“Ojukwu has declared a state of emergency. Everyone get
ready. Does the battle catch up with the cripple if he heard the news
beforehand? What I’m seeing from here,
if you children like, climb the Nkwu (palm tree), you won’t see anything. Will
an old woman be at home and the goat puts to birth with a rope on its neck, mba
nu! (No). That’s why I’m talking oo.”
Daa Mgbechi’s voice continued in the distance but at this point I couldn’t make
out what she was saying. Two teenagers beside me were discussing her, so I
listened.
“Announcer has come again. Which one did Ojukwu do now?” One
said.
“Or who knows, Biafra is now an independent republic?” The
other replied with a mocking laughter.
“Announcer’s madness is getting worse each day.” The first
retorted with more seriousness. “It didn’t used to be this bad. She used to run
a provision store down the road. I wonder where her people are.”
I stood for a moment thinking about my aunt, Daa Mgbechi.
Daa Mgbechi is not really my aunt because she is the daughter of my
grandfather’s brother. So, what do I call that kind of relationship? Anyway, it
doesn’t matter as long as we all live in the same compound, which is not really
proper because Daa Mgbechi is a married woman who should be in her husband’s
compound. The only problem is that Daa Mgbechi is not married, so she does not
have a husband. Let me share a little family gossip with you. My other siblings
don’t even know about this. I know because I’m close to my father and I helped
him prepare the family history on paper last two years.
Daa Mgbechi’s father, Okoro, didn’t have a son. He only had
two daughters, Mgbechi and Afoma. Unfortunately, in my place, Nkwonta, a man
who has only daughters is as good as a childless person. Once the daughters get
married, his name is gone. To avoid his name being wiped off our family history
and of course this world the way a child wipes his behind after excreting,
Okoro made his daughters have children for him at home; what we call “ikuchie.”
It is accepted in our custom and widely practiced by sonless fathers like my
great uncle, Okoro. Afoma, the elder daughter had two sons, while Mgbechi had
one daughter, Mmanwa.
So, you can
imagine my disappointment and resentment and embarrassment and all those
emotions I can’t even spell now when I found out two Christmas ago that Mmanwa
is Daa Mgbechi’s daughter. All these
years I’ve watched Daa Mgbechi run mad and roam the streets enjoying her
freedom,yet I didn’t know she had a child. I really thought she was one
childless woman in our compound. How dare she? How could Mmanwa let that woman
wander about, sleeping on the streets when she knows she’s the only thing Daa
Mgbechi has?
That Christmas, I didn’t even want to set my eyes on her,
not to talk of greeting her. I was really angry with her. That same Christmas,
Daa Mgbechi slept under a shed, beside the generator house, outside Daa Afoma’s
house. You see why I’m very angry. Daa Afoma is a rich business woman who would
have nothing to do with her sister, Daa Mgbechi. Daa Afoma has a big house but
Daa Mgbechi sleeps outside on the floor with her wrapper as her only bedding.
On that same Christmas, each time Daa Afoma passes Daa Mgbechi lying beside her
generator house, muttering to herself or sleeping, I wonder what goes on in Daa
Afoma’s mind.
Now, I’ve stopped wondering because whatever is going on in
her mind will not be good. If it were,
Daa Mgbechi will not be sleeping outside: and I don’t want to be thinking about
bad things. I don’t even bother thinking about what Daa Mgbechi is thinking-her
head is filled with madness. How can I be thinking about madness? However, it
bothered me that Daa Mgbechi was sleeping outside. What if it rained in the
night or a snake crawled out from anywhere or any other unforeseen and
unfavorable circumstance occured? It really bothered me that Christmas but it
pained me that Daa Mgbechi has a daughter Mmanwa yet she sleeps outside. It
even pained me the more that Daa Afoma has a house, a big fine house and her
only sister sleeps outside in the cold. I hate to think about it but sometimes
I can’t help it.
Culled
from: The Befitting Burial and Other Stories. I wrote this piece for an
African-writers’ Competition. Enjoy!
Twitter:@club7teen
No comments:
Post a Comment