The day Missi died, my father was stealing mangoes for lunch at Uncle Eloka’s backyard. He was always up to one mischief or the other, and whenever the villagers caught him, they reported him to my grandfather, Aku, as an act of service. To soothe their grudges, my grandfather chased him around the open field, whipping his old belt along the sides of Didi’s pre-pubescent body.
Missi called him ‘Di’m‘, meaning ‘my husband’. It was unusual for the villagers that the old woman skipped the three grandsons born before my father to choose the last and most spoiled one to give that name. Elders often find their way out of accountability. Under Missi’s doting wing, Didi did too.
Whenever villagers crossed paths with Aku, Didi’s father, they would sing long, whining songs of Didi’s crimes. As if there were no important things to discuss. Perchance, if the farm season had reaped a bountiful harvest. Or a drought was making the young women get up to all sorts of no-good with the young men from Nnobi, the nearest village.
Nwa bu nwa oha
A child was the child of the community; they would say with tired smiles. Shoulders rolled back in piousness, conveniently forgetting their own truant years. Left to Missi, there was nothing to be done about the young boy, whom she described as agile and living out his youth. She only yelled at him when he sustained injuries or lost his only pair of sandals. Missi instructed his mother to keep the sandals away for special occasions — her husband had not grasped that the idea of shoes was keeping them on.
It was a hot afternoon when it happened. There was the strong, lingering scent of harmattan. Wherever one turned, the crunch of dried, fallen leaves followed. Didi was atop a tree branch with his bare feet between its sides. He could feel the rough bark on his crotch while he sought a comfortable position. Once he found it, he tore into a mango with his teeth. He had secured enough mangoes inside his repurposed T-shirt.
If he got home right before the sun began to retire, he would meet his Missi at the rusty gate with no fence. She’d be holding a covered plate of ugba and a proud smile – unseeing his torn shorts and the dried fruit stains around his face. He usually took the food and searched for a secluded place to hide it. When his mother returned, he brought out the cold plate and made a show of eating it in front of his hungry siblings, who were waiting for dinner. Their frustration after working all afternoon with their father turned the hot kitchen space into a battleground. He would run when he realised his only trump card was too old to throw fists for him.
Now. Didi surveyed the view from Eloka’s tree branch. It was time to head home. He wiped his mouth and proceeded to climb down. Eloka had been sleeping soundly under its shade for the past hour. The idea of getting caught again did not cross his mind whilst at the top of the tree. The thrill was all he needed. But he couldn’t get caught. At least not by Eloka — popularly known to sleep like the dead.
The tale that made the village gossip at one time was one where a soldier, sent to find any kind of organised resistance in the village, made his first and last stop at Eloka’s open bungalow. With one shot of his rifle in the air, the birds hastened away, and the people of Nnewichi felt their hearts drop. But Eloka had spread his mat outside for a nap when the shot was fired. As the soldier drew closer, Eloka didn’t even stir. He mistook Eloka for dead and turned back on the path he came from, perhaps assuming the dead man and the village’s silence meant another group of soldiers had already made it there. That evening, the villagers trooped in to hear the news of the shot from the horse’s mouth. They were, instead, met with dismay, as Eloka had neither seen nor heard of this gunman.
This made one wonder how a simple rustle of leaves could jerk Eloka awake. He instinctively reached to wipe the spittle from the sides of his mouth. Didi tried to land with all the grace he could muster. But the minute his feet hit the ground, the thud made Eloka’s head spin. In a split second, the remains of what one would call Didi’s singlet were tightly secured in a bunch within Eloka’s fist. His eyes promised many horrors for the boy who said his mango tree would not have peace. Although Didi was caught, he remained defiant. Eloka expected the boy to beg and grovel. He imagined him saying, “I will never come close to your mango tree or anybody else’s. Biko.”
Imagine his shock when a grumbling Didi said, “Ehhn Oga Elo, how much is mango? What is mango that you want to tear my singlet like this?”
Eloka’s grip loosened, and his palm covered his mouth in shock. Didi took his chance and ran off with the mangoes in his t-shirt.
“It is because of the respect I have for your grandmother. If not, I would make sure you never forget today.”
Didi was now minutes away from the rusty gate that led to his house. While loosening the knot he had tied to secure his mangoes, he bumped into his mother. She landed a slap on his cheek, yelling, “Where have you been, this boy?”
He was about to speak when he noticed her eyes were wet and puffy.
“Go to the farm and help your brothers.”
With his cheek in his palm, he hurried off to the farm. His thoughts scrambled. It was too late in the day to help at the farm. Missi was not at their spot. His mother usually paid no attention to him. There was too much work, too many children, and too little time. Why would she be looking for him today? Everything seemed different. Off kilter. It made him queasy.
At the farm, his brothers were already packing up. But Aku, their father, was not there. He usually led the way home.
“Where’s daddy?” Didi asked his oldest brother, Kene. He didn’t respond. The trio held their cutlasses and set their hoes on their shoulders, walking the road that led home. Didi, sullen that no one would say a word to him, sat on a cassava mound with pouted lips, waiting for Kene to notice he wasn’t following. The trio continued walking.
As the boys reached a farther distance, he stood up and ran after them. Kene smirked.
“I was beginning to wonder if you wanted to watch over the farm through the night.”
It was a joke that may have triggered a response, but something else – like all the other things that day – was going out of routine. It was harvest season for their rice. Their father usually spent most of the day working on the rice harvest. He led the way home while they argued on and on behind him about anything that got their competitive spirits in a bunch.
Where was he?
Back home. Temporarily setting aside his grief to sort out this burial thing. It was his first. Aku lost his father to a deadly pox before he was born. He never had to deal with burial matters so personally. In these parts, the burial of a highly respected person was celebrated. Missi was no ordinary woman.
“It is better if there are drinks left than if they don’t reach everybody.”
“Umuada will take rice along with the soups.”
“The market association said goat meat only. But the elders want chicken.”
“She did not pay her dues. We do not support this burial until the dues are paid in full.”
“Bring money; let me invite the people who play the Ogene as entertainment for the day.”
Aku heaved a sigh. He could have been back at the farm sieving out dirt from rice. Those were simpler times. Missi had specifically asked him for a small, simple burial. He was risking his standing and her safe descent six feet under by considering that request.
After a long meeting that involved pacifying all the village groups and stamping out the embers from old tensions, they chose a burial date. The burial of Mrs Nwakaego Njoku was finally set for the 16th of August, 1984.
Didi, now bugging Kene about his father’s whereabouts, finally got his answer.
“He went to a clan meeting. Stop disturbing me.” The group continued in silence.
Back at home, Kene’s fib held true. Their father was indeed at a clan meeting. But somehow, Missi was also nowhere to be found. He soon resumed his bugging. “Ke Missi’m?”
Where is my Missi? He paced the small corridor, clasping and unclasping his fingers. The silence of the house felt unfamiliar. Kene hurried off. Emeka went to the kitchen to help. Chijioke shifted awkwardly. He spotted palm kernels in a heap near the wooden stool.
He went to it and started cracking them.
“She was supposed to bring me ugba today.”
Didi muttered, sliding to the floor next to Chijioke. Chijioke could not keep a secret, but this time, he preferred not to be the one to share news of their grandmother’s demise. After dinner, Didi slept off earlier than usual while the house mourned.
Before the cock could announce dawn, Didi was jerked awake by his father. He was to go on a two-day journey to Agulu to deliver a gift to his uncle. It was strange. He was never entrusted with the task of delivering anything for fear that he might wander off, but a grumpy Didi nodded. He rubbed at his eyes and slipped on his shorts. He grabbed the bag and off he went. If Didi had returned only minutes later, he might have seen Aku wiping a single tear as he entered his room.
The ceremony began that afternoon, slow, almost forced, like it was afraid to begin. Aku watched as his mother’s body was lowered into the ground. He kept his gaze aimed into the distance. If he did not see it, then perhaps she was alive? Asleep and snoring ever so lightly on her old bed? Only leaving her room to make ugba? Taking cans of malt and hiding them until they expired? The villagers walked past and patted him on the back. His eyes watered. So he looked at something else. The dying tree. When the priest left, and food rode free amidst village groups hurdled beneath canopies, he wondered how much merriment was required to soothe his grief.
Didi returned the next evening. The silence still lingered. Still as suffocating. Heading into the kitchen, he found Emeka at the sink.
“Missi is dead.” He announced.
Didi paused. He stared at Emeka and turned to leave almost angrily. Then returned.
“Don’t say something like that again! The spirits may say yes to your words.”
His defiant disbelief carried him through the next day. Within, he had sensed something. But he couldn’t say. He mistook it for hunger. Or fatigue. Nothing too permanent. He sat with himself and thought, “Emeka and his jokes”. It was okay if she didn’t want to meet at the gate. It was okay if she didn’t leave her room to see him. It was also okay if she didn’t ask about his trip. About his maternal uncle, who took him for a servant for most of the time he spent with them.
His brothers carried their hoes and cutlasses in regular fashion to the farm that morning. His mother dressed up to sell vegetables at the market. His father… he could not tell where his father was. Everything seemed just like it used to be. Maybe Missi was… Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. He couldn’t keep this up anymore. The curiosity was gnawing at his insides.
He went to Missi’s room and knocked twice. There was no response. He pushed it open and there sat his father. Missi’s wrapper cloaked over his head and shoulders.
“Daddy, ebee ka mama no?” Where is mama?
His hands are fidgeting. His throat is tightening.
Aku had seen things that could make the bravest men throw their machetes in the sand and run. Why could he not tell his own son about his grandmother’s passing? Was he that afraid of his grief? He coughed into his palm.
“She. She. We…”
“Mama died, and we buried her yesterday. Aku, you coddle this boy too much. I don’t know why you couldn’t just tell him, since,” Adanna, his mother, said. She was standing at the door, staring at the duo with her arms folded. She shook her head and left for the market. Didi stared at his father with the eyes of someone who had been betrayed.
“You just have to be a man, you hear?” Aku said feebly.
But Didi was already out the door. Aku cracked into broken laughter. Under his mother’s big wrapper, he seemed to have lost his mind. Be a man? What a lazy attempt.
He recalled the nights he spent in his mother’s room to escape the nagging of his perpetually dissatisfied wife. One night, he placed a plate of hot ukwa on her bed and watched her eat. Her back had begun to give out, and most of her energy was conserved for the ugba she gave Didi after his daily conquests. That night, Aku wondered what fostered the bond between his son and Aku’s mother.
“Akuchinyelum”, Missi muttered. He lowered the plate and kept his eyes on the old raffia basket falling apart at the corner of the room. Everything seemed to be at different stages of dishevelment.
“Mama”
“Watch over my Didi. He is going to be a great man.”
Aku sighed. Perhaps this was why he was so soft towards the boy. His mother could see something in him. He had no idea what it was, and he was fairly certain she could not name it either. The young boy had to be forced to go to school when his mates were excited to drop their hoes and baskets in exchange for chalks and a slate. They had begun to count to twenty, but for Didi, it was a good day if he counted past seven.
This boy. The same one who refused to go back to the class, solely because anytime the teacher wrote something on the board, the letters danced around. He had even sworn that the only time he would return would be to scale the tall coconut tree in Pa Alakunie’s compound. Was it the stolen fruit? Setting people’s livestock loose? Throwing sharp objects at the bicycle of the town crier?
Yet Missi would not hear an ill word of the boy.
Didi recalled that night too. He had been whipped into slumber earlier in the afternoon and could not find sleep in the night. He had crouched beside the door of Missi’s room, hoping to go in when his father came out. Then Missi made her prophecy. The mention of his greatness began to glow just as greatly as the lantern fire burning inside. As he went through the days after that, causing mayhem among the fruits and easily swayed goats of Nnewichi, he did so with the confidence that he, Chinedu Njoku, was second to none.
Now. Sitting on a cement block near the rusty gate and hoping that by some miracle, Missi would walk to him with a plate and ask if he had waited too long, he wept. His shoulders shook. His knees quivered.
What was this pain? This tightness holding him under. Fists clenched tight around the weed on the ground, he wouldn’t know greatness if it looked him in the face, he thought.
About the Author
Faithful Chidera Chinedu is an Igbo creative. She loves to read, write, and indulge in brain-rot entertainment now and then. Her works usually marinate on Google Docs, but you can find others on Kalahari Review, Afrocritik, and her Substack blog, Lady Otherly.
Feature Image by Europeana on Unsplash