I am Chuka and I grew up in the Eastern part of Nigeria in the late 70′s. My Mother had me at a time when many thought her biologcal clock had stopped ticking. She was a tall light skinned woman with a strong build. Her legs were strong and hard and sometimes looked as though they were made of the very tubers of yam that grew at the center of the town square. She was a popular and fairly successul trader at the famous Aba market. My father, well I can’t remember much about him, except that he was an extremely quiet man and he was frequently referred to as woman wrapper.It was commonly said that he was scared of my mother, ofcourse this was only whispered in people’s backyards for fear of my mother hearing. I also remember when I was much younger, my father returning from work, his frail stature appearing from the distance while the sun set and my older brother running towards him to collect his torn leather okrika otherwise called ”second-hand” brown box. Our home was a bizzare one, my parents hardly ever spoke to each other and when did, it was because they were arguing. I always wondered why they got married in the first place. School was a place of freedom for me.
I didn’t have to bear the sounds of my mother scolding my father and I could eat as much of the food portions as I wanted during school lunch hours, unlike at home where I had to share a piece of meat with my selfish brother who usually threw the whole thing in his mouth and swallowed it before I could protest. At school, I usually heard tales from other children about their family trips and holidays to Onitsha and Lagos. I always went green with envy as I had never been to anywhere except my local village in Aba. These happy children also snickered among themselves about the activities of their parents behind their bedroom doors. I heard them talk about muffled sounds of moans and screams. Of course I never heard such sounds from my parents. They never even held hands!
On a certain july morning, during our school assembly, the school headmaster, an incredibly short Indian man, annouced that a successful coup had taken place and the head of state had been overthrown. At the time, my mates and I wondered what this had to do with us. After the all important news the principal had made, on the home front, things got tougher as my parents had even more heated arguments, during one of such arguments, I heard my mother mention that we had no money and she was no longer making sales at the market. I wasn’t quite sure the effect this would have on us but I knew it would be bad. As the weeks went by, food rations got smaller, my mother got stricter, my father got leaner and quieter but thankfully, my brother became more considerate.
One evening, after my father returned from work, he seemed to have something on his mind. I went to try and strike a conversation with him and all I could eventually get out of him was that he was travelling to the south for a short while and would be back as soon as he could. He hugged me uncomfortably and waved at my brother. As he was leaving our little compound, my mother approached the house and accosted him. My brother and I watched them make gesticulations at each other as they spoke for what seemed like an eternity. At the end of the evening, I saw my father walk away and my mother storm angrily into the house and into her room. All through the night, I listened to my mother rant, agonize and go on and on about how unfair my father had been by leaving her to raise my brother and I alone in such difficult conditions without leaving a dime.
I couldn’t sleep that night and for a few nights after my father left. I still wonder how my brother did. I partly blame my mother for his abandonment, the woman was always breathing down his throat. I was incredibly pained by his exit. I missed his quiet presence, wise jokes and the air of serenity he always had. Everyday, when I close my eyes to sleep, I reminisce about my father and hope to see him again.
