ANOTHER ‘JOY’ OF MOTHERHOOD (1)

ANOTHER ‘JOY’ OF MOTHERHOOD (1)

Chikaima stares at her breasts; they are swollen and heavy with milk.  She sits by the baby’s cot, waiting endlessly for him to wake up and suck out the ache in her breasts. But the baby keeps stirring from sleep but never waking up. She opens the toilet door noisily but Chidumaga remains still. She starts playing Phyno’s “Connect,” one of the many songs she played to make Chidumaga move while he was still in the womb. She smiles at the thought of her fear that the baby is not moving or even rousing in the slightest way. She remembers pacing up and down the large expanse of the living room in a violent march past while silently humming “left! Right!” repeatedly yet the baby barely moves. She will quickly pick her cellphone and play Phyno’s “Connect” to the loudest volume and Chidumaga will spring up to life, hands and legs pushing through her swollen belly in irregular shapes and tickling the breath out of her. Life knew no other bliss.

“Icho my moni wete kollati wete kollati

D boy na achi ma onwete alerti, nwete alerti

Do not even messi with my konneti….”

A naughty smile plays out on her lips at the thought of “reviving” her son with such music but then she has a niche for rapidly-applied poetry−rap, and the Afro brand in the likes of Phyno, Ill Bliss and Olamide appeal to her in many ways. Chidumaga smiles and stirs a little from the sound of the very music that jostles him awake while he was still in the womb. But that was all; a smile and a stir. As her heart grows with frustration, so does her breast with milk, milk that has now broken through her breastfeeding bra, the breast pads and now drips through the yarns of her lovely post-partum gown. It is her first baby; she has read lots of information on pre-natal, natal and post-natal experiences but here comes the difficult part; the reality of it all. She is living it! She angrily kills the music playing from her phone. Even Phyno couldn’t do the magic. She pulls her stretchy gown a bit lower from the neckline to check the source of her pain. Her green veins are remarkably evident through her yellow skin as her nipples stand like pigeon beaks with milk streaming down.

She shrugs her shoulders in defiance; she is an advocate of fresh milk, she will only feed her baby directly from her breast for the next six months before considering water, formula and all that comes with it. Her Masters dissertation in Child Health of the Department of Public Health is a research in which she advocates for direct breastfeeding of newborns to avoid infections and to encourage mother-child bonding. But the idea of dashing out to buy a breast pump and empty her breast of their watery heaviness becomes more appealing as she watches Chidumaga sleep soundly. She picks her ATM Card and convinces herself that she is only going for a stroll in the street to take her mind off the whole challenge. But her hurrying feet propels her to Baby-Mother Super Mart where she bought both the electric and manual breast pumps. On her way home, she keeps looking back as though one of her schoolmates or Professors who were present during the very radical defence that earned her an A in her dissertation will see her. Guilt.

“Sometimes a mother has to compromise,” she consoles herself.

 She rushes home, sterilizes the items and begins the extracting process. She fills all the four feeding bottles that come with the two kinds of pump and gradually, her breasts deflates to their natural sizes like punctured balloons and their muscles relax, hiding the veins.

“Four full bottles, I must be a milk factory!”

She drops all four in the fridge telling herself that she will warm them in hot water as soon Chidumaga is ready to eat.

******

 
Hyacinth staggers through the gate harassing the gateman as usual by shaking his head violently.

“Old Paapa!”

“The day wey robbers go come here na you go first tear race.”

Paapa angrily dusts his head as though hyacinth had poured dust on it.

“Hyacinth! I am a Professional Gateman and not a Security Officer. I do not carry weapons.”

Hyacinth laughs hysterically and staggers to the main house. He sits on the kitchen stool trying without success to shake off the alcohol that is gradually taking charge of his entire system. He opens the fridge and his eyes glow at the sight of the four jars of palmwine. If he had known that his elder brother had supplies of palmwine he wouldn’t have gone to the bar to incur debt. It’s a full house as relatives are around to celebrate the arrival of Agumba’s son. They must have brought the jars of palmwine from the village. He stares at the glorious jars again as his vision begins to fail. The jars are now eight. He takes the first jar of palmwine and empties it. By the time he emptied the fourth jar, he realized there were no more jars left. He licks his lazy moustache and staggers to his room.

Chidumaga’s tiny voice slices through the air awakening Chikaima’s mother who carries him off the cot and hands him over to be fed. As Kaima tries to unbuckle her breast pouch, she remembers her full bottles and smiles. Besides saving milk for her convenience, she also saves her nipples of the pain from her baby’s constant gum-chewing.

“Mama, there’s no milk here,” she says hitting her breasts.

“I emptied all into feeding bottles and stored in the fridge.”

“Finally someone is thinking beyond lecture room postulations. Go get my grandson’s milk fast,” says Grandma laughing like she always does whenever she wins an argument with her unyielding and incorrigible daughter.

Kaima dashes to the living room visibly disturbed by Chidumaga’s now high-pitched cry.

“He must be very hungry,” she thought aloud.      

She opens the fridge and could not find her filled feeding bottles.

She looks around and finds parts of the feeding bottles inside the waste bin and the remaining on the floor beside it.

Her head felt heavy and her heart sinks. She staggers a little as her legs feel like sagged dunlop in need of extra support. She rushes to her baby and puts the breast in his mouth but Chidumaga continues crying after sucking for awhile. Kaima rushes into the kitchen and drinks hot water but that wasn’t enough to stimulate her breast. The baby keeps crying. She picks her ATM card and dashes off to the same mart and purchased baby formula. She picks up one of the feeding bottles from the floor, rinses from the sink and without sterilizing she mixes the milk and warm water and rushes to the room to feed her baby. Her mother stares at her in dismay.

“Mum do not stare like that. Somebody poured away all the milk,” she says cursing.

Grandma walks to the kitchen and sees the mess.

“No one in their right senses will empty milk from feeding bottles in such manner”  

She goes back to her daughter.

“This must be Agumba’s handwork! You bought him over with that Direct Feeding Theory of yours!”

“Mum my husband is not callous. He will at least consult me. You know he’s a perfect gentleman.

“Is Hyacinth back?”

“I don’t know he should be somewhere, drinking.”

“Yea, drinking breastmilk,” sighs GrandMa.

“It must be one of the guests mum. You know all these village people. I will deal with this at my time.”

Grandma silently walks to Hyacinth’s room, taps him awake and asks,

“Did you by any chance drink the breastmilk in the fridge?”

Hyacinth throws himself on the floor and empties his belly of both palmwine and breastmilk.

Kaima stares at her son sucking the feeding bottle silently and making satisfying sounds. She grows jealous of both the bottle and the content as she reminisces on how she broke all her breastfeeding rules in one day. She remembers her hallowed defence which caused a little debate between the external supervisor from the University of Ibadan and her project supervisor at the University of Lagos. She recalls her last line, “If you must nurse a newborn, do so directly from the mammary glands, to avoid infection and also to encourage mother-child bonding otherwise, hire a wet nurse! But she was single and full of ideas then; now she is a mother. She hugged Chidumaga tight and steps down the staircase to the living room downstairs to meet her mum who points at the door to Hyacinth’s room. She opens the door to behold Hyacinth on the floor in a pool of the mixture of breastmilk and palmwine. She hugs her son tighter and walks into the garden for fresh air. “The ‘Joys’ of Motherhood.”    

FOREST OF FAECES AND CHEMISTRY

CHAPTER THREE

“Passion is a scavenger on a mission

 It is a lover, his heart, his head and his hands

 It is a calculated step and a spontaneous action

 It is a volcano that erupts at will

 It is a harmless touch and a French kiss

 It is a whisper in the dark and a whip in the day

 And sometimes, a torturous release of ungodly desires

 That leaves its tell-tale signs on our broken wills...”

Culled from PASSION BY CHINYERE CHUKWUDI-OKEH (NEE CHIMODO)

FOREST OF FAECES AND CHEMISTRY

He never stopped staring at me. Wherever I go, I see him, I Smell and even sniff him out of a crowd of boys in uniforms. My nose got accustomed to his fragrance. Soon I began to make him up, seeing him in every thought and in every corner and gradually, his face became a constant in my mind’s eyes, beclouding my every thought and weakening my jittery promises to a benevolent lover who engaged me with a ring as soon he heard it was time for national service, the same lover that paid my way through secondary and university education, Polinus, the trader that fed my family because according to him, he has seen an apple that only him will pluck when it is ripe, me.

I thought less and less of Polinus as the seconds ticked by. Soon I forgot his name and gradually his face fizzled out from my memory. The only thing that brought him up was the times my ringing phone bears his name as the caller identity. He calls every other hour, choking the life out of me and cutting my fun short. I switched off my phone for two days and the following day on switching it on, I received thirteen messages, ten from Polinus, telling me how worried he was about me, and how deeply in love he is, with me. The remaining text messages were each from my parents, asking me to call Polinus or at least switch on my phone and pick his calls. And before I could finish the very first message on my phone, his call came in. I picked it and his weak voice kissed my tympanic membrane. He begged me never to switch off my phone. He went as far as reminding me to always wear my engagement ring so that camp boys will know that I am taken. He also asked me not to stay out late or get deeply involved in camp activities as he will not like me to be in the limelight. Polinus feels that keeping a silent profile will mean less attention from men. He also begged me not to wear makeup thus;

“Baby, you should forget about make up for now. You know that I am not there to admire it. After all I am the one you make up for. I don’t want those hot blooded boys to start winking or dimming eyes for you. I renovated the house for your parents. I am even making plans for an after camp party for you on your return from camp. For the sake of harmathan, you may apply that your shine-shine cream to your lips and nothing more please. Also make sure you don’t put on tight or mini shorts and huggy tops. You know Poli-Nwa does not deserve competition...”

He talked on and on, never listening to me, never seeking my opinion and always as though he has lots of spittle in his mouth and that, coupled with his strong accent is real bad news. And if I was within an arm’s proximity with him, I would have smothered the strong urge to puke. His onion-ginger breath and his over grown moustache gets in the way of passion and makes kissing a dreadful experience. We would have been very perfect if I hadn’t seen the fore-walls of a university. I have seen very interesting and engaging young men. Men, who are adventurous, sound and hold great prospects. Men, who will pursue their dreams and let me, pursue mine. Men, who are not cautious but courteous; they will open the car door for me, draw the chair out for me when we go to exquisite places, they will keep me on the safe side of the road when we take evening strolls and above all, they even read my expressions like a book and always ask; “baby, are you ok? Do you want this? I hope this is good for you? What do you think about this? Sorry for this...Thank you for that...Excuse me for awhile...Take your time dear...”

Polinus will take me to pami and nkwobi joint which is not bad at all except when he begins to chat on and on with his friends and forget that I am there. They discuss things that do not interest me in the tinniest way. They talk about building houses, travelling to Taiwan, Tainine, Thailand, Japan, China, Bangkok and Hongkong. They talk about the latest cars in town and who is riding what or getting richer. I once slept off during one of their prattling. Polinus had met a very hot chat on one of their business partners who recently got an Asian woman pregnant and has married her, while making plans to marry an African woman, on entering the joint. He forgot to tell the bar boy to take my orders. He just grabbed a perspiring green bottle and talked on and on until I dozed off. I was somehow grateful that the bar boy didn’t have to attend to me, for his shirt was dirty with oil stains and dried moles of nkwobi sauce. Even his hands and lips were oily, as though he licks them while preparing the ngwongwo. Polinus and his friends had gotten to their cars, doing their last minute chats, when the bar boy with oily hands, hit me awake;

“Abeg, sista, com dey begin go. We wan lock shop. Your man friend abi na customer don waka comot with im friends” I clenched my teeth and withheld the itch to rain curses and slaps on him. I felt a knot in my lower belly and feared that I must have inhaled lots of smoke from their cigarettes. I walked to the car and gently stepped in. 

Polinus drove off like nothing had happened. Before dropping me off at my parent’s, I raised the issue up and in his characteristic manner, he waved it aside, handing me a wad of clean Naira notes for my troubles while planting a smelly kiss on my silent lips. Every woman has a breaking point as something in me snapped at that moment. I remember my first introduction to his friends;

“Meet my tomato. The one I told you people about” boasted Polinus

“Ah, the one that you are training in school” inquired one of his friends

“Yesoo, she is the one I am working hard and struggling to make comfortable” blurted Polinus

“Nna, Polinus don acquire new property oo chei! This one too fine” exclaimed another

“My own be sey make she no leave you follow another man or school boy. I dey fear educated women” spat another friend of his.

I was then like a heifer on the auction table, surrounded by prospective buyers, who gather round, to weigh my value. I remained silent and grateful to Polinus for taking care of me and my family. 

All through my University education, Polinus was there for me, buying me both necessary and unnecessary items of ostentation. I had too much luxury for a student. I lost my academic sight and began looking for the latest items in the market. I am always en vogue. Polinus never inquired about my performance in school, he just keeps giving me money and more money. It took my father’s words and teary eyes to bring me back on track. He had called me into his room one night and handed me the advice that my stray soul needed. Only that it came very late for I was already in the last semester of my three hundred level.

Now in camp, the last thing I want to talk about is Polinus. He has changed considerably though. He even started a course in business administration by my promptings but we still lack mutual connection or maybe I wanted so much and didn’t have the patience to give him a chance. I want to live free, without Polinus looking over my shoulders and suspecting my every step. Just then I opened the thirteenth text message that says;

“Meet me in the forest behind the man-o-war grounds. I am waiting...”

I didn’t know who it was as I have not exchanged numbers with any one yet but I found my curious legs cat-walking to the man-o-war grounds. I walked round the grounds, waiting to be called out or be given the slightest signal but nothing happened, not even the slightest rustling of leaves which I would have followed. I waited for good thirty minutes and went back to my hall with no regrets. As I climbed my bed, my phone beeped of a new message that reads thus;

“Thanks for coming around. I enjoyed your company”

I didn’t know who it was, but I smiled and slept off. When it was time for evening drills, I went into the fields and participated heartily in the drills. For some reasons, I had a funny feeling that someone somewhere is observing me from a distance. I carried on all my activities with grace and elegance almost like a seductress, glancing around at intervals to see if I can get a clue of who my secret admirer was. But I saw no one except fifties of prying male eyes and the eyes of the very boy whose face keeps popping up in my head. He was at it again, staring at me or may be through me for he seemed as though in trance. Slowly, he walked towards me and whispered;

“If you are an arrow, then you must have been shot at my heart for it beats thrice faster any time my eyes cast their lustful glances on you.” It sounded like one of the lines from a James Hadley Chase novel or Mills and Boons, but coming from him, it felt like a breath of fresh air.

I stood transfixed as the word “lustful” kept ringing in my head. He walked away without looking back. I stared at his back, his well-chiseled frame and gulped. He sounded quite impressive as all the graduates try to speak impeccable English and represent their respective Alma maters well. Later that night, I received another text message to come to the same venue. It was very late but I defied the darkness to go to the grounds with the hope that my admirer, who refuses to show his face in broad day light, may show it in pitch darkness. And he did. I got to the grounds and saw corps couples, all positioned in twos in choice places. I never knew there was so much life in camp and all of it, happening behind me. I felt awkward and alone. If this ghost admirer doesn't show up today, I will never come here alone again. A hand slipped into mine and walked me to a corner with two camp chairs kept side by side. He pulled out one for me to sit in, and drew the other one closer for himself. It was him. The same boy that had whispered into my ears, the very one whose face I remember very often. We sat still, for long stretching minutes, feeling the evening breeze, the sound of the leaves swaying from trees above us and the rustling sound of nearby forest. The night breeze carried with it, the smell of faeces. I wondered how there could be so much chemistry in the most impure places; with the smell of faeces wafting across from the forests. But these couples didn’t care for some are out to sow their wild oats in camp and are doing a fine job of it both in the bush and the Mami market. 

There were some corps couples in corners, smooching and smoldering while I stare at them and him at me.

“Do you like it” he asked

“Yeah...I mean no! The idea of coming out here is cool and seeing people loosen up this way is very amazing. I mean this is fun and em...” I stammered on.

He started his own episode with me and gradually, we became a fraction of the whole episode around us, doing the same thing but in individual styles and energy. Every day I look forward to a smooch in the dark. And soon he didn’t feel the need to keep the text messages coming as I go to the venue and even wait for him to come. Soon I grew jealous whenever I see him with other pretty girls. The courtesies reduced but the connections in the dark continued. He knew I was completely addicted and carried away. He never said “I love you” nor did he mention his name. He only told me that I resemble his mum, who is from Calabar and nearly every Nigerian man sees his mother in his woman. He also said he is from Akwa-Ibom. Not like I care about his paternity, maternity and nativity. I only look forward to his passion’s promise. He can come from Kafanchan or Siberia for all I care. Besides, Polinus tells me all the “I love you(s)” to last me a life time. Gradually, my nose became one with the smell of faeces from the forests and soon I realized that nothing counts when the chemistry is right. 

We carried on till two days before the end of the camping period. The very day we chose to appreciate passion in rounds. It happened in broad day light. He grabbed my hands from the parade grounds and let me to the man-o-war grounds. But this time, we walked past the grounds and deep into the forests. There were dried and fresh faeces here and there. But surprisingly too, there were sprinklings of lovers in strategic positions. There were old dirty mattresses around. They didn't seem like they were recently abandoned in the bush. Generations of corps members must have laid on these and done the same things that our batch is doing; living an unbridled life, life without barriers and bringing their passions to bare in the most obscure places. We kept repeating ourselves again and again until we realized that in life, we can never get enough of everything especially with parting’s cold hands waiting to pull us apart. The serendipity of this discovery calmed my spirit.

The following morning, as I tied my towel and headed to the bathroom, the bathroom that is very close to the forest of faeces and chemistry, I sneaked into the bush and had one last touch from Akwa-Ibom boy. He ended by saying;

“This was fun while it lasted. I have a girlfriend who is still in school. And I know you equally have a fiance or husband. We both have our lives outside the walls of this camp and must retire to it. I wish we can remain in camp forever and keep doing this. But our realities outside the camp await our return and our future is outside the gates beckoning.” It sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

As practical and callous as he sounds, I can’t help sobbing, knowing that Polinus is my only reality. Since he started treating me to clean wads of Naira notes, I stopped dreaming and by the time my father advised me, it was almost late. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life or what I want to be in future. I have one good talent; shopping. So I made up my mind to be an event planner, specialized in helping people with their bridal and events shopping. I made up my mind there and then, to keep my electrical engineering certificate under my box of dresses and accessories for ever. I have been an Oriaku; eater of wealth, to Polinus. Now I vow to be resourceful, to be an Odoziaku; manager of wealth or an Osodiemeaku; the one who makes wealth like her husband. I learnt a lesson from my sexcapades in camp. From then I knew that I will never be a figure head or play a second fiddle in any man’s life. All my fantasies of a service-year-long romance with Akwa Ibom boy went will-o’-the-wisp. 

My phone started ringing again. It was Polinus for I remember the ring tone I assigned to him.

“No woman no cry...no woman no cry...”came Bob Marley’s voice singing through my phone.

 I stared at the caller identity. I never call him a sweet name. I just saved his number with “Pòli”, just Pòli. I can hardly even remember the digits of his number. Just then I remembered my engagement ring. I must have misplaced it. It was supposed to be on my ring finger. I felt nausea and ran to the nearby bush and emptied my stomach of the breakfast of flakes I filled it with. I hope for the sake of Polinus, that I am not pregnant. I rushed my bath with a generous bowl full of the fruit bath that Polinus bought for me from China. I must have smelt of an Asian fragrance or flower on leaving the bathroom, for other girls kept asking for the name of my soap but I told them not to bother for my fiance bought it for me from abroad. I submitted all the camp properties with me and checked out of the camp. On leaving the check out arena, the camp supervisor complained that the mattresses keep reducing by the year and with shadows in my eyes, I pointed at the forests of faeces and chemistry, right behind the man-o-war grounds and said;

“Sir, you might want to check in the forest behind the man-o-war grounds. There are lots of mattresses there” said my shaky voice.

I carried my bundles in hand and my burdens at heart, and headed to the gates to catch the next bus to the city, where neon lights and night life with Polinus and his bunch of friends await me. Though that is about to change for his friends will learn to recognise my presence and respect my feelings.  Immediately, a hand rested on my shoulder. A familiar hand, rested on my weak shoulder gently, in the most reassuring manner. I turned and saw Polinus. He came to pick me up and had been waiting to drive me home.

“Baby you have been ignoring my calls. Why?” asked Polinus

“I um...em no...ee you know how it is here... no time. You see, and no breathing space” lied I.

“Hmmm. No time. I understand dear. I missed you so much. I once drove down here to see you but you never picked your call. And the officials tried to reach you but your roommates said they have not set eyes on you for a long time. I have been sleeping awake since then. I still revisited but didn’t see you. I was consoled when your neighbours said you come out for the drills. I assumed you didn’t want your room and decided to perch somewhere else”

“I have heard you. Sorry for the troubles” said I, in passing.

He lifted my wrists in the most tender and respectful way. He almost planted a kiss on them when he suddenly noticed the missing ring. Looking me straight in the eyes, he asked;

“Baby, where is our ring?

“Robbers...it was snatched from me, by robbers on the fields” lied I again, hardly meeting his eyes.

He cupped my face in his rough hands, hands that have hustled all their lives, carrying spare parts off containers, for hours on end. The same hands that generously put my fees in my hands, fees made possible by spare parts money. He searched my eyes and finally said;

“It is okay. I won’t scold you. We will buy another one, a better one. My baby will wear diamonds. She deserves it. Or don’t you?”

Just then, I felt nausea and ran to the nearby bush again. He asked if I was okay and I replied “yes”. He held me and gently propelled me to the car. Just then I realized that his strong accent is almost not there, as he makes a strong effort to even speak Queen’s English. He was dressed in designer’s suit and a new Prado jeep, black tinted tear robber, waited for me across the road. He walked to the door and for the first time, opened the door for me. In utter shame, I looked round to make sure that no one had seen me but they were behind, staring at me in admiration, boys looking and girls drooling. I caught a glimpse of Akawa Ibom boy, his hands on the shoulders of another pretty girl and looked away in tears. I made to enter the car when another bout of nausea sent me to the bush again.

“Baby, are you pregnant”?

I remained silent and weak as though I have no strength to talk.

“I am the luckiest man alive. My baby is pregnant with my child”.

He rested his hand on my very flat tummy.

“I have to hasten preparations towards our wedding. There is no better time than now that you have graduated. I wouldn’t want my darling to give birth outside wedlock. That is if you are pregnant. I love you my baby” Polinus assures me like he always does. I gave him my normal everyday reply;

“Thanks for loving me”

My friend’s call came into my phone, I picked it and she said,

 “I can see your omonna abi omata boyfriend looking good. Hope he is still the same person that I know and yab you about. What are you still doing with him anyway?”

“He is still the same one. Only that with patience and love, we can consciously or unconsciously turn people into the best that they can possibly be. And the question should rather be, ‘what is he still doing with me?’ I retorted

“Na you sabi. So can I join you people home? I wouldn’t mind being a part of the show, now that all eyes are on you. C’mon, tell him that your friend wants to come home with you” she begged mischievously

“No dear friend, I need to be alone with him, we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yeah sure, whatever, I guess three is a crowd. Never mind. Just remember me in your paradise and send me the IV before the bell dings” she said and hung up

Polinus finished arranging my luggage in the boot and came into the car. He had shaped his funny moustache and carved his side boards properly. He looked young and fresh. He wore a heavy male fragrance, just the way I want it.

“Honey you look good” said I

“God! I have waited from the very first day I met you, to hear you call me a sweet name. God bless this day! Now I have the conviction that things will work out fine. Just that there is one thing you have never told me. But that too will come. I have done a lot of things wrong because one never satisfies a woman enough but I needed someone to put me through. I went for counselling and gracious God, it is working...phew!”

He kicked on the ignition and released his legs from the brakes as we headed home. A line of the National Pledge hit my ears from the loud speaker at the entrance of the orientation camp;

“To be Faithful, Loyal and Honest”

I urgently need doses of faithfulness, loyalty, honesty and their elder siblings of love and patience. Guilt gripped me with its invisible hands and Polinus kept wiping the tears off my swollen chicks, saying;

“No matter what has happened, we will be fine and things will sort themselves out. We have an eternal life of togetherness ahead of us. Just put your hands in mine and tell me how to do things right and I promise never to fall short of your expectations”

I put my guilty hands in his, shed one last hot tear and slept off with the words ringing in my subconscious thus;

“To be faithful, loyal and honest...”

And gradually, my inner voice kept repeating the National Pledge, putting Polinus wherever Nigeria is mentioned thus;

“I pledge to Nigeria my country

To be faithful loyal and honest

To serve Nigeria with all my might

To defend her unity

And uphold her honour and glory

So help me God...”

One of the stories in the collection "From the Crevices of Corps Hearts."

A TOUCH IN THE RAIN

I stared at my posting letter, satisfied to be posted to faraway Benue State, to a local government that is a farm settlement; Ukum. There I met Kwaseshough, a young dark-skinned girl. I often visit her house, pretending to be visiting her brothers who were my pupils. Kwaseshough makes food, makes clothes and makes hair. She pounds yam and pounds palm kernel with her baby brother firmly strapped at her back and her kid sister who has a constant running nose, at her feet. Sometimes her kid sister reminds me of an art work I once admired in Ben Enwonwu’s exhibition, of a skinny young woman, breastfeeding an obviously hungry looking child from underneath a heavily knotted wrapper, with another strapped behind her, trying tirelessly to grab a view of the milk loaded breasts, and yet another at her feet, a little bit past the age of breastfeeding and staring not at the breasts but through and beyond the breasts, into the skies with sunken and tear brimmed eyes, and eye balls that report sunkenly from their sockets, ribs threatening to shoot out through her skinny skin. Now it is that child that caught my attention the most. As I sit now staring at this little girl who is staring at the heavens, probably daring them to throw down food or just throwing up myriads of wishes which the heavens may or may not have refused to honour, I remember the one in the still world of Enwonwu’s art, teary-eyed, begging the heavens to rewrite her family plot.

I think of Kwaseshough, who has learnt to be a hero and conquer the world at a tender age, caring for her bedridden mother, caring for the growing battalions her father left behind, nursing her private dreams while looking forward to the day when her father will walk through the door and change their world forever. Her zest for life and a future she can neither define nor describe touches the sour core of my humanity. I wish I can take her to a place where she can learn to live again as a young girl, not as a woman fighting middle age crisis in a crude way. I advised her to stop strapping the baby behind her and allowing her virgin breasts to be depressed, paying a price that is not hers.

I invited Kwaseshough to a sex education seminar organised by corps members. And as the seminar progressed, she grew stiff and sweaty. And when it was time for questions and answers, she sprang up from her seat and sped off. I hurried after her, calling her all the sweet names my failing strength could muster for she ran with the energy of a deer. I panted and gasped for breath. Soon the clouds began to twist and turn like a pregnant woman whose water is about to break. I felt the need to stop the wild chase but my ever demanding ego wanted to prove a point. She ran, deeper and deeper into the forests. The cloud began to release his pre-seminals, slowly wetting and loosening up the cuticles of the hard earth. Soon it began to release copiously in torrents, beating up clouds of dust like an angry man with pent-up passions. The last I saw of Kwaseshough was of her rich brown hair, tussled and dripping behind the nape of her neck, and of her body, wet and transparent beneath her organdy drapes. Balls of perspiration mixed with rain balls and made me thoroughly wet and humble. As the last ounce of my ego left me, my weak sinews gave the earth a big bow. My fragile body crumpled up on the humus earth. I thought of Kwaseshough’s back view, how magnificent and mesmerising it was as her whole body jiggled to the rhythm of her running legs.

I laid there, numb and drained of strength. This is worse than the forceful drills I received at the camp. Seconds turned into long minutes and I heard spattering steps drawing closer to my direction. Excitement rushed into my being and enlivened me. I tried to prop up myself, but my legs became seized by a muscle pull. I screamed and frightening was the loud noise that escaped my throat.

“If I die in this jungle, who will gladly tell my story? The story of an only son, who discouraged his parents from legging his posting to the big cities and chose to serve in a farm settlement but died in the bush while chasing a village girl he had fallen in love with. What sort of epitaph will be written on my marble vault?” I thought aloud.

The thought of death further scared the living daylight out of me.

Suddenly, someone tugged at my crested vest, yanking them off. All the cold in the world rushed into my wind pipe, leaving my pores swollen with goose pumps. I felt crickets in my belly as Kwaseshough unzipped my trousers. My upper and lower teeth engaged in an inharmonious counter rhythm of clatter…bang…clatter…bang. Just then her naked beautiful skin shone in the dimness of the rain forests and I realised how much I wanted her to carry on with this surprising adventure. Her touch banished my initial thoughts of death, and grave was the liveliness that possessed me as we both engaged in the dance of life. All the forces of nature were attuned to the rhythm of our moving waists and hips. Images of grains grinding into granules in the grinding mill played out in my head. The passion she offered was so furious and embalming. Sounds of gushing water in the nearby stream, the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the whispering of pines, the swaying of branches, the sounds of animals from a nearby poultry in the bush, the music of the rains as they dug repeatedly into the earth, all things human and natural came alive to form one solid repeated rhythm. Seconds turned into long minutes and probably into hours. She launched me into a timeless zone. Passion edifies the soul while defying time, space and status. With this dance came copious secretion of adrenaline. So beautiful was this music that even the sick and the weak will dance it and hanker for more.

We both moaned and squirmed until we had our hearts fill and the story came to its climax. Suddenly I realised how naked we both were. Until that day, I have never been naked before a woman since I learnt to take my birth. She is my first and I received all the gifts of her passion. She kissed me repeatedly from hair to head, head to toe and toe to neck and rested there. She stared into my eyes for long seconds and whispered some strange words into my tingling ears thus;

“Msough dedoo; I love you”

“Boki wam ushima shima; My best friend”

“Shior yam ihir hir; My first love”

I felt awkward, not responding to her mystical chants. I decided to use some very logical gap fillers. Our love is without language and today, without barriers. We may not hear each other, but our hearts will hear and understand. She continued.

“Me kera nenge awe yange miom chiem av; I shall never see you again”

To that I replied, “I love you too”

“Ulu ke mnyam chiem av kpem; You will forever live in my dreams”

“Saa shie gen udoo shima wam; Farewell my love”

Her last sentence sounded very emphatic, almost like goodbye. So I thought of a long reply for I wasn’t done with her yet.

“The feeling is mutual. I feel like we should live here forever…” I buzzed on while she started moving away, gradually loosening her grip from my shoulders, her lips away from my ears and her face away from my neck, in the most unwilling manner. She gathered her wet clothes and gave me a long stare, this time she looked angry as tears mixed with rain balls and trickled down her fleshy cheeks. She walked away, still naked, her wet cloths sweeping the grounds, head high, shoulders square and without looking back. The sky equally seized his drops, leaving the earth wet, fertile and loosened up. As I turned, my eyes met the green inscriptions and the emblem on my white crested vest;

NYSC

NATIONAL YOUTH SERVICE CORPS

SERVICE AND HUMILITY

I stared at the emblem for a long while: the national flag, hoisted against the middle white background of the national map. And behind the map is a black lighter bearing red fires. Suddenly I remembered that I am supposed to be in the middle of a sex education seminar for early teenagers and young adults. I am supposed to be a touch bearer, a light in the heart of the darkest darkness but here I am. All the guilt and shame in the world descended on my fragile conscience and remained there. How could I have done this with a minor? Suddenly, I remembered that she was in charge of the just concluded exercise and between us, I am the first timer. This thought lightened but did not clear my guilt as I hurriedly dressed and rushed off to the venue. For weeks, Kwaseshough avoided me.

I became friends with a corps member, who is a native of Benue and understands Tiv language. He told me he had lived all his life in Abeokuta. He speaks the Yoruba language fluently. I grew up in Lagos and chews the Yoruba language like the Megida crunches his bitter kola. So we crunched on, code mixing and code switching as I told him all about Kwaseshough and how I long to see her. He arranged to come with me to her house. We set forth at twilight, when all the children are by the fire place, telling twilight tales with their mothers.

We moved from door step to door step like celebrities, greeting endlessly and receiving praises that only Aondodoo, my tour guard could understand. My pupils ran after me, with oily hands and running noses, leaving their dinners of Gbachee and Ibieer, and their mother’s voices behind. We suddenly became like the British overlords but unlike the British, we came with our uniforms, our brains and our dreams. As we marched into the heart of Ukum, we were seen and treated like gods. Aondodoo is Zeus, while I am Hermes, his messenger. He responded to all their greetings, waving his national hands in the air, while I walked behind, nodding without speech, mind occupied by thoughts of Kwaseshough. If this were the colonial era, I would probably be the altar boy, standing behind a Reverend or an African guard, standing behind a white district head. We entered Kwaseshough’s father’s compound, a dead end as it marked the end of Ukum—no further foot paths led away from their compound. There is a long stretching cassava, yam and coco-yam barn that demarcates the building from the endless bush behind it, forming a fence of sorts. This is the season of harvest and Benue, the food basket of the nation, harvests in tons.

We saw an old woman feeding Kwaseshough’s brothers and licking all five fingers, one after the other. They were having Dafa; boiled guinea corn, a bit bigger than millet, red in colour, and tastes like rice and eaten with sauce. I swallowed hard, in a strong effort not to vomit the strands of noodles I had earlier, as she licks up even the mucus from the running noses of the children she was feeding, while licking up the particles on her fingers. Aondodoo greets the old woman with shriveled lips. She responded casually as though we were invisible. She dampened all the glamour of our triumphant entry. She was asked of Kwaseshough, and she points to a double faced hut, very close to the fencing barn.

On getting to the door, I tried to knock but Aondodoo stopped me and gently pushed the door open. Our eyes met with that of Kwaseshough’s bedridden mother. We moved on to the next door which is slightly open. My eyes met with that of Kwaseshough, legs astride with a slightly old and skinny looking man, riding away between her legs. She kept staring at the door, with tears in her eyes and the man’s back to the door. I rushed to pick a rock somewhere in the empty compound but Aondodoo held me.

“Leave me, let me stone that thief” I cried in a muffled voice.

“No, he should stone you for sleeping with his wife. I saw this coming” uttered Aondodoo.

I lay on the floor close to the door, hearing her painful but muffled groans which are worlds apart from the sounds she emitted the last time we danced. I sobbed even harder.  Aondodoo spoke for awhile with the unwary octogenarian, feeding the boys. As we walked back to the corps members’ lodge, our sorry figures walked silently past the natives who were deeply consumed in their moonlight lives and hardly noticed our forlorn figures. No greetings, no echoes of “Mwuese; I am grateful” for us, the bringers of light, the national champs. I stared at them with all the bile in the world.

“Dude, get a grip. That old woman feeding the boys is Kwaseshough’s mother. The woman lying ill on the bed is her co-wife. She married her for her husband. She takes care of her and bears children for her husband. The man on her hips, is her husband; the very one that has been in the city. He returned days ago. The children being fed are Kwaseshough’s children. You, my guy, are the stranger who must round off his National Service and go home. Again, I think she would have told you about herself but for the language barrier thing.”

Aondodoo angered me more by speaking so casual. He sang and hummed his native tune which began to pall on me until I dozed off. In the morning, I woke up with a severe head bang and fever. For the first time, the boys complained that I snored noisily all through the night. But why won’t I snore? I guess I must have had a very heated quarrel with that woman snatcher. I must have rained curses on him in my dreams. I was held back earlier from stoning that lanky old man who descended three generations lower, to marry a girl, old enough to be his granddaughter.

Three years after losing Kwaseshough, I ran into Aondodoo. And he confirmed my fears.

“Kwaseshough has a very light-skinned child that looks exactly like you.” He said.

“How is she?” I asked, ignoring the statement.

“She is seriously ill. She is now bedridden like her late co-wife. Her husband died of AIDS. He refused to go for HIV treatment until it was too late. I think Kwaseshough and her fair child are also positive.”

I Have Sinned By George Chimezirim Egbuchulam (April 15, 1986-Dec.2nd, 2012)

Father forgive me, for I have sinned...
Father forgive me, for I have sinned…

I have lied, I have hated, and I have been greedy. But above all Father, I have committed fornication with one of your own…

I feel guilty, because for a long time, I had harbored sinful thoughts about Pastor Tom in my head. I found him a handsome man, and I thought it a pity that he had taken a vow of celibacy. Every time he stood on the pulpit to preach, I admired his height, his eyes, and the way his lips moved as he expounded the word of God. I imagined those holy lips on my body father, and many a time, I lost concentration during church service.
Father forgive me.

The day Pastor Tom came to my room in the boys’ quarters where I stay, I wasn’t expecting him. He said he had gone to counsel some of God’s sheep who were about to stray, and he remembered I lived in that area. So he decided to stop by. He had hoped to meet my roommate and I, to share the word of God with us.

Father, I offered Pastor Tom a seat on the bed, because the only chair we possessed was hidden under a pile of books and clothes. So was the greater part of the bed. As a result, I had to sit close to him on the bed. He asked me questions. I answered. He enquired about the state of my poor family, and my father’s health. I began to talk. He is a good pastor, father, so I unburdened myself to him. The sad talk made me cry, and the man of God offered his shoulder. He took me in his arms, and I forgot the cause f my sorrow. I wouldn’t let go. The pastor held my hand.

Father, forgive me, for I proceeded to caress his chest, his neck, and any other place my hands could safely touch. The man of God offered a little resistance. He must have sensed that I needed the comfort of his hands on my breasts. He did put them there, and I didn’t complain.
I pushed Pastor Tom down on the bed and kissed him. He kissed me back, to drive my sorrows further away. When I pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, he was as surprised as I, because we both had no idea that he shirt had been unbuttoned.

Father, I do not wish to sin further by desecrating holy ears such as yours with the details of what I did to the holy man. But I am sure that when I kissed him there, down below, and took him in my mouth, he was shocked. I do not believe that he had ever felt such a sensation before.
I pleased the pastor as I was sure that no woman had ever done before, showed him almost all the tricks I had in my book.
When it was over, and the man of God awoke from the little slumber into which he had fallen, he looked sad, and he said to me, “I have sinned”.

Those words put the fear of God back into me, and I sought to confess at once. But first, I wished to confide in a friend of mine, whom I knew to be holy, and who keeps strictly to the commandments of God. So I went to her room in the evening, a few days later, to tell her of my unholy conduct. As I approached, I saw that the lights were dimmed. I decided to give her a surprise. I went to the window. I was going to shout “boo” and give her a fright. But father, she gave me a fright instead!

The sounds that emanated from the room were almost animalistic in their intensity, grunts, loud moans, a little scream here, heavy panting. Sounds that reminded me of my time with the man of God…

Wicked pervert that I am, I was riveted to the spot, drinking in the sounds, wishing I could get a glimpse of the man who engaged my holy friend in such terrible sin.

The sounds became louder and more intense as the occupants of the room climbed to the peaks of ecstasy. All of a sudden, they went quiet, panting softly, satisfied with their carnal pleasures.

And then, Father, I heard the familiar voice of a man say softly to my friend…“I have sinned”.

- George Egbuchulam

Nwosu : Achebe; Stirring up a desirable controversy

Nwosu : Achebe; Stirring up a desirable controversy

WHO IS THIS GEORGE SEF???!!!/CLEANING HOUSE, A STORY WRITTEN BY GEORGE...

WHO IS GEORGE SEF???!!!

George Chimezirim Egbuchulam is a graduate of English, Matric No 132135, University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He graduated with a second class upper division.  He hails from Emekuku, Owerri in Imo State Nigeria. He is born to Mr George and Chinyere Egbuchulam, the first out of six children: three boys and three girls. During his sojourn in the University of Ibadan, He won several awards and made some notable achievements. George as a pressman in his early years won the Union of Campus Journalist award for best fiction. George was also the winner of the annual quiz competition organized by an alumnus of the Theatre Arts Department for the ATAS week. George was also part of the twenty students that made qualified for the Zain20 in the first edition of Zain Africa Challenge though he wasn’t among the final four selected to represent the University of Ibadan at the National and African levels. George was the president of the UI Chess Club in his final year. He is a good prose, poetry and screen writer. Some of his works can be accessed on NaijaStories. He has even picked up his form to pursue a masters degree at the Institute of African Studies, University of Ibadan.

Some of you know him as Oddman, Chess master, Pawpaw, and lots more. Well, he cannot do some of the things you know him for, in his present state of health. He needs your help now. 2.5 million naira is needed for a kidney transplant. And the above figure only caters for the surgery that will be performed on him and his donor. After the surgery, both patients will need very expensive post-surgery drugs to sustain themselves and other laboratory charges. He is currently undergoing dialysis.

Below is a literary non-fiction: Cleaning House, written by George Chimezirim Egbuchulam. A true life account of his sojourn in Lagos with his family. This was written ages ago. Thanks for reading.

Cleaning House by George Chimezirim Egbuchulam

Did you know that there’s a ubiquitous stink to public toilets? (At least, I think so.) I wonder why that is. The fact occurred to me today while I was using the toilet in our new face-me-I-slap-you house. I remembered the days when, as a child, I spent a lot of my holidays at my Aunty Jane’s (she was my dad’s elder sister―and was kind and generous, by the way), in a slum in Orile. She too lived with her husband and children in a face-me-I-slap-you, and their public toilet smelt just the same.

            In all the houses my family and I have lived in, none of them ever smelt close to being near-perfect. Let me give a rundown of our domiciliary exodus: sole occupants of an entire bungalow →fellow occupants in a block of flats → fellow occupants in another block of flats → fellow tenants in a face-me-I-slap-you. Now, our first house, which was in a ghetto in Ilasamaja, Mushin, Lagos, was where I grew up. The first twenty years of my life were spent there. I have already mentioned that we were the only occupants of a bungalow. It rested on, I believe, a plot of land. Let me add that it was a very fertile plot of land. We lived there for so long that people actually thought the house was ours. It should have been, but that’s a story I’m not writing now to disclose.

            So what was wrong with our first house? Plenty. For one, I remember no single day―not one―that rain fell and did not leak into the house―in all the rooms. The kind of trauma it imprinted on us is not one I’m prepared to wish on a foe. Two, there was no privacy: anyone who cared to could look to see what we were doing in the compound: spreading any or both of our two fat bedbug-infested mattresses (one, and the best, of which was my parents’, which any of my three youngest siblings had bedwetted―which was often; there was a third mattress, a rather skinny affair, which I brought home after my stint in secondary school) on the multi-purpose wooden rack my mom had had built; putting foodstuff like dried fish, crayfish, smoked fish, dried pepper, vegetables, etc. out in the sun to dry and watching out for goats and birds; lounging in one of our six plastic chairs―which hurt our arses like hell, not to mention hardening them too; playing soccer or ludo or chess, and so on. Any idiot could graze their cattle and goats and rams and pigs there, if they chose. And they did choose, plenty of times. The pigs were the worst and the hardest to chase away: they dug ugly holes in our compound in their endless search for the tortoise’s millstone. Also, there was this particular beans-seller and her daughters who, until we moved out of there, spread their laundry either on our clotheslines or on the grass in our compound. Hell, a lot of people spread their laundry in our compound. Three, our septic tank deteriorated so bad that its top (laid by a mediocre bricklayer, one tribal-marked Mr Rasaqi) completely caved in, revealing shit for the whole street to see and smell. It was so terrible that health officials, time and again, threatened to lash the law on my dad―being the head of the house and all. I think he ‘settled’ them each time they came and that ended it. Matters were made even worse by the fact that our neighbours in the street behind us, though we were separated by a moss-coated fence, hurled their refuse into our backyard―but mostly they aimed for the soak away. Our neighbours who lived in a face-me-I-slap-you beside us also threw their garbage into our sump. Their combined efforts, undeterred by our enraged outbursts and cursing, over the years filled the septic tank to the brim. But even after that they continued to throw refuse into our compound. Can you imagine the sheer humiliation of it all? Four, the house was an architectural bomb waiting to implode. There were marked signs, both interior and exterior, of this: deep crevices in the walls; the wood in all the windows were crumbling by the day; the wooden beams in the roof were rotting away. Five, the landlord put a lot of pressure on us to leave, mostly because my dad helped him secure a mouth-watering contract with Globacom to plant their mast in the compound, and he most likely had nightmares, inspired by his full-grown male children, about my dad suddenly becoming covetous and claiming ownership of the house and its concomitant royalties… We eventually moved…

            … to house number two. This was in Okerube, a town way after Ikotun. The first time I stepped into that house I thought it was the Nicon Hilton. What I mean is, the relief of no more leaking roof, no more exposed sewage pit, no more insults from insouciant neighbours… And what’s more, it had sliding doors and windows, and was fenced and gated! The best things about the house were the small farm (cultivated by the former occupant, and which my mom, raised in the village as she was, maintained) and a mango tree. There was a bathtub with a working shower―the handheld one that resembles a telephone― when there was water and a toilet that flushed! There was a GP tank filled by a pumping machine with water from a well that was sealed shut. But this is real life, and in it nothing lasts forever, if at all. It didn’t take long before we found faults with the house: it could be incredibly hot inside. You could cook beans in the heat. Furthermore, the bathtub leaked, and we were chagrined that we had to resort to scooping out the water again. (That was something we did in our former house that we hated but could not evade. We scooped water that pooled on the floor of the toilet, and water that pooled in the far corner of the corridor linking the toilet and bathroom.) The toilet also leaked, if memory serves. And when there was no electricity, which is a constant in this exasperating country, we had to go out and fetch water from the compounds of grumpy neighbours. Once again, pressure was mounted on us to move out of the house; this time, it was by the caretaker. Like in our former house, we owed rent. I was at school when my family moved to house number 2, and at school when they moved to house number 3.

            This was several streets away from house number 2, in a place called Abaranje. The first day I entered it my heart plummeted. I hated it on sight―and sound. For one, it was too remote, like the second house. As if that wasn’t enough, the landlord blockaded it from the front with a churchand a block of apartments. The bathroom/toilet and kitchen were at the wrong angles, the whole place irritated me and made me very restive. There was no cross ventilation: it was as hot inside as our second house, and was permanently sunk in gloom. Sunlight had to beg the preceding buildings in order to reach into the house. Reading in that house was hellish for me; writing in it was impossible. We were always fanning ourselves anytime we were inside. Again, the landlord put pressure on us to leave. I couldn’t understand what was so special about the house that he hurried us out for. Do you know how close his church was to us? I could place one foot on the wall of our house and plant the other on the wall of his church in a half split. That’s how close it was. It didn’t cross his enlightened mind that he and what passed for his congregation were an auditory nuisance to us, with their militant preaching, preemptory praying, and unskilled drumming. Do you know how foolish and insensitive he was? If he caught us staring or passing what he felt were unfavourable comments while they were gathered in whose name, he would complain later to my mom that wedisturbed them! What have we not been through in this life? I ask.

            And now we are in house number 4, preparing to pass our first night here. We moved in this morning, around eight. Located in Ikotun, it is much better placed than our last two residences. (Speaking of which: moving out of Ilasa to Ikotun was inspired by strictly financial concerns―or is it constraints? Rent in Ikotun is much cheaper; hence, the overpopulation. But leaving our house in Ilasa then to, say, Ojuelegba to purchase a novel or two was easy, affordable and trekable, compared to coming out of Ikotun to, say, Cele Bus Stop to breathe. Traffic in Ikotun is a prototype for its probable equivalent in Hell.) From our new house it’s only about six minutes to walk to Ikotun main market. I already went out to sightsee: Ikotun bubbles and is lively just the way I like it, even though it will never compare to Yaba or Ojuelegba. The thing I loathed the most about our last two residences was their remoteness from Ikotun: if you needed to go out, you had to pay N40 to get to Ikotun first; added to that was the time lost in waiting for a bus to fill up with passengers, except you were willing to pay an okada rider or a Keke-Marwa/-NAPEP, which naturally charged more than commuter buses. (Of course, during Christmas the fares were jacked outrageously high. Life in Okerube and then Abaranje made me very reluctant to return home when semesters ended.) Because of the location of our present accommodation, however, I can ignore the inconvenience of the public toilet, the public bathroom, the public kitchen and the constricted space of two rooms. For instance, if the mood hits me, I can walk to the bookseller’s and exchange novels for fifty bucks―whenever he has books, that is, since, by the looks of his supply, few people in Ikotun read or care to buy novels; I can walk to a shoe seller’s at the roadside and pick up a pair of good shoes for a thousand bucks! Provided, of course, that the police don’t pick him up. I heard a woman informer warn the shoe seller that ‘Alausa’ were coming in a ‘Black Maria’. He quickly threw a large black nylon over his wares and vanished. I too, a firm believer in the quip, ‘prevention is better than cure’, quickly stepped on home. Aside from the fact that we have no one to pay bail if I was picked up by the police, I heard later from my mom that people, especially kids (sent out to hawk), left too long in the hands of the po-po could be sold to ritualists for a quick profit. This country is indeed sick, when traders can’t sell in peace because the police stalks and pounces on them.

                                                                                                            Dec 30, 2010

P.S.:

This morning, a few hours past midnight, I suddenly realized why the toilet in this our yard smells like all the public toilets that I have come across: cockroaches! There is a unique smell to these vermin. There was a whole revolting gang of them on the walls of the toilet when I went in to pee. I had to detour to the bathroom. Sad, but that’s the way it is. I call cockroaches synonyms of public-toilet odour. Shit!