm water relaxing and dreaming of what I intend to do once I get my freedom.
Now that the day has come to join my family, I was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs and sure my parents were nervous as well; even when we both counted the days for so long and anticipated how our first meeting was going to be after my release, I could hear my fathers voice shake as he tried to calm my mother down, he seems to stutter a lot as he spoke quietly to her out there, that was how I knew he was nervous too.
Inspecting my little cosy and simply furnished room I had been in for these past months, I couldn’t quite quell the wells of emotion that rose up with memories of when I first got here and how lonely I felt; I fought tears as I replay all my happy and sad moments in this little room. It felt like dying and watching your whole life pass before your eyes.
With heavy heart, I hugged the walls and kissed the floor.
My eyes swam when I surveyed the room one last time while thoughts of going home with my parents gladden my heart.
There was a lump in my throat as I tried to smile and say my goodbye to this place that had become my sanctuary and home for the last time.
Once home, I intend to get a grip on my life as soon as I can get on my feet, be obedient; do the right things, make good friends and keep to myself if I have to.
I’ll also start attending prayer session with my mom; I’ll be prayerful, I’ll go to school and get a degree and become a great person who would do my mother proud.
I intend to buy her a house and a beautiful car.
I had overheard her once telling her friend how she dreamt of owning a brand new Mercedes Benz 350 and live in a five-bedroom mansion when she was a girl and when she got married to my father, she knew she would never get that.
Another time, I also overheard her say she was happy she got me, that I was better than any house and car combined. I vowed that that once independent, I would work hard to buy her her dream.
I can’t wait to tell her how much I value her confidence in me and undying love despite all I put her through. She has been through so much for my sake…endured a lot because of me… and not for once did she complain.
I believe it is only in fulfilling her dream, that I will be the blessing she always said I was to her.
I would take her around the world and show her how much I appreciate all she has done and gone through for me.
Though it has cost me so much to patiently wait for this moment, I was used to my room and the privacy (solitariness) it offered.
And as always, change has its price.
That feeling that after today everything would change forever; that this moment will pass never to come back ever again always has a way of dousing the joy of the arrival of expected change…don’t get me wrong, I really can’t wait to join my family, especially my mother-bless her.
The hour finally came-9:15am on Friday morning of February-time for me to leave. My heart beat unevenly loud in my ears as I fought tears and approached the door with combined joy and sadness.
I heard the voices drawing closer to my room and became increasingly uneasy.
My heart kicked when I heard my mothers’ voice loudly now; she was praying, thanking God for my release and crying at the same time in shaky little whispers.
As I opened the door, I heard a mans’voice scream: “hold on!”
But I was so impatient to leave; I struggled and pushed the door with my head and shoulder further to let myself out. Initially, there was some resistance causing me sharp stabs of pain which I ignored.
My mother noting my struggle to get out started pleading with the stranger, saying “please…please…help…” there was helplessness mixed with panic in her voice.
With one more push, I got into the outer room and couldn’t move, blinded by the brightness, I was overwhelmed and broke into tears as pairs of hands grabbed me roughly. Most of the people were dressed in white and blue.
The man holding me studied my expression unfeelingly. All I wanted was to enjoy my mothers’ warm embrace.
The room was unusually cold and voices sounded louder and jarring.
Crying uncontrollably, I held unto the hand as I searched for my mother in the crowded room.
The same time our eyes met, I heard the man holding me say to my parents; “Congratulations! It’s a baby boy!!!”
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
One for the road
HANK HARRELSON SAT HUNCHED ON the bench with his hat in his hands.
He has been squeezing the fedora hat for the past four hours. His hair, tousled by the wind stayed spiky and disorderly on his huge scalp.
He sat perfectly still; the only thing moving was his eyes. He was staring with total concentration at the woman inside the bookstore across the road, following her every movement with rapt concentration.
I sat beside him and waited patiently; I was getting used to sitting quietly beside Hank and not complain, though I felt like a drink and maybe a smoke. Instead, I busied myself imagining the warm drink course down my throat stinging and at the same time numbing my gullet as it went down to erupt in my stomach.
And swoosh! Tingles…woozy feeling…objects in view beginning to twirl…then bliss…
Nothing beats the thrill of a drink! I thought to myself, suddenly very thirsty. Scotch, vodka, brandy, whisky…dry martini…tequila…ah! I’d give anything to be able to take a sip, a gulp of any of these and let the burning smarting sensation spread through my palate and tongue down, all the way down to my stomach…aaaaaaah!...he sweet warmth enveloping me like a soft feathered comforter by the fire on a cold winter night…suffusing my body like mamas’ hug back then while I was in my third grade on a summer afternoon after a successful game. I could get all that comfort and warmness from a single gulp.
The weather forecast said the temperature would be 31 degrees Fahrenheit; it was getting chilly and the wind blew dried autumn leaves all over the park.
I started fidgeting as I tried to pull myself together and not go look for a bar frantically; it was quite an effort.
The combined effect of the cold wind and urge to drink gave me the shakes.
Suddenly, my mouth was dry and parched. I licked my lips and tried to swallow repeatedly; it didn’t help.
I had promised myself I won’t drink again…not a sip, ever…though it was as if it was already late for the resolution but I intend to keep it anyway. What else can I do?
Well, I didn’t swear never to smoke again so maybe I can steer my thoughts towards the balmy, cool calming feel of smoke passing through my nostrils as I exhale…yes…the thought alone was soothing and at the same time exhilarating.
We were wrapped in our thoughts and longings as we sat mutely on the bench, wind rustling dead leaves around us. It was gradually getting dark and deserted; my wristwatch, a gift from my father, given to me as I was about to go to the gulf war, operation desert storm, it was called.
It was around after five in the evening; most stores were preparing to close.
Somehow, my father was right; the war was senseless!
Nothing was the same when we got back; the few of us who made it back were disillusioned by the reality of being a war veteran and hunted daily by noises of mortar shells and bombs. They called it posttraumatic stress disorder; a post war syndrome where we never stop fighting the war even after it was long over.
Some of us were depressed, restless and found it difficult to adjust to the constant peace and tranquility of everyday life back home. Found out my dad had died of prostrate cancer while I was in the Middle East.
Hurts like hell; couldn’t even attend his funeral. Started having sleeping problems; I would pace around the big house restlessly like an aggrieved ghost.
The only time I was able to sleep was after several glasses of brandy, martini, tequila, vodka…rum.
Don’t get me wrong the war didn’t create my drinking problems; I had had a few drinks secretly in my fathers’ garage with Hank and other high school friends when no one was watching long before we enlisted.
The war and its effect on us aggravated our vices.
Those who had anger management issues became highly unmanageable and erupted at the slightest provocation.
My appetite for spirit increased and I consoled myself that it was helping me deal with reality.
That was about twenty years ago.
Those of us who were able to get a life had moved on eventually, got married, had children, pets, good homes and jobs but kept our habits and vices.
I had lived for a hundred years at forty; aged twice and seen about everything.
Now in my late fifties nothing thrills me beside my thoughts...
To be continued
He has been squeezing the fedora hat for the past four hours. His hair, tousled by the wind stayed spiky and disorderly on his huge scalp.
He sat perfectly still; the only thing moving was his eyes. He was staring with total concentration at the woman inside the bookstore across the road, following her every movement with rapt concentration.
I sat beside him and waited patiently; I was getting used to sitting quietly beside Hank and not complain, though I felt like a drink and maybe a smoke. Instead, I busied myself imagining the warm drink course down my throat stinging and at the same time numbing my gullet as it went down to erupt in my stomach.
And swoosh! Tingles…woozy feeling…objects in view beginning to twirl…then bliss…
Nothing beats the thrill of a drink! I thought to myself, suddenly very thirsty. Scotch, vodka, brandy, whisky…dry martini…tequila…ah! I’d give anything to be able to take a sip, a gulp of any of these and let the burning smarting sensation spread through my palate and tongue down, all the way down to my stomach…aaaaaaah!...he sweet warmth enveloping me like a soft feathered comforter by the fire on a cold winter night…suffusing my body like mamas’ hug back then while I was in my third grade on a summer afternoon after a successful game. I could get all that comfort and warmness from a single gulp.
The weather forecast said the temperature would be 31 degrees Fahrenheit; it was getting chilly and the wind blew dried autumn leaves all over the park.
I started fidgeting as I tried to pull myself together and not go look for a bar frantically; it was quite an effort.
The combined effect of the cold wind and urge to drink gave me the shakes.
Suddenly, my mouth was dry and parched. I licked my lips and tried to swallow repeatedly; it didn’t help.
I had promised myself I won’t drink again…not a sip, ever…though it was as if it was already late for the resolution but I intend to keep it anyway. What else can I do?
Well, I didn’t swear never to smoke again so maybe I can steer my thoughts towards the balmy, cool calming feel of smoke passing through my nostrils as I exhale…yes…the thought alone was soothing and at the same time exhilarating.
We were wrapped in our thoughts and longings as we sat mutely on the bench, wind rustling dead leaves around us. It was gradually getting dark and deserted; my wristwatch, a gift from my father, given to me as I was about to go to the gulf war, operation desert storm, it was called.
It was around after five in the evening; most stores were preparing to close.
Somehow, my father was right; the war was senseless!
Nothing was the same when we got back; the few of us who made it back were disillusioned by the reality of being a war veteran and hunted daily by noises of mortar shells and bombs. They called it posttraumatic stress disorder; a post war syndrome where we never stop fighting the war even after it was long over.
Some of us were depressed, restless and found it difficult to adjust to the constant peace and tranquility of everyday life back home. Found out my dad had died of prostrate cancer while I was in the Middle East.
Hurts like hell; couldn’t even attend his funeral. Started having sleeping problems; I would pace around the big house restlessly like an aggrieved ghost.
The only time I was able to sleep was after several glasses of brandy, martini, tequila, vodka…rum.
Don’t get me wrong the war didn’t create my drinking problems; I had had a few drinks secretly in my fathers’ garage with Hank and other high school friends when no one was watching long before we enlisted.
The war and its effect on us aggravated our vices.
Those who had anger management issues became highly unmanageable and erupted at the slightest provocation.
My appetite for spirit increased and I consoled myself that it was helping me deal with reality.
That was about twenty years ago.
Those of us who were able to get a life had moved on eventually, got married, had children, pets, good homes and jobs but kept our habits and vices.
I had lived for a hundred years at forty; aged twice and seen about everything.
Now in my late fifties nothing thrills me beside my thoughts...
To be continued
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Convict
Omonigho’s son, Oseme, was coming home after such a long traumatic wait.
He was doing time for a crime committed months back, she knew her son was innocent, he didn’t commit any crime yet they wanted him killed as a punishment.
Though unjust, the society regarded the act as unforgivably abominable crime; even Oseme’s father and Omonigho family disowned him and her. In their eyes, she was as guilty as her son.
Shackled in his dark narrow cell, he sometimes hears his mother cry and apologize to people, asking for forgiveness on the other side.
Helpless, he wished he could console her and apologize for causing her this pain of becoming an outcast and social misfit, an embarrassment to her family.
She accepted it as her cross and stayed indoors most of the time.
On Sundays, with hair combed back in a tight knot and dressed in her only best dress a loose fitting brown tie-and-die gown, she would brace herself for the onslaught as people either ignore or jeer at her in church as she tries to blend into the wall at the back bench meant as punishment for her kind during worship.
She wore the pain of rejection and heartbreak with dignity; often, when a member looks her way, with renewed hope she would inwardly will them to say something to her, anything. How she long for a kind word, an advice or open rebuke…a hug.
Usually, they pretended not to see her. She was used to being invisible; of using alternate routes where she seldom meet anyone familiar; of keeping to herself and shutting her ears and mind to public aloofness to her plight.
With stooped shoulders and head constantly bowed, she prays for her child and ask God over and over again to forgive her, her son and them.
Every Sunday was the same; she came last to avoid hostile gaze and leave first to escape rude remarks.
How easily they justify rudeness because it’s approved by many!
Omonigho was forced to move into a shelter for others like her. She busied herself when not praying for her son, preparing for his homecoming. Sometimes she was too ill to move; bedridden, she refused to consider suicide as she reminisce on her past and dreams, wish things were different, imagine what it would’ve been like and with a pang, what it has become.
What kept her going was this day of Oseme’s release.
Then she won’t be lonely ever!
Like many others she can’t out of fear and shame give up on her child and live with her conscience.
She would rather pay the price.
At the shelter, she got some fairly-used clothes for him and cut and sews a multi-colored bedspread from her wrappers to cover his bed.
On the day Oseme was due home, though scared and worried, she wore her Sunday best, tidied the room and braided her hair herself; she wanted to look good for him.
She was determined to be happy once he came so he won’t know what he costs her.
There were many mothers like her in the shelter.
It is the way of life here…
A year after Oseme arrived; Omonigho, frustrated, went for her fourth scheduled interview.
“I’m sorry we can’t…” she was told.
It was the same as her former school everywhere else she went.
Doors were shut in her face.
Her pleas and promises to do her best fell on deaf ears.
Perhaps they were right; being a teenage unwed mother is still a taboo in the village.
He was doing time for a crime committed months back, she knew her son was innocent, he didn’t commit any crime yet they wanted him killed as a punishment.
Though unjust, the society regarded the act as unforgivably abominable crime; even Oseme’s father and Omonigho family disowned him and her. In their eyes, she was as guilty as her son.
Shackled in his dark narrow cell, he sometimes hears his mother cry and apologize to people, asking for forgiveness on the other side.
Helpless, he wished he could console her and apologize for causing her this pain of becoming an outcast and social misfit, an embarrassment to her family.
She accepted it as her cross and stayed indoors most of the time.
On Sundays, with hair combed back in a tight knot and dressed in her only best dress a loose fitting brown tie-and-die gown, she would brace herself for the onslaught as people either ignore or jeer at her in church as she tries to blend into the wall at the back bench meant as punishment for her kind during worship.
She wore the pain of rejection and heartbreak with dignity; often, when a member looks her way, with renewed hope she would inwardly will them to say something to her, anything. How she long for a kind word, an advice or open rebuke…a hug.
Usually, they pretended not to see her. She was used to being invisible; of using alternate routes where she seldom meet anyone familiar; of keeping to herself and shutting her ears and mind to public aloofness to her plight.
With stooped shoulders and head constantly bowed, she prays for her child and ask God over and over again to forgive her, her son and them.
Every Sunday was the same; she came last to avoid hostile gaze and leave first to escape rude remarks.
How easily they justify rudeness because it’s approved by many!
Omonigho was forced to move into a shelter for others like her. She busied herself when not praying for her son, preparing for his homecoming. Sometimes she was too ill to move; bedridden, she refused to consider suicide as she reminisce on her past and dreams, wish things were different, imagine what it would’ve been like and with a pang, what it has become.
What kept her going was this day of Oseme’s release.
Then she won’t be lonely ever!
Like many others she can’t out of fear and shame give up on her child and live with her conscience.
She would rather pay the price.
At the shelter, she got some fairly-used clothes for him and cut and sews a multi-colored bedspread from her wrappers to cover his bed.
On the day Oseme was due home, though scared and worried, she wore her Sunday best, tidied the room and braided her hair herself; she wanted to look good for him.
She was determined to be happy once he came so he won’t know what he costs her.
There were many mothers like her in the shelter.
It is the way of life here…
A year after Oseme arrived; Omonigho, frustrated, went for her fourth scheduled interview.
“I’m sorry we can’t…” she was told.
It was the same as her former school everywhere else she went.
Doors were shut in her face.
Her pleas and promises to do her best fell on deaf ears.
Perhaps they were right; being a teenage unwed mother is still a taboo in the village.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
“…to my only grandchild, Kingsley, I bequeath my camera and the sum of…” as the attorney read the last will and testament of his late grandpa, Kingsley could vividly hear his Grandfathers’ strong alto voice as if he was there in the oval office. His eyes misted over as he listened.
They were gathered in the attorney’s office downtown to hear the reading of Greg seniors’ will. Kingsley’s parent sat beside him.
Defeated by this gesture because he didn’t really expect such obvious support for his dreams from Grandpa Greg especially at death, he sat there as a statue and stared hard at the film in his hand; the half-opened camera along with a black pouch and case lay beside him on the mahogany desk.
His parents and the attorney had left the office and gone to the outer office to talk about probate papers and other stuffs. He insisted he wanted to sit there for a while; he knew once he walked out of the office, the realization that his grandpa was gone would kick in; from now on, he was on his own.
He scrutinize the items on the table, totally ignoring the check made out in his name for the sum bequeathed him. Money was the last thing on his mind. He loved Grandpa Greg so much that he felt like an orphan though his parents were both alive.
The camera was a black Kodak camera with heavy lens for zooming and detachable flash. He ran his finger gingerly through the spelt out word ‘Kodak’.
He knew this gift was Greg senior final act of defiance; his last chance to liberate Kingsley from his parents and help him follow his dreams.
For the next forty minutes, he tapped the film with his forefinger, deep in thought; once in a while, he would lift it towards the light to scrutinize the negatives that came along with the camera, smile briefly, wink or squint. There were some landscape pictures and portraits of persons he couldn’t tell who they were; until the film was developed. His heart gave a kick as he remembered Grandpa won’t be seeing the printed pictures when they were ready; whatever he snapped in these films are solely his now.
He heaved a sigh and struggled to control his emotions.
He was unaware of time and seems not to be in a hurry. He didn’t know whether he should be happy or sad.
Dressed in a tweed coat and matching pants, he wore a cream coloured turtle neck sweater and cap. His hair, dark-brown in colour, stuck out on both sides of his ears. His chin was wrapped in stubs and a week old beards. He purposely refused to shave.
When he got the call that his grandfather was passing, he rushed to be with him at the hospital, praying and hoping his health will improve.
At twenty-four, he looked fifty; he has always dressed way above his age because Grandpa Greg Snr. mentored him. It was him who thought Kinsley how to swim, fish and do everything he did.
It was also Grandpa who knew exactly what he liked and supported him.
His father, Greg Jnr., a retired cop, had a whole different set of things he expected of him.
Only Grandpa understood the difficulty of growing up with parents who wanted an unattainable expectation of their son. He always came to Kingsley rescue when his parents were leaning too hard on him.
“You’re going to be a doctor…paediatrician.” Kingsleys’dad informed him one sunny day.
He hated hospitals and syringes, but he was too scared to object. His mother preferred him to study veterinary medicine and sometimes made it look like a better option to paediatric medicine. Both parents tried to live through their only son by wanting him to fulfil their unrealized dreams not knowing it was a dicey position to place the young boy.
Right from when he was five, he was drawn to pictures and paintings. The few times he attended picnics, he usually sit still and watch the scenery with rapt attention and sometimes tries to draw pictures of what he saw in napkins.
Once, he did ask Santa to make him become a good art painter. Another time, he asked for plenty pictures as Christmas gifts.
His parents didn’t want to think of the idea of their son becoming a painter or photographer; that was why they seized the first set of coloured paintings Grandpa bought for him. They felt it was all a waste of time for a man to doodle with colours or collect pictures of landscapes and flowers.
The dim glow from the lamp in the attorneys’ office highlighted the right side of his face, showing half high forehead, pinched pointed nose with crooked nose bridge, thin lips tightly closed and a sharp jutted jaw. His profile covered a part of the law books arranged in the left hand side of the office.
About an hour ago, Kingsley got the answer to all the questions he has been asking in his life; with one kind quirky gesture, his grandfather answered him in the simplest of language by bequeathing him with the gift.
He had died of lung cancer five months ago at eighty-four; Kinglsey’father, Greg, along with his only sister, Margaret didn’t spend time mourning; their fathers’ death gave them long enough warning. Having gone through several chemos, they were secretly happy for the deceased that it was over.
As sole survivor, Greg senior left all his belonging to his favourite charity organization and a meagre monthly income for both of his children; his only grandchild, Kingsley got his ten years old Kodak camera.
It was Greg senior way of telling his only grandson he cared even when he knew the gift might offend his father.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)