Ndú
Photo by Sarah Dorweiler, Evano Community
My Dearest Azuka,
I should be angry that all these years have gone by without a single word from you. But what kind of friend would I be if I let anger get the better of me and miss this opportunity to talk to you again? I understand that life took its course, and it’s okay that life didn’t work out the way you planned. It is okay that life happened to you because it gave us a second chance to find our way back to each other.
It’s okay that life happened to you when Mama found Papa dead in his obi with a bottle of nkwu’ocha. The dibia did not lie because the poison worked. After all, Mama did not know where your stealthy steps—past midnight, the previous day—went. Papa would be buried after weeks of endless sympathisers shedding tears for a man they barely knew.
A cow or two would be killed to commemorate the death of an icon, a real man, agadi nwoke, dimkpa. But it was okay because had Papa not died, you would not have felt seen, cherished. Mama would have wasted her life waiting, hand and foot, on Papa that thanked her with a rain of insults and angry fists, colouring parts of her body—those parts that nobody saw—purple, sometimes black.
Maybe they did see Papa’s painting on her body and turned a blind eye, but we’d never know now. He is dead; Mama is okay.
It’s okay that life happened to you when you flunked your secondary school final exams and had to wait for two years before Mama could pay off her old debts and collect new loans so you could try again. You passed. You sailed through after that second trial, proof that everyone deserves a second chance. Mama was now nne scholar even though all you ever wanted to be was a checker at a local store in Onitsha Main Market. Because you loved the sound of the river Niger, the honking of lorries, the arrival of passengers from beyond the bridge, following travellers to their homes in your head—imagining their lives, gave you joy.
Still, you hated Papa and wished him a second death every time you remembered him. May he never rest in peace. You never forgave him for calling you a dunce, a good for nothing, an illiterate ignoramus all those years; his words—hurtful as they were—stayed with you. When he stinged your buttocks with an iron rod in one hand and your Form 5 result sheet, riddled with red Fs, in the other, while telling you calmly that you would never amount to anything useful. May he never rest in peace.
After passing your SSCE, JAMB, and Post UTME, you went to uni. A registered undergraduate, Mama always teased. The first person in the family to achieve this feat. But, then, life came to play again when you let Professor Mohammed sodomise you. It’s okay because that course was hard; he wouldn’t live past the week after he’d recorded the grades on the class score sheet anyway.
Uni was going well, not until you met the devil. He said his name was Moyo. A knight in shining armour—even though all the saving you needed should’ve been from Jesus. Moyo’s name wet your lips whilst you touched yourself on the nights he left you wanting, lonely, and made love to other girls in the department. That love, that consuming love, made you seek this most sought after Jesus.
Jesus broke your heart too because, oyì’m nwànyí, you would not have met Deacon Moses at the Canopy of God Ministries were it not for him. The deacon would not have been written in the history book of your life. He helped you up from your kneeling position, wiped your tears with his thumb and stuck it between his lips. The feeling of safety his arms gave. But this too was life happening to you. Graduation came. Mama graduated too. The women in your family called her Nne Deaconess, a sobriquet you would later despise.
“Mama would have wasted her life waiting, hand and foot, on Papa that thanked her with a rain of insults and angry fists, colouring parts of her body—those parts that nobody saw—purple, sometimes black.”
Marriage to Deacon Moses was life happening too, nne’m. When he beat you up the first time, you remembered Papa painting Mama’s back with his fists; only this time, you were the canvas. He apologised, blamed the devil for possessing his fists, and you apologised too because this infamous Èkwénsù must be the brain-box orchestrating everything bad, everything evil. And, after all, everyone deserves a second chance.
He beat you up the second time, the third time, and the fourth time. All these a good wife had to bear, Mama said. A good wife had to be desirable, palatable, for her patriarch spouse. So you stayed and endured beatings for foods that were too hot, insults for church wrappers that were worn too loosely, forceful thrusts on nights you were not in the mood, countless visits to the hospital after miscarrying three could-have-been firstborns.
The fourth child stayed because Deacon Moses’s remorse lasted longer than nine months. Odinchezo was born; it wasn’t just you any longer. Odi could not grow up with childhood demons you still fought to keep at bay every time sleep called. Protect Odi at all costs, you swore, even if it meant taking stealthy steps similar to the one you took the day before Papa died.
Days were no longer counted; you were free. Just you and Odi. But what happens when she finds out her mother killed her grandfather and father? Will life take its course?
But that’s okay, my dear friend, because karma has its days of cultivation. The seed you planted all those years ago will either germinate or not. Maybe life will happen, maybe this is your second chance at life. Whichever it is, I bid you a safe trip on this journey to finding yourself a million times over.
Yours sincerely,
Azuka.
About the author
Amarachukwu is a Nigerian undergrad. She wears the title of writer, feminist and other times, poet, boldly. Her works have appeared in NgigaReview, GreenBlackTales, Urights.com, Ukwumango and elsewhere. While Amara performs poetry on her podcast leisurely, she also tries to pass time scaring people into believing she performs witchcraft. Get at her on Twitter and Instagram @amaratheamazon