I
In 1998, my father became a rich man. Back then, rich men knew something about everything. If you ever met my father, you’d wonder how he got to having a huge pocket, while being oblivious to politics, business, and people. Another sign of a rich man was greed. My father, much to the distaste of his ostentatious brother did not care about multiplying his wealth.
In his late forty’s, the passing of a rich man whose life he saved during the war, left him a rich man, and because my father received such kindness, he was kinder than most men were. He gave freely and never expected anything in return, not even that his own brother would swindle him out of his fortune and into oblivion; where he existed primarily, till I thought of him again.
The relationship I had with my father was one where we hardly saw ourselves as father and son. I realized not long after I turned five that he didn’t see me every morning as I thought. I also learnt that his mumbles to my morning greetings, were only remarks made by his subconscious.
The only time I tried to understand him and his absence was while he sat in front of the TV, playing and replaying an old video tape since after the war. It was the same one all the time; he had made a thousand and one copies of that stupid tape. The jarring view of a middle aged woman reminiscing about everything that mattered to my father. How the civil war began suddenly and riotous, and how quietly it ended. It was a national treason, yet every one labeled a traitor was a hero to my father. I knew that made him a traitor too.
Father barked at the lady on the screen. He screamed liar whenever she spoke, and when he couldn’t control his anger any longer he burst into tears, hiding his face behind his palm and coming down from the sofa where he sat, and down to the floor. But he would never stop playing that tape.
He came home early one day from work looking utterly defeated. Thin and fragile as he was, his voice low and quiet. I knew something was amiss as he took out of his face, round glasses that had stuck to his face like small binoculars. That was the day his brother had betrayed him. The company and all of his properties now belonged to his brother. I really wondered if he was surprised or hurt, or maybe a slice of both. At age twelve, even I knew my father put so much trust in his brother. After all, he was all the relative he had left.
In the coming months, a different kind of gloom filled our home. Cabinets ran out of groceries never to be replaced, apparels lasted longer, and soles of shoes gained value. They became transferable, organ donors to other damaged shoes. Father, like a snail when touched entered into his shell whenever mother asked him to do something about it. With every disappearance of comfort, I watched my mother’s frustration grow like seeds being planted on very fertile soil. I ate the fruits of her frustration; she sent me long icy stares in place of a comforting embrace. When she caught me doing something wrong, she didn’t raise her voice but threw her shoes, purse, and any object in sight at me, it didn’t matter if it was a pillow or a kitchen knife.
Because it had rained earlier, there were no stars to watch on the night my father passed on.
II
After a year, mother decided we couldn’t live in the city any longer. So we moved to her hometown. We didn’t enjoy living without running water or electricity, but it wasn’t all bad. In the evenings, the sky turned a beautiful orange hue, and that was my cue to chase a truck’s tire down the empty street. I knew the trip would be so much better, if someone sat inside the tire, while I heard their loud screams as I rolled the black tire over the red clay. But I couldn’t ask my mother to sit in it.
One day, after two months of living the quiet life that mother’s hometown blessed us with. Things changed, as they always do.
“Edu, Edu, come here,” Mother called one idle evening.
“Make sure you are clean,” she quickly added.
After washing my big feet and small hands, I went outside to meet her. There with her was Uncle Nduka, my father’s only alive brother. The one who took over our house in the city and every other thing we owned. The man who orchestrated a betrayal that led to my father’s peril. Flesh and blood there he was.
“What is he doing here?” I asked.
“Edu? Don’t be rude. Greet your uncle.”
“Good day. How can we help you?” I asked frowning.
He smiled quietly at me and said casually, “Chinedu, kedu?”
I grew skeptical of the scene before me. First, it was a long time since mother called me Edu. That name was for special days like when I had come home with a report at the top of my class, or when I had helped with a chore I hadn’t been asked to do, Edu was for those, but now it only frightened me especially with my Uncle around.
“I only asked your Uncle to come, so you can follow him back. You will live with him—"
“No! I don’t want to.” I interrupted sharply.
“It’s what’s best for you. I can’t keep you here, while your mates are in school.”
I looked at her worried gaze and listened to her pertubed breathing. Immediately, I knew how difficult it was for her to come to such a decision. I had never disobeyed her and I feared to begin.
“Will you visit?” I asked reluctantly, watching her. The absence of mmiri in her eyes, ironically, told me how much she was suffering.
“Sure Edu, I would visit you every now and then.”
“You promise?”
“I promise you.”
I was a grown man, or at least, I felt like one. That was why I surprised myself when I felt the hot tears on my face. She embraced me, and told me to be strong. I really don’t know what she expected from me. But I promised her, I would be whatever she wanted.
The ride back to the city was fleeting. I remember our vehicle passing the pot hole ridden roads which soon turned to polished city roads and the persistence of the hawkers shoving their wares into our car whenever we stopped. I recall the sneer on Uncle Nduka's scowling face, when we arrived at my new home.
Glossary
Kedu – How are you?
Mmiri – Water.
In 1998, my father became a rich man. Back then, rich men knew something about everything. If you ever met my father, you’d wonder how he got to having a huge pocket, while being oblivious to politics, business, and people. Another sign of a rich man was greed. My father, much to the distaste of his ostentatious brother did not care about multiplying his wealth.
In his late forty’s, the passing of a rich man whose life he saved during the war, left him a rich man, and because my father received such kindness, he was kinder than most men were. He gave freely and never expected anything in return, not even that his own brother would swindle him out of his fortune and into oblivion; where he existed primarily, till I thought of him again.
The relationship I had with my father was one where we hardly saw ourselves as father and son. I realized not long after I turned five that he didn’t see me every morning as I thought. I also learnt that his mumbles to my morning greetings, were only remarks made by his subconscious.
The only time I tried to understand him and his absence was while he sat in front of the TV, playing and replaying an old video tape since after the war. It was the same one all the time; he had made a thousand and one copies of that stupid tape. The jarring view of a middle aged woman reminiscing about everything that mattered to my father. How the civil war began suddenly and riotous, and how quietly it ended. It was a national treason, yet every one labeled a traitor was a hero to my father. I knew that made him a traitor too.
Father barked at the lady on the screen. He screamed liar whenever she spoke, and when he couldn’t control his anger any longer he burst into tears, hiding his face behind his palm and coming down from the sofa where he sat, and down to the floor. But he would never stop playing that tape.
He came home early one day from work looking utterly defeated. Thin and fragile as he was, his voice low and quiet. I knew something was amiss as he took out of his face, round glasses that had stuck to his face like small binoculars. That was the day his brother had betrayed him. The company and all of his properties now belonged to his brother. I really wondered if he was surprised or hurt, or maybe a slice of both. At age twelve, even I knew my father put so much trust in his brother. After all, he was all the relative he had left.
In the coming months, a different kind of gloom filled our home. Cabinets ran out of groceries never to be replaced, apparels lasted longer, and soles of shoes gained value. They became transferable, organ donors to other damaged shoes. Father, like a snail when touched entered into his shell whenever mother asked him to do something about it. With every disappearance of comfort, I watched my mother’s frustration grow like seeds being planted on very fertile soil. I ate the fruits of her frustration; she sent me long icy stares in place of a comforting embrace. When she caught me doing something wrong, she didn’t raise her voice but threw her shoes, purse, and any object in sight at me, it didn’t matter if it was a pillow or a kitchen knife.
Because it had rained earlier, there were no stars to watch on the night my father passed on.
II
After a year, mother decided we couldn’t live in the city any longer. So we moved to her hometown. We didn’t enjoy living without running water or electricity, but it wasn’t all bad. In the evenings, the sky turned a beautiful orange hue, and that was my cue to chase a truck’s tire down the empty street. I knew the trip would be so much better, if someone sat inside the tire, while I heard their loud screams as I rolled the black tire over the red clay. But I couldn’t ask my mother to sit in it.
One day, after two months of living the quiet life that mother’s hometown blessed us with. Things changed, as they always do.
“Edu, Edu, come here,” Mother called one idle evening.
“Make sure you are clean,” she quickly added.
After washing my big feet and small hands, I went outside to meet her. There with her was Uncle Nduka, my father’s only alive brother. The one who took over our house in the city and every other thing we owned. The man who orchestrated a betrayal that led to my father’s peril. Flesh and blood there he was.
“What is he doing here?” I asked.
“Edu? Don’t be rude. Greet your uncle.”
“Good day. How can we help you?” I asked frowning.
He smiled quietly at me and said casually, “Chinedu, kedu?”
I grew skeptical of the scene before me. First, it was a long time since mother called me Edu. That name was for special days like when I had come home with a report at the top of my class, or when I had helped with a chore I hadn’t been asked to do, Edu was for those, but now it only frightened me especially with my Uncle around.
“I only asked your Uncle to come, so you can follow him back. You will live with him—"
“No! I don’t want to.” I interrupted sharply.
“It’s what’s best for you. I can’t keep you here, while your mates are in school.”
I looked at her worried gaze and listened to her pertubed breathing. Immediately, I knew how difficult it was for her to come to such a decision. I had never disobeyed her and I feared to begin.
“Will you visit?” I asked reluctantly, watching her. The absence of mmiri in her eyes, ironically, told me how much she was suffering.
“Sure Edu, I would visit you every now and then.”
“You promise?”
“I promise you.”
I was a grown man, or at least, I felt like one. That was why I surprised myself when I felt the hot tears on my face. She embraced me, and told me to be strong. I really don’t know what she expected from me. But I promised her, I would be whatever she wanted.
The ride back to the city was fleeting. I remember our vehicle passing the pot hole ridden roads which soon turned to polished city roads and the persistence of the hawkers shoving their wares into our car whenever we stopped. I recall the sneer on Uncle Nduka's scowling face, when we arrived at my new home.
Glossary
Kedu – How are you?
Mmiri – Water.
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