THOSE WHO DO NOT SIT AT THE DINNER TABLE ARE FORGOTTEN___ INTERVIEW WITH CHIKA UNIGWE

Chika Unigwe was born in Enugu, Nigeria, and now lives in Turnhout, Belgium, with her husband and four children.
She holds a BA in English Language and Literature from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, and an MA from the Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium. She also holds a PhD from the University of Leiden, The Netherlands, having completed a thesis entitled "In the shadow of Ala. Igbo women writing as an act of righting" in 2004.
Chika Unigwe is the author of fiction, poetry, articles and educational material. She won the 2003 BBC Short Story Competition for her story "Borrowed Smile", a Commonwealth Short Story Award for "Weathered Smiles" and a Flemish literary prize for "De Smaak van Sneeuw", her first short story written in Dutch. "The Secret", another of her short pieces, was nominated for the 2004 Caine Prize. She was the recipient of a 2007 Unesco-Aschberg fellowship for creative writing, and of a 2009 Rockefeller Foundation fellowship for creative writing.

Jeff Unaegbu: You are very welcome, Chika.  An average modern African woman is said to be facing difficult and shifting gender roles in that she finds herself working during the day and preparing food in the evenings and early mornings for her husband and children, without having much time to herself nor being very successful in making the man understand the pressure of the workload she faces, especially when he demands pleasure at night. What is your take on this situation and has any of your writings been able to address this issue, given that divorce rates, especially among literary and non-literary artistes, are beginning to rise because of shifting gender roles in Africa?

Chika Unigwe: Divorce rates are rising because more women are able to live independently of a man, they earn their own money and so on. How to survive alone, to bear the financial burden was a primary reason why many women stayed on in abusive relationships. I suspect also that divorce is not as frowned upon these days as much as it was in the past.

JU:Who or what inspired you into writing and at what age did you fall in love with the art?

CU: I met Flora Nwapa when I was a primary school pupil, and she made me, more than anything else at that age, want to be a writer. I adored her. I have always loved reading and my parents fostered that love by investing in books. 

JU: Some poems in your first book, "Tear Drops", seem to smack of youthful ardor, especially the one which was a love poem to someone else. Please tell us more about this book.

CU: It was a book I wrote as a young woman; some of the poems there I wrote as a teenager, others were written while I was at the university. I was in my second year when it came out, so that explains its youthfulness. I dedicated the love poem to a boy I was in love with at the time.

JU: Some poems are written in esoteric terminologies that cut off readers interests. What do you advice writers should do to make poetry enjoyable and popular?

CU: I haven't written poetry in ages. I am also very wary of prescribing what a writer should or shouldn't do.  Different kinds of poems appeal to different readers. There is a Belgian poet who combines poetry with Rockn Roll. He claims it makes it more accessible to people who would otherwise not listen to poetry. Some people agree with him, others don't.

JU: As a Nigerian writer living outside the country for sometime now, how has this change of environment affected your writings, seeing also that you are married to a Belgian?

CU: My being married to a Belgian has had less of an effect on my writings than my having moved to Belgium. When you move you experience things differently, experience different cultures, and since our writing mostly comes from within, you are influenced by all these. Other themes might have chosen me to write on them had I lived elsewhere. 

JU: Back in the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, you graduated from the English Department, could you relieve those moments, bringing into view how they helped you grow as a writer and what you have done or would like to do to give back to that university?

CU: Prof. Ossie Enekwe started a creative writing Course in my second year at Nsukka and one of the most enduring lessons he taught me was the art of observing. I remember submitting a story to him and he told me, I want to see the ants on that log of wood move. Ive never forgotten that.

JU: Your works from "Born in Nigeria" to "On Black Sisters Street" seem to explore themes such as loneliness, prostitution, grief and illness. Why do you address such themes and does this tendency comes from subconscious memories of a painful experience you may have had while growing up?

CU: "Born in Nigeria" was a short pamphlet I wrote as an undergraduate disillusioned with Nigeria, And it was only published because my dad was willing to pay for it. Its theme is completely different from that of OBSS. I had a regular happy childhood: two parents who never had a disagreement in our presence; brothers and sisters; a Raleigh bike; holidays in the village; a summer vacation in London thrown in. None of these experiences I'd describe as painful. What my works tend to have in common is an exploration of people who live at the margins of society. In the Phoenix, it is an immigrant Nigerian dealing with the loneliness and loss of a child: in OBSS , it was prostitutes.

JU: In order to encourage and motivate upcoming writers, could you kindly reveal to us the difficulties you went through to have your works published and how you overcame them?

CU: I was very lucky in the sense that I was discovered.  I took part in a writing competition, and was called up and asked if I had more works to show.  And then at the time I started looking for an agent. And at a Caine event in Oxford, I fortuitously sat at the same dinner table with a man who eventually became my agent, David Godwin.  We had a good chat, I sent him my works and the rest as they say is history.

JU: You were elected the first foreign-born councilor in Turnhout in 2007. What informed your decision to run for election?

CU: I ran for a seat because I wanted to make a change. There's a Flemish saying that those who do not sit at the dinner table are forgotten. I wanted to be visible, to bring the marginalized to the centre of power.

JU: What advice do you have for upcoming Nigerian writers?

CU: Same advice I'd give to any budding writer, and the same I got: Read a lot, be open to constructive criticism, join reputable online critique groups; write a lot.

JU: Thank you Chika Unigwe for this enlivening interview. We hope to have you again soon for another charming session.

CU: Thank you.

Interview conducted April 2011. Appeared in Sunday Vanguard, July 3, 2011, p. 47.

IF YOU DON'T GET INVOLVED, CREATIVITY WILL STILL HAPPEN__ NNOROM AZUONYE

1

. Please can you tell us a bit about yourself?

How many words am I allowed? I am the youngest of Stephen and Hannah Azuonye's nine children. From the Isuikwuato stock in what is now Abia State of Nigeria. I was however born at Enugu six days after the first guns of the Nigeria-Biafra war were fired. So I am one of those Biafran Babies you hear about. I am an interviewer, a publisher, literary editor and an aspiring entrepreneur. I write plays, some fiction and compact narratives I call prosems which some editors have mistaken as poems and published them as such. Who am I to complain? My books include Letter to God & Other Poems, The Bridge Selection: Poems for the Road, and Blue Hyacinths (ed. with Geoff Stevens). My collection of short stories; The Magenta Shadow will be published in the last quarter of 2011. What I consider my most important roles in life are first, husband to the special Thelma Amaka, and father to two wonderful human beings; my son Arinze Chinedum, and daughter Nwachi Ola.

2. You are synonymous with Sentinel Poetry Movement and its online magazines; Sentinel Literary Quarterly and Sentinel Nigeria, a writer's and reader's site, and I am happy to say that I enjoyed the moments I had in the Sentinel Poetry Bar, back in 2004, especially with the likes of Molara Wood and Unoma Azuah. Now what prompted your move to include nollywood or the Nigerian movie industry as part of your outreach (aside the Sentinel niche) to your audience?

Sentinel Poetry Movement has made a life of its own, and since we launched Sentinel Literary Movement of Nigeria which is ably administered by Richard Ali, I am now more confident that Sentinel has the required resident talent to make it outlive my dreams. We are now preparing for the 10th Anniversary celebrations of Sentinel to be held when the organisation turns ten in December 2012. What many people don't remember or know is that I trained as a Dramatic Artist at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, that my plays "A Tasty Taboo" and "Return of the Businessman" have been performed on stage and broadcast on TV. I also co-wrote the screenplay of Obi Emelonye's 2003 film "Echoes of War" (I was credited as Rommy Azuonye - Script Development). I am also struggling with allowing a production of a screenplay "Murder with Applause" which I wrote between 1997 and 2004 the contents of which I disagree with now on a spiritual level, and I am putting reviewing a recently-completed screenplay "Sword of Justice". You see I have not been too far away from Nollywood. What it is, as part of my business; Eastern Light EPM International, I run a publishing and film marketing style Nollywood Focus. Over the last few years I have interviewed some Nollywood players including Chucks Mordi, Charles Novia, Obi Emelonye, Don Pedro Obaseki and Teco Benson for Nollywood Focus. In October 2010, Nollywood Focus facilitated the screening rights for "Nnenda" at the British Museum, London, with the kind cooperation of Izu Ojukwu. Nollywood Focus also played a key role in the runaway success of The Mirror Boy Premiere at the Empire Cinema, Leicester Square, London. We kept The Mirror Boy in the consciousness of our readers, covering for free, the stories of the movie from auditions to the premiere. We even got involved in selling tickets through our website for the movie. These are the services Nollywood Focus wants to continue to render the Nigerian film industry. We are happy to tell the stories of the industry, all we ask is for film-makers to send us the stories of the films they are working on and we will run them. We are happy to set up and run premieres and short to medium term cinema runs across the United Kingdom. It is my view that Nollywood, though far from perfect right now, has so much to offer the world, and I am wiling to contribute my own quota in making sure that the world embraces Nollywood. Mind you, if I don't get involved, it will still happen. Nollywood will conquer the world. I don't want to sit under a tree at Isuikwuato in my twilight years reading about Nollywood in the papers and wondering where I was when it was all happening.

3. Please can you tell us about your new flick, The Fake Prophet, its synopsis and what message you intend to pass across with it?

OK, my new flick, in the sense of the new film I am marketing, I had no hand in the making of this film, is "The Fake Prophet." This film was directed by Teco Benson and produced by Gary Foxcroft of Stepping Stones Nigeria a UK Charity working in Nigeria to save the lives of children who have been falsely branded witches by pastors and other faith leaders. It was made as an advocacy tool by the charity, but the smart thing they did was to use a gifted director like Teco Benson. He managed to create a really good film. Personally, I was never a great fan of Charles Okafor before I saw The Fake Prophet, but he really sparkles in this film. You know the kind of feeling you have when you see an actor in a film and you say 'This role was written for him', Charles Okafor gave a good account of himself in this film. There are some inspired performances in this film and I enjoyed Big Fred Ezimmadu. Do I score it 100% Hell no. I told Teco Benson that for pivotal roles played by Grace Amah and Samuel Ajibola, their characters were underdeveloped, and it was the overall strong energy of the film that carried their scenes through. But every film has its own sins.  For a synopsis, this is from my review of the film, it should do: James Udofia (Charles Okafor) is a courier in a human trafficking racket run by Honourable Igbinosa (Big Fred Ezimmadu). Between Udofia and Igbinosa they ship off girls in rotten situations from Nigeria to Europe, where they are thrown into prostitution. When a run fails and Udofia loses Igbinosa’s cargo, Udofia flees to his village in Akwa Ibom State to hide from Igbinosa’s wrath. Without any known talents, without any education, without any marketable skills, Udofia’s life soon becomes pure drudgery, until his eureka moment, when he gets the idea to start a church. Soon enough he begins to perform miracles with hired actors, and begins to accuse children of witchcraft, taking huge sums of money from their parents in order to deliver them. Despite his inability to successfully deliver any child from witchcraft, he establishes a powerful base on a platform of terror and blackmail. Prophet Udofia is soon responsible for several deaths of children and exile of others, notably Ekaette (Grace Amah) and Inyang (Samuel Ajibola) – the duo accused of killing Ekaette’s father and banished from the village. It is a gripping story, well-performed and very well-directed by Teco Benson. My message is simple: Go to the cinema and see The Fake Prophet. It is a very good film made by a leading Nollywood director, this film is a good ambassador for Nollywood, and dispenses with unnecessary time-wasting scenes. There are no Parts 1 & 2, this is a complete, gripping story from start to finish. It does not have and is not about juju, which puts off some people from Nollywood films. That's a breath of fresh air! By supporting this film, you will be supporting African cinema, making it possible for us to bring you more world class entertainment from Africa to the UK. Most importantly, you will be helping Stepping Stones Nigeria prevent the abuse and murder of children in Nigeria and elsewhere.

4. We learnt that tickets are selling for the screening of this film in Greenwich, South East London. How do people get these tickets and when will the movie be screened?

The Fake Prophet premiered at the Amnesty International Centre, London in May 2010, and received its US premiere in New York March 2011. I attended the London premiere and felt that the story in the film needed to be told. Hence our bringing it to the big screen at the Odeon Cinema on the 24th and 25th of June, 2011. The tickets are sold in advance only though the Nollywood Focus website at www.nollywoodfocus.com or through http://thefakeprophetmovie.eventbrite.com We are also supported in our marketing by Enugu Old Skoolz group and the Igbo Cultural and Support Network (ICSN).

5. Thank you Nnorom Azuonye, and we do hope to get back to you for another exhilarating interview purely focused on your writing adventures.

Thanks Jeff. It has been my pleasure. Let's do this again sometime

May 2011.

I TAKE CRITICISMS IN GOOD FAITH __ UNOMA AZUAH

Unoma Nguemo Azuah was born in Ogwashi-Ukwu, Delta state, Nigeria to a Tiv father from Ukan in Ushongo local government area of Benue state and to an Igbo mother from Asaba, in Delta state.  As an undergraduate at Nsukka, she edited the English department literary journalThe Muse and received the awards of the best Creative Writing student for two consecutives years: 1992 and 1993. Her other awards include the Hellman/Hammett Human Rights grant for her writings on womens issues (1998), and the Leonard Trawick Creative Writing Award (2000), the Urban Spectrum award,the Leonard Trawick award and the Association of Nigerian Authors/NDDC Flora Nwapa award for her debut novel Sky-high Flames. She also has a collection of short stories, The Length of Light and a book of poetry, Night Songs. Prof. Unoma Azuah also holds an MFA in Poetry and Fiction from the Virginia Commonwealth University. She currently teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Lane College, Jackson, Tennessee, USA. [Continue: http://unomaazuah.com/biography.html]

Jeff Unaegbu: How precisely do you think Nigerian writers and writings are viewed globally today? And how is this view helping the image of Nigeria?

Unoma Azuah: Theres been a steady growth in the acknowledgement and recognition of Nigeria literature globally. Therefore, it creates a kind of balanced story per Nigerias image. In other words, the notion that Nigerians are nothing but scammers is being challenged because a huge number of Nigerian artists, not just writers have been involved with great and innovative work all around the world. Nigeria has quite a number of writers doing well internationally.

JU: Many Nigerians would rather watch football or do something else than read books. Why is this so? And what do you think writers should do to address this situation?

UA: Many Nigerians would prefer visual entertainment because they have enough to contend with already. It takes a fairly comfortable person to engage in mental entertainment (reading) especially when one is pre-occupied with what to eat the next day. What can be done? Perhaps, a better economy will help things. Bringing back the disappearing middle class families will also go a mighty way in seeing the reading culture revived.

JU: Nigerian writers, especially the third generation writers, seem to have an inclination for poetry than any other genre of writing. Do you think this is a historical art movement or a desire to emerge anyhow through poetic license?

UA: Did you say emerge anyhow via poetic license? In other words, youre implying that this generation of writers is lazy? I really cant say.  Perhaps, it is easier to write verses than to employ longer narrative. Who knows?

JU: As a Nigerian writer living outside the country for sometime now, it must be pretty difficult for you to draw inspiration when you want to have a Nigerian setting in your writing. How do you cope with this?

UA: Yes, initially it was difficult because my whole psych took a while to adjust to the new environment. Hence, for years I couldnt even pen a word. However, with time, it became easier. Youd be surprised at the kind of impact a new/alien environment can have on ones writing; one can be affected in surprising ways. On the other hand, I am home as often as I can afford to. It helps me not to lose touch, and thats the period I do most of my writing, particularly longer narratives.

JU: You were in Nsukka last year for a poetry workshop where I met you for the first time after years of interacting with you in Nnorom Azuonyes Sentinel Poetry internet club, what is your impression of young writers at Nsukka during that visit and what advice would you give for growth? Again, what is your general impression of Nsukka during that visit?

UA: Well, I was very impressed with their level of enthusiasm; it was quite encouraging. I am wondering of there are some writing clubs that can be formed and informally meet as often as they can to read and critique each others work. There are also numerous online poetry clubs and blogs one can be a part of especially if they have a reasonable access to the internet. I am also hoping that those I gave my contact can stay in touch because Id be happy to provide any mentoring assistance and share publishing outlets within my network. Returning to Nsukka has its own special kind of nostalgia that hangs over me. Nsukka is a beautiful town, and I miss the greenery, the bubbling life, the warmth and safety that it was. It was like a womb to be; now though, it looks over-run and abandoned. However, I still hold it sacred and will always adore its sense of serenity. It is my home.

JU: Back in the University of Nigeria, Nsukka in the 90s, you were the Editor-in-Chief of the Muse Journal of the English Department, could you relieve those moments, bringing into view how they helped you grow
as a writer and what you have done to give back to that university?

UA: The Muse was an excellent platform of growth for me as an apprentice. Albeit, I had to battle male chauvinists who were mostly in charge of the literary affairs before and after I took the realms of affairs as one of the few pioneer female editors. Nonetheless, we worked as a family and were passionate about literature and writing.  Our love for Literature glued us together in spite of some antagonism that existed. Then again families do have their ups and downs. It was well worth it. I miss some of the nights we stayed up, reviewing, copying and pasting materials to get them ready for the publishers. I remember frequenting Enugu where our publisher was based, and then having to stay over for a day or two just to make sure the journals go back with me to Nsukka.  This encounter gave me the hands-on experience that I use till date.  I did establish an endowment with my fathers name, the Peter Akaa Azuah literary awards as a way to give back to the community that fostered me. Unfortunately, there was a communication break down along the line, but I am hoping that the award will be revived.

JU: Your collection of short stories, Length of Light showcases the yawning dissimilarities between the desires or dreams of ordinary people and the realities that surround them. What influenced you to focus on this theme and how do you wish this book to affect people?

UA:  When I was growing up, I witnessed dire needs and lack and these constrained me to ask questions about the huge disparity I saw and still see between the rich and the poor in Nigeria. It saddened me to witness great potential wasted on an unnecessary car wreck for example because the roads have been abandoned, or to see a young life destroyed  by the very flame of the fuel he tried to hawk on a roads side just as a mere attempt to survive or exist. So part of responding to these questions and toying with answers was found in creating stories. It was as therapeutic as creating order in the midst of chaos where none comes to be in my reality. Writing these stories became a coping mechanism. It has been my hope that these stories read like a signpost for our leader or their advisers, and maybe force them to be for the people they govern.

JU: Your novel, Sky-high Flames, clearly motivates women who are entangled in a wrong cultural web to bravely disentangle themselves from it. Is it possible for this novel to motivate men to leave wrong marriages too, especially if their dying parents, in a bid to have a grandchild, had pressured them to marry a wrong girl?

UA: Yes. Sky-high Flames can be interpreted as dont novel.  One of my many intentions for writing the novel is to let people know that what counts at the end of the day are their lives and not their parents or relatives or communities lives.  If one is not at peace with ones self, one can not share or spread love and peace. Gone are the days when we do things to please people when at the end of the day, we have to face the beat to the consequences of our choiceswise or otherwise.

JU: In the soon-to-be-published Edible Bones, we are faced with the realities of hoping for greener pastures. And at once, one senses that you are trying to drone into your audience the difficult truth about traveling and living abroad, especially because the theme was dealt with in Sirens a short story in Length of Light and in other writings of yours. Is this an indication of a difficult personal experience bordering on immigration or a desire to simply reveal to Nigerian immigrants the cost of living home, or both?

UA: Yes and No. Yes because relocating is a form of dislocation, and the grass may not be as green as one may have envisioned it to be. Additionally, there are prices to be paidbe it in dealing with the weather or in trying to make your foreign neighbor understand what youre trying to say with a thick Nigerian accent. It can be frustrating. Nevertheless, I say No because there are two types of immigrantsthose that are legal and go about their normal businesses without fear. Then there are others that are illegal, most of which face horrible encounters. Some of them are hounded like animals, some others cease to exist because they have to destroy their true identities in order to manipulate and negotiate their way through the system. These are the types of immigrants I try to capture in Edible Bones.

JU: Using some of your poems, could you please point out messages which you deeply wish your readers pick out as they read your poetry?

UA: Id say that my poems came and still come in phases. There was a time my preoccupation was with respect for traditional rituals and beliefs in contrast to what the Western influence is doing to us and has done to us. Look at fundamental Christianity for instance, it has eaten deep into our fabric, so much so that some of use attempt to obliterate our traditional strongholds be it in artworks that are/were found in shrines or in desecrating places once considered sacred.  Then I explored sexuality and human rights, which I still do. My point here is that my messages vary depending on the time and place I find myself.

JU: You organize very lively poetry workshops in which a lot about poetry is learnt. For the benefit of many aspiring writers who have not attended these workshops, could you please briefly reveal some secrets
to writing good poetry?

UA:  I am not sure Id call them secrets but most of the engaging piece of art, be it poetry or music tend to evoke images and tap into the five human senses of taste, touch, smell, sight and hearing. In other words, can I see harmony in your poem? Harmony in this context is very much like the harmony in music where you hear, not just one voice, but voices working together to produce a breathtaking result. The same applies to poetry. Can I find a poem that taps into multiple tropes and still maintain a strong sense of blend and balance? Can I visualize what youre saying in your poem? Are you being sincere in your poem or are you trying to impress? Be yourself, be simple, and try to paint a picture, have a message.

JU: In the public eye, it appears you are preoccupied with prose than poetry recently, is there a deliberate reason for this?

UA: No. There is no reason for it. It comes with my mood sometimes, and I guess lately I see more complexities as I get older and the prose format gives me that broad brush to get entangled and disentangled. It gives me a generous amount of space to investigate more options and possibilities.

JU: Your book of poetry, Night Songs portrays sexuality as one of its themes. And the issue of homosexuality in males and females is in the front burner in the world today. What is your clear take on this?

UA:  My take on sexuality is that people should not be victimized or killed because of their sexual orientation. If religion becomes the basis for judging people of the sexual minority, then they should let God be God and not act for Him or on his behalf. He is capable. I dont think God sanctions persecution for any human He finds worthy to create, regardless of what may be considered their flaws, and if there is a need for such maltreatments, then let Him take charge for those that believe in the Day of Judgment. Period!

JU: In order to encourage and motivate upcoming writers, could you kindly reveal to us the difficulties you went through to have your works published and how you overcame them?

UA:  Finding a major publishing channel was daunting but with time I learned that patience and consistency in hard work pays off.  Further, I was fortunate to have friends who were/are professionals. We shared and critiqued our writing. Some of their criticisms were harsh. But, I learned how to take it in good faith. I didnt take it personally because I realized early that taking corrections and revising made me a better writer. I started to appreciate feedback and criticism. Consequently everyday I acquired something new.

JU: What advice do you have for upcoming Nigerian writers?

UA:  Keep writing, if youre good, the light will find you and get you to the limelight.  Let writing be something you enjoy doing. Focus on it; perfect it as much as you can before looking into publishing. The process is painstaking, but it will come when it will come. Dont give up.

JU: As a digression, especially for the benefit of your female fans, what is your idea of an ideal man or a Mr. Right?

UA: My idea of an ideal man is centered on love, trust, patience, understanding, and being a friend. Keeping that communication channel open always is something he should be willing to provide.

JU: How do you view romantic relationships and what personal experiences of this kind would you like to share with your readers?

UA: It is my opinion that romance may fade but where there is true love that romance continues to be fed and nurtured.  Without true love, romance is usually a short lived phenomenon: a mere infatuation. You know it is true love when your partner accepts you just the way you are with all your flaws, he does not try to change you to suit his taste. Otherwise, run!

JU: Thank you Professor Unoma Azuah for this exhilarating interview. We hope to have you again soon for another engaging session.

Dated March 30, 2011.

MY OPINION ON RAPE

I want you to read this with an open mind. When a lady is raped, she goes into a very devastating trauma. Her brain tries to fight the reality of being raped. A number of things could happen. She may forget the details of how it happened. This is because her brain is trying to sink humiliating experiences into oblivion, so that her esteem can be rebuilt. It happens to all of us. We forget details of humiliating experiences in order to retain our sanity. The trauma of being raped can be that subtle. Sometimes, the brain tries to protect her from the pain by giving her doses or degrees of the shock slowly, so that she looks for rationalizations. The brain could do a number of things depending on the individual. A curious angle is the one in which, if she does not get justice immediately, she transfers justice to the next man who tries to kiss her without her consent. The severity of her reaction would startle the man. She may even knife him. This action is needed to balance or foreclose the equation of her rape experience. We must be deeply psychological. When I see fellow men deriding or mocking a female rape victim, asking her all sorts of detailed questions which are painful for her to remember, I wince in shock. Education is not only book knowledge. There is a way to establish if the lady is lying or telling the truth. You can't just say because her story is incoherent, that she is lying. Remember I said something about a kind of forgetfulness or amnesia that her brain went into just to protect her sanity. The way to know the truth is to take her back to the physical scene of the rape. Her reactions will be closely observed by a trained psychologist. Men must be careful how they approach female rape victims. You must be careful how you equate her level of incoherence to your decision that she must be raising a false alarm. And this is even more complicated if the rape happened when she was very young.
When you want to have sex with a lady and she begins to resist vehemently, don't interpret her reaction to mean that she wants you to put more pressure so that she can submit to your roughness. Many men have this belief and they end up raping women unknowingly!!!!! They rationalize it is consensual sex. Therein lies all the difference.
Like I said the brain of a raped victim can do a number of unbelievable things. The most amazing of them is when her brain forces her to love her rapist. This is Stockholm syndrome. She has been broken and she needs help. She becomes brainwashed to believe that the rape was good for her! This happens in cult groups such as terrorist enclaves and churches. Yes, churches. The brain of a female victim could rationalize that the pastor was right somehow to rape her. Then, it happens again, and again, and again.
That strange reaction from the brain does not happen to all rape victims however. This is where the individual differences theory plays a part.
In many cases, the brain plots revenge silently. This is the dangerous angle. A sniper rifle or the sniper bottle could do if the culprit is always close-by....
NB: Please google "psychogenic amnesia" and "motivated forgetting" before you comment in the opposite direction.

ANOTHER SILENCE (Consolation Prize Story) by Attah Damian Uzochukwu Victor

“I have conquered storm, conquered rain, conquered sunshine but the scars remain. I have known many pains. This is because the land, whose son I have saved, have now branded me evil and spat  on my face.” Uloma soliloquized to herself as she walked alone in a windy road that snaked into Umuaka village. She continued without looking at anyone with her daughter hanging on her back with a half torn wrapper binding the mother and the child together. Uloma stopped to fasten the pieces of cloth holding her child just as the child was about to slide off from her back.

She continued to speak to herself, “I shall leave, as they have commanded, but I know that the event of today shall bleed forever. I know it shall be remembered. History shall never forgot because truth has a tongue”.

The elders had made their decision in a meeting that began immediately after the cock crowed for the first time signifying the birth of a new day. Their judgment sounded like a canon gun, signaling the beginning of the tribal war between Umuaka and her neighboring town, Umuede. Our people believed that when a lightening is seen, the earth expects a thunder blast.

   “You are then, banished from the village,” the standing elder said, “blotted out from the privileges bequeathed to our people and the protection given by the gods. You are mandated to leave before the next Eke market day.”

     Banishment had been the methodology employed by the people of Umuaka to improve loyalty and to ensure obedience among their people since the coming of the white man’s traditional religion.

   The first victim of such a dehumanizing treatment meted out for those who disobeyed the culture of the people was Ifeoma.  She lost her husband at the earlier stage of their marriage. She was forced to accept that she was responsible for her husband’s death.

     Ikenna,  Ifeoma’s husband increased the numbers of his ancestors after enjoying a palatable dish prepared for him by his wife. His death raised dust where there was no sand. The elders later resolved among themselves that Ifeoma be put in a state of isolation in the village.

    But before Ikenna died, Ifeoma had a seed in her womb for him. Now Ikenna had gone and the elders had placed her in such a social condition, left her in such excruciating pains.

  “To save life is better than to destroy it.” Uloma, the midwife of the village, told herself when she heard a slow but painful cry at midnight emanating from  Ifeoma’s hut, signifying that the woman was in labour.  Uloma wanted to stand up but couldn’t. It was as if something glued her to her old bamboo bed. She tried again but was restrained by the sanction placed by the elders on whoever was seen giving a helping hand to or being helped by Ifeoma. Everybody was to keep her at an arms length, or so the chief priest advised. Their words re-echoed in her memory. Uloma, was lost in thought and engrossed on what step to take. By this moment, the cry that was coming from Ifeoma’s hut was becoming deplorable as the sound was like a sword piercing through Uloma’s heart. Uloma jacked forward from her bed as if something pushed her. She flew to her door and took to her heels towards Ifeoma’s hut.

   “Open the door and let me in”,  Uloma shouted to the hearing of the whole villagers.  She went close to the door, pushed it but found that it was locked. She shouted again to Ifeoma and at the same time gave the door a continuous push. Then she said: “I doubt my doubts, doubt my belief, doubt your judgement and doubt your sanction. Ifeoma’s child must see the world.”

  She went backwards, rushed forward, broke the hinges holding the door and made her way into     Ifeoma’s bedroom.

Earlier today, all heads gathered to witness the banishment placed on Uloma, who risked herself to keep the messenger on bare foot alive by visiting  Ifeoma’s  household. Before Uloma left with her child tied on her back, she said:

“I’m going not to a place of no return, but to a place where I am made for, where I will engrave my name in the list of virtues, where neither rain nor storm shall wither it. But bear it in mind and may it bleed in you always that I love you all”.

AUTHOR:

Attah Damian Uzochukwu Victor lives in Nsukka, Nigeria.

Tending (Consolation Prize Story) by Karen Jennings

The girl’s head is bent in prayer. Under her fingers the pages of the open bible are soft. She can feel the breath, warm, from her nose, slipping over her lips and chin, and down into her neck. All around her she hears the murmurs of others in prayer. Above these rises the voice of the pastor, her father. His words are wise, his speaking gentle. She listens intently, twisting her fingers together as she whispers, “Amen.”

                There is nothing to prepare her for the first gunshot, nor for the series of further shots that follows. Strange cries come from outside the church; whooping and calling and a sound she can put no real name to. Within the church all is silent. Some of the congregation have half raised themselves off their seats, others are standing. Some rush to the windows and look out; Esther is amongst these. Outside, she sees people running in all directions – towards the church, away from the town. There are too many faces. She recognises them, but at the same time does not. She turns inwards again at the sound of her father’s voice. The church is crowded now, loud, but he does not shout. He says simply, “We must prepare ourselves. Some of us are going to die. The Jihadists are coming. We must remain faithful. We have only our faith.”

                The militants enter without show, moving with purpose amongst the crowd. As though a single body, many-armed, they divide men from women, pulling Esther’s three-year old brother from her mother’s arms. Separated from their wives and children by no more than a few steps, the men stand, waiting. Her father is nearby with his eyes closed, his lips moving in prayer. Esther sees a militant walk towards him, raise his arm and slash the throat of her father and the man beside him in a single movement. She hears the short gurgle of his last breath, witnesses the sudden opening of his eyes in death.

Esther is running. Afterwards, when no more men were standing, they had been told to leave. They had been chased and she had fled, losing her mother and her three sisters. For hours now she walks, hiding in bushes, crying at the memory of her brother and father’s slumped forms. At sunset she reaches a village. The inhabitants take her in, feed her. Days later, in different directions, her sisters are found. There is no word of their mother. 

                Esther returns home with her siblings. They have become her children now. It is up to her to clothe and feed them. Where their house had been, there now remains an ashy heap. They sleep in that ash, grow vegetables in it, pray in it. Every day Esther walks to the church where her father and brother were killed. Beyond it lies the mass grave in which they are buried; before it, the burnt out shell of the car her father had driven. It is here, each time, that she recalls her father’s last words, his reminder that faith is what will be left to them.

Sometimes, for Esther, faith feels like too little. But most days she finds it budding out towards her from hidden places, from the smallnesses of everyday life. She finds it in the growth of leaves, the laughter of her sisters, the rush of clouds across the sky.  At these times she knows that faith lives in her, and she walks tall, remembering that what she carries within her is bigger than the world, more precious than a life. 

AUTHOR:

Karen Jennings lives in Cape Town, South Africa.

THIS LIFE (Consolation Prize Story) by Augustine Ogwo

No other vacation had been so eventful in my life. I stayed with my uncle who often told us true stories. He narrated this story to me while Chike was sleeping on the couch. I later decided to do a sketchy documentation with tears in my eyes. I wrote this using the first person narrative so as to bring out the story’s essence. It goes thus:

Though I resided in Nsukka; the town which played a pivotal role during the war, I felt something which was more than a déjà vu. Several events may have come through in 1990 but my wife’s bulging belly interested me the most.

Being successful lecturers had attracted petty gossips that surrounded our existence in the Campus. We would always resign to the will of God and to our fates by taking the rumours we heard about us with a pinch of salt. At Eni-Njoku Street where we lived, women would often gather in small groups to discuss what we always thought to be about us. From our balcony, my wife would often look down at half-a-dozen women standing under a tree and discussing in low tones like chirping birds but with droplets of tears hanging just beneath her eyes. She would run to me while crying with touching words in her mouth, ‘Di, they are talking about us’. I would always let her come into the warmth of my torso while I consoled her. Each time I consoled her, I was also consoling myself. Our childlessness bothered me more but I would always try to wear my cloak; that pride of an African man. I was beginning to explore other options while letting fate resign to itself.

When I got into my office on the first day of the semester, I began to realise that most things women did, men also did. Everyone was in resumption mood as most mathematics lecturers shuffled around offices aimlessly. A large section of the students had not resumed for the new session. Female lecturers exchanged greetings while discussing their exploits at last month’s August meeting. Later that afternoon, while going into the clerical section of my department, I noticed that my secretary and the department’s messenger were in a tête-à-tête. I decided to monitor proceedings from outside by hiding behind the gray wall which preceded the polished door. They chuckled and discussed about my wife’s barrenness and how it had affected my work ethic. I didn’t go into the clerical room anymore rather I went back to my office to produce some documents from my LaserJet printer.  When the duo came into my office at my behest, I gave them letters which were enclosed in khaki envelopes. They had to proceed on ‘compulsory indefinite leaves’. They left my office with bowed heads and looks of dejection.

When I decided to visit a juju man so as to ascertain the unfortunate fate which had befallen our 15-year old marriage, Chinenye had told me to remain calm and steadfast in my faith. She even reminded me of the biblical story of Sarah and her husband Abraham. I knew that I would go ahead with my plans even if a saint or an angel had been sent to preach to me. The day I left to see Agbarume, the powerful juju priest at Igboeze, I had a ghastly motor accident which nearly cost me my life. While I was admitted into the critical unit of the casualty ward at Bishop Shanahan hospital, I waited for family and friends to share in my pains but it was only my mother and my wife, Chinenye that were able to meet me at my point of need. I returned to my house a week later feeling repentant and apologetic to my wife for ignoring her advice.  She said she had forgiven me and planted a kiss on my forehead. We continued to live our lives without children that we soon began to get accustomed to the rumours. Months later when Chinenye began to feel nauseated so often, I took her to Nduka, a doctor friend of mine for typhoid and malaria tests. Being a family-friend, he did the tests I required of him but went ahead to do a pregnancy test out of his ingenuity. Other tests were negative but for the pregnancy test which turned out positive.

Nine months later, she went into the pains of labour but never came out alive though Chike was able to make it to this cruel world.

AUTHOR:

 Augustine Ogwo lives in Ikoyi, Lagos.

MY HERO (Consolation Prize Story) by Annette Najjemba

Maria sat under the large tree in her maternal grandfather’s compound. The other children were happily playing in the big courtyard. She never seemed to care what went on around her. She closed her eyes, and then opened them, a tear dropped down.

It was about 3:00pm. Her elderly great grandmother, about eighty years old came out of the kitchen, with teary eyes reddened by smoke. With the hem of her rugged skirt she wiped her face, and then looked to the tree shade.

“Munyoro,” she called as she fondly referred to Maria.

Maria did not answer.

“Oh you’re unhappy with me, I know. You must be very hungry by now.”

Grandmother reached for a dirty, old polythene bag on the kitchen roof. She had kept some roasted ground nuts for Maria.

“Come on, have this.”

Maria remained motionless. Grandmother moved closer to her. Maria blinked and a stream of tears rolled down her cheeks.

Maria was seven years old. Her mother, Justine Birungi had dropped out of school after conceiving, at the age of seventeen. Her unknown father, a Kenyan heavy vehicle driver had left without leaving any contact information. All Birungi remembers is that he was referred to as Hajji. She had met him a few days earlier, before she slept with him in a lodge in Masindi town.

Birungi was walking to school when the heavy truck stopped by her.

“Come on darling. I will give you a lift to school.”

Similar offers from hajji went on for about a week, until he lured her to boycotting school to spend a day with him. He offered her one thousand shillings and that was the last time she saw him, way back in 1985.

Three months later, Birungi dropped out of school after realising that she was pregnant. She went to live with her grandmother Perusi in Kisabagwa village. She gave birth to Maria and lived with her grand mother until her baby was weaned.

Birungi was determined to give a happy future to her daughter. She went around the village seeking for odd jobs which mainly involved digging. She used the money that she earned to buy milk, snacks and clothes for her daughter.

One evening, as Birungi sat on the fire place with her grandmother, she revealed her plan of going to town to seek for a job. She left the following morning, leaving behind Maria, who was then three years old. She secured a job as a house maid for a school teacher in town.

Birungi worked for teacher Lydia for several years. She made sure that she saved the bigger percentage of the money she earned. She only visited her daughter on festive days but carried several gifts for her daughter and grandmother every time she visited.

In the village there were several other children living with Maria’s grand children. However, Maria was always the miserable girl in the home because she lived on insults from her cousins. Several times they referred to her as a bustard, and called her names because she did not know her father. She however found hope in her mother, her hero whom she always referred to as ‘Mummy of the city.’

After four years of working as a house maid, Birungi had saved enough money to help her rent a room to live in with her daughter and enrol her in a primary school in town. She opened a food vending business at the local market. With the meagre savings she managed to pay her daughters school fees, pay rent and provide for her daughters needs.

Birungi shifted from one petty business to another, to make ends meet. She vowed to work hard to make her daughter happy. She vended fresh food, water, and some times went on to dig on peoples gardens for money.

Maria admired her classmates who talked about their fathers, but she was happy with the love her mother showed her. She was sure her mother could never withhold anything good from her and for this reason; Maria has given her mother a new name, ‘MY HERO.’

Today, Maria holds a bachelors degree in economics and is a Banker. On her graduation day, she introduced her mother to her guests as the most important thing that has happened to her life. She explained that only a mother can deny herself the joys of life just for the sake of a child she mothered at a tender age and for an irresponsible man. 

AUTHOR:

 Annette Najjemba lives in Hoima, Uganda.

A STORY FROM MY CHILDHOOD DIARY (Consolation Prize Story) by Prosper Obum Anuforoh

“So you saw it too?” Ifeoma, my little sister, says to me, grinning.

“What?” I ask.

“That black hen,” she says.

“What black hen?”

“That one…on that grave…under that orange tree…,” she says, this time showing me a rough-looking little book filled with colorful crayon paintings.

She has read my Diary. Now she knows all my secrets: those secrets I thought had died with 1998.

I learnt to keep a diary when I was ten – that was in 1998. Sam, my eldest brother, taught me. He has a big diary into which he records his thoughts, secrets and every single thing that happens to him each day. He’ll write in it only at nights, sitting on our spread mat.

At first it was difficult; writing was a problem. (I didn’t learn to read properly until I was twelve, two years after everything I wrote stopped being a meaningless scrawl on paper.) But Sam told me I didn’t have to be Chinua Achebe to record my thoughts: “Just record the dates, then paint…draw…write a few words to help the events speak for themselves. He is your friend; you can tell him anything, anyhow,” he said.

I loved drawing. So I got myself a makeshift Diary.

I started on June 7, 1998; but that part is torn now.

Ifeoma is looking at me now, somewhat scared I’d scold her for reading the diary. I collect it from her. We settle on the sofa in the parlor and leaf through it together by the pale light shining in through our uncurtained window.

It’s blowing up for a rain.

Monday, June 8, 11:30pm.

We ate the remaining jelof [Jollof] rice of yesterday night food before going to school.

I fighted [fought] Sule at school today.

 We drank garri with kulikuli in the afternoon, when we came back.

[At] 6:30pm today, people beggan [began] to scream and dance and clap. Some young, young pe[o]ple ran the streets with big, big white boards in their hands, drumming on beer bottle[s] and singing “Abacha don die”. Plenty people, man and woman, are drinking and shouting in iya Kudi bar.

Abacha die[d] today. Some people said he was kill[ed] by [a] heart attack; others said he was kill[ed] by sixteen India[n] witch prostitutes from Dubai. But people are happy.

Good night.

Pipiro.

The drawing to this is colorful: matchstick men with smiling faces, wielding placards (big, big white boards); houses painted in various colors. Iya Kudi’s sleaze of a bar at the corner of Bola Street is painted yellow and green. There are so many matchstick men and women; some sitting around tables cluttered with beer bottles, others with their hands raised in jubilation. Ifeoma laughs. “That’s Iya Kudi,” she points at the matchstick woman with bow legs. I nod.

There’s a house painted blue with a tree beside it. That’s our house on Bola Street – that’s in 1998. Under that tree, there’s a grave on which is perched a black hen.

“That black hen,” Ifeoma points at it. I look at it, and then look out the window to see mum beside the house, sweat beaded on her forehead, struggling to boil the rice she had bought for supper. The wind blows the black smoke from the adunga towards her; she waves it away, and coughs. She rearranges the firewood to save the flame.

I tell Ifeoma we’ll read one more page and then go outside to help mum.

Since the kerosene scarcity, we have been using our adunga – the locally-made cooking stove. Goodluck Jonathan, our new president, has promised the problem will be solved soon.

We stare at the drawing. I’m stunned that after thirteen years, I haven’t forgotten a thing about that hen. But how can I forget? Just as the death of Gen. Sani Abacha is an unforgettable milestone on the Nigerian political landscape, whenever I turn to 1998, that hen’s story leaves me with a lesson timeless in its relevance, infinite in its instruction: she reminds me always of mum.

Ifeoma and I turn quickly to July 3 – that’s of 1998.

Friday, July 3, 10: 45pm.

Today that hen die[d] under the rain and thunder and mad, mad light because it didn’t want the rain to touch the small, small chicks. She is a good mother like my mum.

 That tree did not save her. That grave is bad.

I’m not happy.

Good night.

Pipiro.

Prosper Obum Anuforoh lives in Ikotun, Lagos, Nigeria.

MAMA (Third Prize Story) by Yeku Babatunde James

You could hear the rain drizzling in mournful trickles at the Nne graveyard that Friday. All was silent but for the raging voice of the preacher. Not even the umbrellas lifted to the heavens could do much as to stop us from getting wet. The throng, in their dark goggles and dresses, stood by, watching with hands folded on thumping chests, shaking their heads slowly at the loss of their Mother Theresa. I looked around, and I saw friends and colleagues from the office, staring at the lifeless body in the opened casket. They would have thought I had deliberately made up my mind to honour mama with my muffled moaning and tearful smiles. Emeka, my husband noticed my wandering eyes and drew me to himself. I rested my head on his shoulder as my thoughts drifted to that day I first spoke to mama about him…

“I know love when I see one”, mama had said to me.

It had been another special sundown that day. The large orangery ball on the sky’s gentle face was gradually been swallowed up by the clouds; and the evening breeze was caressing my skin as I lay between mama’s feet while she plaited the long shuck on my head.  Mama’s words had painted strokes of sparkles on my tender heart, and so I have never forgotten that day…

Look my daughter, she continued, “When your heart misses it beat at the sight of that special man; when you wish you should worship in the shrine of his spirit; when he himself would do all to see you reach to the sky and pluck off the moon; now that is love.”

“That is love my child”, Mama repeated again, as if I had not heard the first time.

That was during my high days at Aba Government College. It was the season girls around my age, flaunting budding buttocks, and mango-sized breasts started to ask about why boys from the neighboring schools would not stop staring at them. It was a time some of us also had begun to desire some of the scented roses of male affections we saw in Hollywood films. It was a time to seek the priceless purple of innocent lavenders. It was the season of questions. And more questions we asked. Some of my friends had not been too lucky to have parents who listened to the curious but softened clattering of hearts at that verge of personal discovery. I remember Moyo especially. The boys said she looked astonishing; and they all craved her presence. Poor Moyo! She was rusticated from school when the school matron discovered she had been pregnant.

To thank God that Mama was there for me would mean reminding him of all her outpour of sweetened memories. She seemed to have an answer for every matter raised. Maybe it was because she had been trained as a counselor at the big Ibadan University every girl in my school always talked excitedly about. Mama was also a good listener. She nodded her head when she was not saying anything, and being with her was like entering her womb again to be carried in that round and wet calabash behind her dress. I still recall, sometimes with moistened eyes, how she would tell me stories that lured me to sleep.

There was one topic mama however did not like talking about. My father. Not that I delighted in reminding her of a topic that brought tears to her eyes, but I had been curious about why I did not have, like other girls, someone to hold me in those muscular arms my friends talk about. Nkem, the one everyone called daddy’s girl, would even bring pictures of her heavily bearded father to school. I always withdrew at such points, fighting hard not to burst out crying. When Mama finally told me how my father had died in the Biafran war, I understood for the first time why she decided not to allow another man on the bed he had shared with only her precious Ebuka.

It was the Catholic Father’s voice, presiding at the burial mass that called my attention back to mama’s graveside.

“Dust for Dust”.  I heard the preacher say. This time, I could not hold back the tears.

“It is time to go”, Emeka whispered into my ears.

AUTHOR:

YEKU BABATUNDE JAMES

lives in Ibadan, Nigeria.

A YEAR IN PARADISE (Second Prize Story in the Cecilia Unaegbu Competition 2011)

As we drove past the Orphanage, I smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, neither sad, simply nostalgic. I could never pass an Orphanage without remembering. The bus driver slowed down for a speed bump and I got a clearer look. Through the metal bars of the gate, I could see children playing. A few boys were playing ‘three-aside soccer’ with a tattered ball; some girls had gathered together, by the look of things they were listening with rapt attention to a girl of about eight, as she gesticulated, no doubt telling them an incredulous story. The others were preoccupied with climbing the mango tree or riding the shiny red bicycle; most probably a recent donation. I shuddered as my heart filled with emotion I didn’t realise I still carried. That feeling of depending on strangers for sustenance was not one I’d wish on anybody. Deep down, I still felt the same fear I’d felt that fateful morning. Tears welled up in my eyes and I feigned tiredness. A quick yawn should dispel anyone’s suspicions. As the bus moved along leaving the orphanage behind it seemed as though the hurt, pain and fear were also being left behind. I took a deep breath as I settled in my seat more comfortably, with the resolve to enjoy the bus ride, as much as anyone can possibly enjoy a commercial one; and for the first time in decades, I cast my mind back to that dreadful morning.

*******

“David, David, wake up!”

I heard my brother’s half-frantic whisper. In my half-sleepy state I was still deciding on whether to give him a knock on the head or a slap when the next words cleared any vestige of sleep from my eyes.

“There are strange men in the house!”

I jerked up immediately, shoving him aside. Part of me was mortified. I was the “man” of the house yet it took my younger brother to let me know we had not just strangers but male strangers in the house. Since I had no Father the onus of defending our family fell on me. Whether my Mother was a divorcee, a widower or an ‘outside wife’ I had no idea. The kind of environment I was born in did not leave room for being inquisitive, most especially about ‘such issues’. I walked to the sitting room of our room-and-parlour apartment and there I saw a sight I would never forget. My mother still in her wrapper and faded t-shirt, on her knees, crying silently as she rubbed her palms together in a manner not unlike African women, begging  the two ‘thugs’ in the room. Transfixed by fear and embarrassment I watched as one by one, the thugs threw our meagre belongings out of our house.

My Mother’s pleading didn’t help, even the tear-stained faces of Ayo and I did nothing to move the thugs. The Landlord’s orders were clear. Our rent was six months overdue and he was tired of hearing ‘tomorrow….tomorrow’. By afternoon Ayo and I had stacked our property in a corner of a sympathetic neighbour’s compound.

“I’ll find a way” Mother said as she got ready to leave in a quest to find a solution. We waited for her for hours, feeling the hostile glares of the gardener and the house-help as they went around their errands. Didn’t they know we weren’t interested in usurping them? They could keep their filthy jobs! By evening, Mother returned looking five years older. Tears filled my eyes. She waved to us and went straight to the main house to see “Oga”. A few minutes later she came out with a weary smile, the best she could muster I was certain. Holding each our hands she said confidently:

“You’re going to Paradise.” She gave us a look that said ‘no questions allowed’ and we followed her obediently, like lambs to the slaughter. Soon enough we were at ‘Paradise’, literally. It was a recently opened orphanage with air-conditioning, toys and even a bus to take the children to school. There was also the option for parents who couldn’t take care of their children to leave them and visit once a week. This, Mother did for a year. It was only years later, when I was graduating from University that she decided to open up as to what she did during that year. She had taken the job I had despised and offered her services to all as a “House help”.
Author:

Desiree Eniola Craig, 
Lagos, Nigeria.

SEARCH FOR MY FATHER (First Prize Story in the Cecilia Unaegbu Competition 2011)

Uzonna, my fiancé, has set me on a mission to search for my father.

My bride price has to be paid to my father and to no one else. Uzonna, a surgeon at the university teaching hospital, was a man who loved to abide by tradition. When we first met at a medical conference, it was his neat, starched and ironed clothes that drew me to him. His clean shaven chin smelt like overripe pineapples. The first time we kissed, he’d held my thin waist gently as though it would break like a twig if he didn’t. We had agreed not to go beyond mild petting. No premarital sex. We wanted to have a special experience to anticipate in marriage. We were anxious to be married.

Chinenye made her face like someone who was chewing on stale bread when I asked about my father. I sat on the rug and watched her frail hands quivering on the old red cushion she had inherited from her deceased Mother. Chinenye, though thirty-eight, had a face that was lined with wrinkles and scars: they had always been prominent features on her face from the moment I had been alert enough to distinguish details. Sometimes when I traced the scars with my fingers, she would say that it was my father who had etched them. I didn’t care about my father then because, like my Chinenye, I had learned to be contented with the things that I had. It was useless to miss the things I never had.

Sounds of Chinenye’s noisy breath and the whirring fan filled the quiet room. I waited; my weary eyes watched her as she lifted herself from her seat. I rushed to help her up but she raised her hand. I halted, said a silent prayer for her, as she shuffled to the kitchen. She returned with a mug of water. Her quivering hands spilled water on the rug as she slumped into her chair.

“Chinenye, why won’t you let me get you a maid?” I asked.

Everyone found it a bit strange, that I called her by her first name. But Chinenye and I were almost inseparable. Perhaps, this was because she’d had me when she was thirteen; she’d raised me by herself.

“Is that why you’re here?” she retorted. Then, she gulped draughts of water as if her throat was parched.

“No.” I muttered.

Chinenye didn’t trust anyone. She had lived like this, had made me live like this. And because I lived in Lagos, far from the village, and my work as news reporter wouldn’t give me the time to be there as much as I would have loved to, I worried about her.

That moment, I was worried about my future.

“Why do you hate him so much?” I asked.

 “Because he’s a dog!”

I went to the bedroom to clear my head, and ended up taking a nap. Chinenye’s long burnt fingers tapped my shoulder. Nonsense sleep-talk escaped from my lips. I sat up, rubbed my eyes. Her story flowed from her heart.

He was fourteen and adventurous. She was thirteen and infatuated. They were neighbours. Both lived with relatives as housemaids. He was her first. It had felt like the right thing to do –to give herself unconditionally; no, for a bottle of coke.

Chinenye’s vein-flecked eyes met mine, lowered onto the bed. Her hand smoothened the bed sheets. She wept.

“He denied me, you, and everything. Oh I wanted a miracle, a miscarriage. I prayed that you’d melt in me and disappear. My heart broke the moment he said, ‘Don’t know what you’re saying, Chinenye, how? Don’t mind her. Whore! Was I the only one?’ in front of everyone.”

I embraced her, inhaled the scent of Lux soap mingled with sweat behind her ears.

“Chinenye,” I whispered. “Forgive him and move on. This grief, this bitterness… it’ll kill you. You’re dying already.”

She pushed me away and shook her head slowly, then fast like a cock shaking off flies from its comb.

“Can I forgive him? It’s hard.”

“You can. You decide.”

Silence reigned.

“Give me his address Ma. I want to live but not like this.” I looked around.

She sniffed, blew her nose into the edge of her Ankara wrapper, shuffled out to her bed.

At dawn, I found a brown envelop by my pillow. There was a photograph of a smiling teenage boy, in school uniform, wearing an afro. I read out the name and address squiggled behind the photograph, dated 1976.

I exhaled. 

AUTHOR:

Chioma Iwunze

Enugu, Nigeria.