Christmas in Afugiri.
"Da" Ola, Nnachinyere, and I stood by the roadside waiting for a taxi.
Da Ola, sometimes shouting greetings of "Mmama" to anyone who walked past and insisting we do the same.
In the same way Mum insisted, I said her name Ola with the prefix "Da" which was a mark of respect, because she was many years older than me, and "Dede" for all the male visitors, who trooped to our house without an invitation.
In this part of the world, she lectured, you did not call older people by their first names.
My name is Nneoma Nwankwo, but in this beautiful outback, where the soil is red, and the sky is so clear, you can have a tete-a-tete with the stars, even on a full moon night, everyone calls me Ada. It is not, one of the names on my birth certificate, but Mum says I earned it because I am the first daughter, it is a title. Every Igbo first daughter is called "Ada"
My name is Nneoma Nwankwo, but in this beautiful outback, where the soil is red, and the sky is so clear, you can have a tete-a-tete with the stars, even on a full moon night, everyone calls me Ada. It is not, one of the names on my birth certificate, but Mum says I earned it because I am the first daughter, it is a title. Every Igbo first daughter is called "Ada"
We heard their voices even before we saw them, men, women, and children, dressed in their best clothes because it is a Sunday as they walked on this long stretch of the road, which had no road sign announcing it.
The wind carried their conversations to us and around. Perhaps faster than the normal speed of sound, for everything was different here. Everything seemed magical
Someone had gone to Nwanyioma's farm and harvested her cassava before she got there yesterday, we heard
"Ewo oh my goodness! "How will she feed her five children? The voice asked.
"Juwa kwam, ask me" another voice replied.
"Owu kwa aguo, it is hunger " another proclaimed
"Do you become a thief? because of hunger? the voice scolded
"Owu kwa aguo, it is hunger " another proclaimed
"Do you become a thief? because of hunger? the voice scolded
"Could the person not have asked Nwanyioma for help, she is a generous woman, she would have given out some cassava to the thief"
"Owu uwa nmebi, the world is coming to an end" the other prophesied
by the time we put faces to the voices, we already knew a tale or two about their lives and the latest gossip in the village.
"Owu uwa nmebi, the world is coming to an end" the other prophesied
by the time we put faces to the voices, we already knew a tale or two about their lives and the latest gossip in the village.
It is the main road, that connected many villages and communities and many drove on this road to go further North to Uzuakoli and Ohafia. The only tarred road in my father's village. On this side of the village, there were more farmlands than houses
The bushes on the side of the road were covered in red dust, and the air was dry and hot, from the West African trade winds, which brought the sub-season "Harmattan"
The bushes on the side of the road were covered in red dust, and the air was dry and hot, from the West African trade winds, which brought the sub-season "Harmattan"
"So why did we live so far from the rest of the village" I questioned my mother who had become weary from my countless questions and the unending stream of visitors.
The homestead had become too small, the hacienda, if you speak Spanish.
My father was the sixth son in his family of nine children.
The homestead had become too small, the hacienda, if you speak Spanish.
My father was the sixth son in his family of nine children.
The land he inherited to build his house, was so small, that you could not build a chicken coop. So he bought land on the outskirts of the main village
Our house was five miles from the main village, but that did not stop the trooping visitors. I had never seen this many people come to visit us, especially without an invitation.
Again, Mom answered my queries "These are your brothers and sisters" She used the word "Umunne" children of your mother or your mother's children. They did not need the invitation to visit with us.
Again, Mom answered my queries "These are your brothers and sisters" She used the word "Umunne" children of your mother or your mother's children. They did not need the invitation to visit with us.
My twelve-year-old brain did not quite understand. In Miami, Florida, my "Umunne" was Nnachinyere and me, but in this lovely outback, where the air was clean except for the Harmattan dust, and the children sat around an elder on a moonless night and listened to stories about ancestors, powerful and noble, my Umunne was made up of a whole village.
She did not serve the visitors, soda or fruit juices only, but everyone got a plate of food to eat. There was constant cooking, and everyone was happy and in boisterous spirits
The women danced and clapped their hands and prayed to their Gods to bless my father and replenish his pocket (bank accounts)
My father enjoyed the attention and so did Nnachinyere. Everyone called him "Okpara" because he was the first son, and in his case, my father's only son.
The men talked about, how much he looked like my father and would grow to be taller.
My father was 6 feet 2 inches tall and burly. The little boys who came with their parents, adored Nnachinyere, letting him choose which games they played and mimicking his American accent.
They played soccer, which was not Nanna's favorite sport but here it was very popular, everyone seemed to know how to play it, babies and toddlers alike. They ran all over our 3300-square-foot compound, yelling and laughing.
I had never seen Nnachinyere so happy, he was in his element.
Almost everyone who came to visit complained of one ailment or the other, their headaches, failing eyesight, uncontrollable bowels, toothaches, and unemployed sons. they not only wanted counsel but treatment as well. My father was a Cardiothoracic surgeon at the Baptist Hospital of Miami. Here everyone called him "Dokita"
From the attention he was receiving, my Father was like some demigod in his village. He never complained, he enjoyed every moment, laughing and slapping the men on their backs, a pat on the head for the little boys, and getting hugs from the women.
An unmarked crowded car pulled over, Da Ola announced that was the taxi.
I looked at her questioningly and Nnachinyere chuckled, with that impish grin on his face, which railed me sometimes.
They played soccer, which was not Nanna's favorite sport but here it was very popular, everyone seemed to know how to play it, babies and toddlers alike. They ran all over our 3300-square-foot compound, yelling and laughing.
I had never seen Nnachinyere so happy, he was in his element.
Almost everyone who came to visit complained of one ailment or the other, their headaches, failing eyesight, uncontrollable bowels, toothaches, and unemployed sons. they not only wanted counsel but treatment as well. My father was a Cardiothoracic surgeon at the Baptist Hospital of Miami. Here everyone called him "Dokita"
From the attention he was receiving, my Father was like some demigod in his village. He never complained, he enjoyed every moment, laughing and slapping the men on their backs, a pat on the head for the little boys, and getting hugs from the women.
An unmarked crowded car pulled over, Da Ola announced that was the taxi.
I looked at her questioningly and Nnachinyere chuckled, with that impish grin on his face, which railed me sometimes.
"Beach" the driver stated matter of fact, his threadbare white vest, had a large crescent-shaped damp stain, made by perspiration, at the underarms. It was hot, and his car had no air conditioning.
His vest had the inscription "One way to heaven" emblazoned across the chest.
I chuckled to myself, with the look of his car, that was certainly where we were headed, and on a business class ticket too.
I chuckled to myself, with the look of his car, that was certainly where we were headed, and on a business class ticket too.
There were two women and a child in the backseat of the car. The car was designed to carry just two in the backseat, but like I said, here everything was different.
A young man and a lady squeezed in the front seats with the driver. I looked at da Ola again, to confirm that we really should get into this car.
A young man and a lady squeezed in the front seats with the driver. I looked at da Ola again, to confirm that we really should get into this car.
Da Ola glared at me, the glare spoke volumes and sounded like "Shut your little over-pampered mouth" and that stopped me from vocalizing my concerns: the absence of seat belts, reckless endangerment to minors, and many other traffic offenses, a Miami- Dade police officer would have charged our driver with the devil may care attitude.
She gently shoved my brother and me into the back seat, slamming the door, which did not close until the driver came around to "Jimmy" it by slightly raising it, and slamming it shut.
One of the women in the backseat carried the child, a girl of four or five in her lap to make room for us.
Da Ola carried my ten-year-old brother in her lap something I teased him about for the rest of the trip.
My father had told many stories of Christmas in his village, a place he had many fond memories of. Although by the world bank standard of GDP calculations, he was poor.
His childhood had been filled with love and laughter, the many pranks his brothers had played on themselves and the villagers.
She gently shoved my brother and me into the back seat, slamming the door, which did not close until the driver came around to "Jimmy" it by slightly raising it, and slamming it shut.
One of the women in the backseat carried the child, a girl of four or five in her lap to make room for us.
Da Ola carried my ten-year-old brother in her lap something I teased him about for the rest of the trip.
My father had told many stories of Christmas in his village, a place he had many fond memories of. Although by the world bank standard of GDP calculations, he was poor.
His childhood had been filled with love and laughter, the many pranks his brothers had played on themselves and the villagers.
The many hours of community service they had done, not because they were arrested on the charges of DUI (Driving under the influence), like my cousin Nnaemeka was, last spring break in Miami, but because they wanted to make the village a better place to live
After the war, his village was a disaster zone. There were no government emergency services or international crew to clean up the mess, build roads, bridges, and waterworks stations, rebuild schools or restore electricity.
My dad, his brothers, and every member of the village built back their community. They taxed themselves from their meager allowances and earnings to make it happen.
After the war, his village was a disaster zone. There were no government emergency services or international crew to clean up the mess, build roads, bridges, and waterworks stations, rebuild schools or restore electricity.
My dad, his brothers, and every member of the village built back their community. They taxed themselves from their meager allowances and earnings to make it happen.
Former federal government workers like his Uncle "De" Nwogu had returned to their former jobs, in the Capital city.
The civil war had been their worst nightmare, the battle of a people for self-determination. The genocidal war had claimed over three million lives. Somehow luck smiled on my father and his brothers, they all survived, although he lost cousins. uncles and aunties, friends too many to count. The deliberate starvation of children by a blockade of aid in the war-torn zone was unprecedented.
My father said it was one of the reasons he wanted to become a doctor.
I peeked through the window as the taxi came to a stop. There were people everywhere men, women, old and young. Young adult men standing around talking so loudly, you could not hear your heart beating, or what was so funny that caused the raucous laughter. It was not like you heard the conversations on that long road. Nnachinyere hurried ahead of us, eyes laughing in excitement.
"Is it like Miami carnival? He asked me if I know. This is my first visit to my father's village
"I don't know," I shouted, trying to catch up with him, leaving a very exasperated Da Ola behind us. Who now started running after us, the look in her eyes murderous. Mom had made her promise nothing would happen to us. She pleaded on our behalf to be allowed to go see Ekpe, the Ekpo, the village masquerade who came out to entertain the villagers on Christmas day.
My father said it was one of the reasons he wanted to become a doctor.
I peeked through the window as the taxi came to a stop. There were people everywhere men, women, old and young. Young adult men standing around talking so loudly, you could not hear your heart beating, or what was so funny that caused the raucous laughter. It was not like you heard the conversations on that long road. Nnachinyere hurried ahead of us, eyes laughing in excitement.
"Is it like Miami carnival? He asked me if I know. This is my first visit to my father's village
"I don't know," I shouted, trying to catch up with him, leaving a very exasperated Da Ola behind us. Who now started running after us, the look in her eyes murderous. Mom had made her promise nothing would happen to us. She pleaded on our behalf to be allowed to go see Ekpe, the Ekpo, the village masquerade who came out to entertain the villagers on Christmas day.
Christmas day, I soon realized was not on December 25th, like everywhere else in the world but on a market day that was based on the Igbo calendar.
Mom patiently explained to me. The Igbo calendar had 13 months in a year, and 7 weeks in a month, There were four market days in a week, which translated to four days in a week, not like the seven days in a week, we had in Miami.
Da Ola caught up with us, and issued a stern warning, we must be at her side, at all times. She held me with her left hand and Nnachinyere in the right.
This was a bigger village square, and people from all the eleven villages that made up Afugiri came here to see the masquerade.
We would spend a little time here, then we would go to her friend's house, whose balcony overlooked the village square. She promised we would have the best view of the Ekpo from that location.
We would spend a little time here, then we would go to her friend's house, whose balcony overlooked the village square. She promised we would have the best view of the Ekpo from that location.
The crowd was rowdy and tumultuous, There were no Police officers to control them like at Miami Carnival. It was easy to get lost in this sea of human heads and legs and everything.
She warned us again, pulling on her right ear for emphasis, we must never leave her side.
She warned us again, pulling on her right ear for emphasis, we must never leave her side.
There were no cell, mobile telephones, or fixed lines in my father's village. It was the year 1988, and the nearest telephone was on the "beach" a place I later was told was really the town center. For there were no seas or oceans near my father's village.
Soon the crowd became excited, and people started moving around toward the source of the commotion.
When next I looked, Nnaa was gone, Da Ola went berserk
She cursed and ranted beads of sweat gathering on her forehead, and the tip of her nose
Soon the crowd became excited, and people started moving around toward the source of the commotion.
When next I looked, Nnaa was gone, Da Ola went berserk
She cursed and ranted beads of sweat gathering on her forehead, and the tip of her nose
"Chineke mo ooo, my God o o, Your brother wants to kill me o, Nnaa! Nnachinyere" she yelled out
I gazed at her innocently, Nnaa could not hurt a fly, he was scared of spiders, and now those orange-caped lizards, we saw basking in the sun on the corrugated roofs, and nodding at intervals,, as if they saying "Yes my Lord" to the Sun in worship. Mum had called them the "Agama Lizard" the West African rainbow lizard, with its beautiful bright orange head.
Da Ola was my father's youngest sister and worked as a nurse at the village health center
She did her best to please my father because she wanted him to take her to America.
Where she would earn "hard currency" real American dollars, she boasted to her friends
The last thing she wanted, was to lose his only son.
"Chai! ewu atala mu, igu ni isi, a goat has crapped on my head" she exclaimed
As she held my hand so tight, her eyes searching the crowd and screaming Nnaa's name.
I gazed at her innocently, Nnaa could not hurt a fly, he was scared of spiders, and now those orange-caped lizards, we saw basking in the sun on the corrugated roofs, and nodding at intervals,, as if they saying "Yes my Lord" to the Sun in worship. Mum had called them the "Agama Lizard" the West African rainbow lizard, with its beautiful bright orange head.
Da Ola was my father's youngest sister and worked as a nurse at the village health center
She did her best to please my father because she wanted him to take her to America.
Where she would earn "hard currency" real American dollars, she boasted to her friends
The last thing she wanted, was to lose his only son.
"Chai! ewu atala mu, igu ni isi, a goat has crapped on my head" she exclaimed
As she held my hand so tight, her eyes searching the crowd and screaming Nnaa's name.
The din was deafening, there was no way Nnachinyere would hear us.
She started asking people around us, describing my brother, and his American accent.
"No one will even understand, what he is saying" she lamented
The crowd surged further, she feared she might lose me in the melee
"Nne ndoo" she now looked at my sad face, on the verge of crying my eyes out
"We will find him, this is his father's land, nothing will happen to him" Da Ola tried to reassure me.
I nodded but feared the worst. Maybe it was going to be like in those stories on "America's most wanted" when the children were found, but dead buried in shallow graves or thrown away in trash bags
Will I never see Nnachinyere again? My sometimes annoying but loving brother
I started to regret all the times, I had teased and taunted him about being such a baby, the last time being a few hours ago, in the taxi.
A permanent scowl appeared on da Ola's pretty face, her smile which looked very much like Nnaa's was gone
The sun was beginning to set, and it was getting more difficult to recognize faces, then we saw him, his back was towards us, a boy of about Nana's age, and stature, wearing the same hue of the tee shirt.
Da Ola quickened her steps, and I could feel the tension in her hand relaxing.
She started calling out to him, Nnaa! Nnachinyere! Nnam!
The boy kept walking away, stopped for a few minutes, and then hurried off,
Da Ola and I broke into a trot, as much as the surging crowd would allow.
Then he turned around, to follow the path of the Masquerade, he looked nothing like Nnaa on the face
The Big Masquerade had eventually come out to entertain the crowd, but we hardly noticed, we were occupied with more pressing matters.
The sun had set, and it was getting dark now. I looked at my watch, it has been two hours since we lost Nnachinyere.
I was tired and thirsty, Da Ola took me to a "kiosk" away from the crowd and bought me a soda "Fanta"
"Nne ndo o, sorry, I know you are hungry and tired, but we will find Nnaa"
Da Ola narrated our predicament, to the kiosk owner, a buxom mild-mannered beauty, who reminded me of Estrella, our housekeeper in Miami, she reassured us, Nnaa would be safe.
Once he could tell his name to anyone, they would take him home.
My father's name rang a bell, in these parts.
I could see the smile slowly begin to creep back into Da Ola's face, as she ordered another "Fanta" for herself.
She started asking people around us, describing my brother, and his American accent.
"No one will even understand, what he is saying" she lamented
The crowd surged further, she feared she might lose me in the melee
"Nne ndoo" she now looked at my sad face, on the verge of crying my eyes out
"We will find him, this is his father's land, nothing will happen to him" Da Ola tried to reassure me.
I nodded but feared the worst. Maybe it was going to be like in those stories on "America's most wanted" when the children were found, but dead buried in shallow graves or thrown away in trash bags
Will I never see Nnachinyere again? My sometimes annoying but loving brother
I started to regret all the times, I had teased and taunted him about being such a baby, the last time being a few hours ago, in the taxi.
A permanent scowl appeared on da Ola's pretty face, her smile which looked very much like Nnaa's was gone
The sun was beginning to set, and it was getting more difficult to recognize faces, then we saw him, his back was towards us, a boy of about Nana's age, and stature, wearing the same hue of the tee shirt.
Da Ola quickened her steps, and I could feel the tension in her hand relaxing.
She started calling out to him, Nnaa! Nnachinyere! Nnam!
The boy kept walking away, stopped for a few minutes, and then hurried off,
Da Ola and I broke into a trot, as much as the surging crowd would allow.
Then he turned around, to follow the path of the Masquerade, he looked nothing like Nnaa on the face
The Big Masquerade had eventually come out to entertain the crowd, but we hardly noticed, we were occupied with more pressing matters.
The sun had set, and it was getting dark now. I looked at my watch, it has been two hours since we lost Nnachinyere.
I was tired and thirsty, Da Ola took me to a "kiosk" away from the crowd and bought me a soda "Fanta"
"Nne ndo o, sorry, I know you are hungry and tired, but we will find Nnaa"
Da Ola narrated our predicament, to the kiosk owner, a buxom mild-mannered beauty, who reminded me of Estrella, our housekeeper in Miami, she reassured us, Nnaa would be safe.
Once he could tell his name to anyone, they would take him home.
My father's name rang a bell, in these parts.
I could see the smile slowly begin to creep back into Da Ola's face, as she ordered another "Fanta" for herself.
It is now four hours since we lost Nnaa, it was really dark.
The woman advised da Ola, to take me home, so my parents do not get worried. She promised to tell the young men who came to buy drinks to quench their thirst about Nna's disappearance. They would bring Nnachinyere home when they found him.
Da Ola hesitated, she could not bear to go back home without Nnachinyere, she had promised my mother, it was her idea, that we went to see the Ekpo, the masquerade, and dance, an experience she said would be good for us. The first-hand experience of our heritage.
The woman advised da Ola, to take me home, so my parents do not get worried. She promised to tell the young men who came to buy drinks to quench their thirst about Nna's disappearance. They would bring Nnachinyere home when they found him.
Da Ola hesitated, she could not bear to go back home without Nnachinyere, she had promised my mother, it was her idea, that we went to see the Ekpo, the masquerade, and dance, an experience she said would be good for us. The first-hand experience of our heritage.
How could she return home without my parents' "Opara"
I remembered once an argument between my Grandmother and mum when she visited last summer in Miami.
Mama Ukwu (Big mother) as we called her, was advising my mother on having another child. Mum had laughed in her face, explaining that two children were enough traffic for her birth canal.
I remembered once an argument between my Grandmother and mum when she visited last summer in Miami.
Mama Ukwu (Big mother) as we called her, was advising my mother on having another child. Mum had laughed in her face, explaining that two children were enough traffic for her birth canal.
Mama Ukwu had insisted she was being foolish, it was good that Nnachinyere had a brother. Besides, that way if anything ever happened to Nnachinyere, mum would still have a son. My father would never think of marrying a second wife, to have another son. Sons meant the world to an Igbo man, she had said.
Mum had laughed louder, telling Mama Ukwu she was so old-fashioned, and my father was not like all those men in the village, he was over-educated, he was a surgeon for crying out loud.
Mum had laughed louder, telling Mama Ukwu she was so old-fashioned, and my father was not like all those men in the village, he was over-educated, he was a surgeon for crying out loud.
My parents could afford to have as many children as they wanted, mama Ukwu continued, disregarding Mum's opinion.
Dad was a Cardiothoracic surgeon, and Mum was an attending OB/GYN at Jackson memorial hospital.
Mum knowing she could not win that argument, had simply nodded, just to shut Mama Ukwu up, and changed the topic of discussion.
That was only last summer, what would happen to my parents if Nnachinyere was never found. Would my over-educated, westernized father, marry a second wife like the men in the village Mum had spoken about? I did not think so. He loved mum too much to do that. He had said so, during their last wedding anniversary, when they had renewed their vows last spring.
Dad was a Cardiothoracic surgeon, and Mum was an attending OB/GYN at Jackson memorial hospital.
Mum knowing she could not win that argument, had simply nodded, just to shut Mama Ukwu up, and changed the topic of discussion.
That was only last summer, what would happen to my parents if Nnachinyere was never found. Would my over-educated, westernized father, marry a second wife like the men in the village Mum had spoken about? I did not think so. He loved mum too much to do that. He had said so, during their last wedding anniversary, when they had renewed their vows last spring.
"Ifeyinwa owu mu la gi o, titi lailai, It is you and I forever" he had said, gathering mum in his arms, while Nnachinyere and I looked on, smiling
I started crying and praying at the same time.
"Nne ndoo, Nnaa will be fine" Da Ola wiped my tears and consoled me.
as we waited by the roadside for a taxi, this time without Nnachinyere.
An unmarked car pulled over and we got in and continued the rest of the journey in a haunting silence.
I started crying and praying at the same time.
"Nne ndoo, Nnaa will be fine" Da Ola wiped my tears and consoled me.
as we waited by the roadside for a taxi, this time without Nnachinyere.
An unmarked car pulled over and we got in and continued the rest of the journey in a haunting silence.
In the two weeks that I had been in my Father's village, I had never seen Da Ola, so quiet.
Thirty minutes later, we reached our home and made the longest five minutes walk in my life to the door, only to be welcomed home, by a smiling Nnachinyere with his impish grin.
All the characters in this short story are a work of fiction by the writer and bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead
.
Thirty minutes later, we reached our home and made the longest five minutes walk in my life to the door, only to be welcomed home, by a smiling Nnachinyere with his impish grin.
All the characters in this short story are a work of fiction by the writer and bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead
.
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