Dear Reader, Esther's Diary is a five part short story series. This is the first part. Enjoy!
ENTRY ONE:
As my bus neared the junction where I would alight, my heart hammered in my chest. We sped past bushes and farmlands, passing occasionally, villagers on bicycles loaded with produce or firewood. I held my school bag close to my chest and rested my forehead on the bus window. The bus had a funny smell that made me feel nauseated. I stared out the window and as we rushed past the bushes, the events that occurred two days ago, flashed through my mind. Me telling Emeka under the cover of darkness as we stood in our dark rendezvous under the mango tree- the rejection in his eyes; Me standing by the living room door ready to run while telling my parents- the hurt and anger in my father’s eyes; Me watching my mother apprehensively- the hurt in her clouded eyes; the fear and worry in the eyes of my siblings as I walked away from them earlier today. My eyes clouded. “Be Strong!” my mind yelled. I refused to blink so the tears would not fall from my eyes and roll down my face. My eyes peppered from the wind that rushed into the bus from the open window of the passenger sitting in front of me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I blinked. The tears fell and I brushed them away firmly. My nose started running but I tried not to sniff. Catarrh ran down my nose and pooled on my upper lip. I wiped it on my shirt and looked up furtively to see if anyone saw me. Someone was watching. The guy on the seat in front of me. He turned away in disgust. “Stop the tears! You’ll cause a scene.” I told myself.
“Ama junction” I yelled to the conductor, trying to be heard above the whooshing sound of the air rushing into the bus. We slowed down as we entered the village proper to avoid colliding with any person or animal. The bus stopped me a long way from the junction despite the fact that I had told the conductor long before we reached it. “I get load for boot.” I told the conductor as I alighted. He brought out my bag and dumped it unceremoniously on the tarred road, hopped back into the bus and the driver drove away. I picked up my bag, slung it on my shoulder and crossed the road. I had to pass De Ikenna’s store, something I would have been able to avoid if the driver had stopped me at the junction proper. I pretended to be adjusting my bag to avoid calling out to him. After I passed, I sighed. I knew I could not avoid the questions for long, but I was momentarily relieved.
My heart thudded in my chest as I neared our village compound. Usually half naked village children would run towards anyone returning from the city asking for “bled” (bread). No one ran out. Did everyone know already? “Don’t be silly, it’s only eleven in the morning. The children should be in school.” I sighed unnecessarily. I walked towards the house as quickly as I could with my heavy traveling bag. I turned the corner and my distant relation yelled in Igbo:
‘Hey! Esther has come oh!’ She leaned the bicycle she was wheeling against the wall and rushed to hug me. I half expected semi-nude children to run out even though I knew they should be in school.
‘Onyinye, how now?’
‘I dey. Welcome o.’ I nodded and smiled. But my smile was strained. Maybe she noticed and decided not to comment. People don’t always say everything they see with their eyes. I had learnt that very recently.
‘Who is at home?’ I asked in Igbo. I was suddenly embarrassed. My Igbo did not sound right. It was immediately plain that I spoke my mother-tongue like someone who did not use it often. I knew her English would be nothing compared to mine, but my parents always said it was shameful not to be able to express yourself in your mother-tongue.
‘Mama is around.’ She replied in fluent Igbo. ‘She sent me on an errand a long time ago and I’m just leaving. I’m going to the market, when I return you’ll gist me... Esther, you’re not looking bad o!’ I smiled and watched her wheel her bicycle a little further before mounting it and cycling away. Mama was in the yard when I entered the compound. Mum had already sent word for her to expect me. She stopped walking and stared at me as I approached. It felt like a trek to reach where she stood.
“Mama, good morning.”
“Good morning.’ She replied coolly. ‘Go and sit there and wait for me.’ She pointed to a bench in front of her room. I was staring at my dirty toes when she returned. She sat gently on a stool opposite me. I avoided her eyes.
‘Udoka’ That’s my traditional name.
‘Mama’
‘Udoka’
‘Mama’ I replied again in a low tone.
‘How did this happen?’ She pointed to my abdomen. I kept silent.
‘Is it not you I’m asking? How did this happen?’ Mama speaks only Igbo. I began telling her everything in Igbo language. I threw in English words where I did not know the Igbo word for something. She got a sense of what I meant and when I finished, she just stared at me. Tears began to fall from my eyes.
‘If you cry, I will slap you! Don’t shed those tears in front of me.’ I wiped them and stifled my sobs.
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’ She shook her head sadly. Her eyes raked my petite figure.
‘You’re just a child. How could you do this to yourself? After you give birth to this baby, do you think you will just walk away and continue school? You’ll not be able to go to Univarsity again. You cannot drop this load for me after nine months and run o, I’m too old. It will be hard for you to get married too. Other girls find it hard to get married talk-less of one with a fatherless child. Which man will want to marry you, eh?’ I watched the ants moving in a straight line on the ground in front of me. ‘You children don’t think for yourselves, neither do you listen to those wiser than you. If you had listened to your Father and Mother, you won’t be in this mess. I’m sorry for you.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe you don’t fully understand what has happened to you and your future. My advice is for you to be strong. I can't watch out for you. You’ll have to fetch your water, cook for yourself, wash your clothes and fend for yourself. Go to your room and rest.’
I got the key from my bag and got up from the bench. I could feel her eyes on my back. I cleaned the house, dusted the furniture, removed cobwebs, and killed some cockroaches and three large rats (the others were too fast for me). I washed all the bed sheets and curtains and hung them outside to dry. I was exhausted when I finished but since Mama still had her eye on me I pretended. I waited for Onyinye to return from the market so we could fetch water. Would I tell her? I was not sure. I locked my door and cried softly till I fell asleep. It was about three in the afternoon when I woke. The kids were back. I gave them the bread and watched them play while my mind went back to my living room in Aba on the day I told my parents. It came in flashes.
Mum pleading with Dad; Dad yelling that he did not want to set his eyes on me ever again. Mum pleading some more; Dad yelling for me to disappear before he descends on me; Me sleeping in the garage; Mum and Uzoh- my fifteen year old brother, bring me my traveling bag and some money. Dad did not want me to even take a shower before traveling. Mum looking like she wanted to hug me at the Park but refraining from doing so; Uzoh hugging me tightly and whispering “Be strong. I’ll come to see you as soon as I can.” I would have cried if I wasn’t worried about causing a scene at the motor park. Uzoh squeezed my hand tightly; Uzoh waving as my bus left; Mum staring at me then at the puddle in front of her.
I’m six weeks pregnant and I’ve been sent away from my house. I don’t know if I’ll ever be let back in. I don’t know if Dad will ever forgive me for shaming him. I don’t know how I’ll field all the questions that are bound to come from the villagers in the next few days and in the next few months when my abdomen begins to protrude visibly. I don’t know how I’ll comport myself as I walk the streets, I don't know how I’ll act when people point and jeer at me. I don’t know if I’ll still go to church– if I’ll be allowed into the church premises. I don’t know if God will listen to any of my prayers. I’m confused and worried right now. All I want to do is curl up and cry then fall asleep and wake up to realize this is a bad dream.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Follow Esther's story! Part Two - Settling Down , Part Three - Untitled , Part Four - My Baby , and Part Five - The Scribbles of a "Stranger"
ENTRY ONE:
As my bus neared the junction where I would alight, my heart hammered in my chest. We sped past bushes and farmlands, passing occasionally, villagers on bicycles loaded with produce or firewood. I held my school bag close to my chest and rested my forehead on the bus window. The bus had a funny smell that made me feel nauseated. I stared out the window and as we rushed past the bushes, the events that occurred two days ago, flashed through my mind. Me telling Emeka under the cover of darkness as we stood in our dark rendezvous under the mango tree- the rejection in his eyes; Me standing by the living room door ready to run while telling my parents- the hurt and anger in my father’s eyes; Me watching my mother apprehensively- the hurt in her clouded eyes; the fear and worry in the eyes of my siblings as I walked away from them earlier today. My eyes clouded. “Be Strong!” my mind yelled. I refused to blink so the tears would not fall from my eyes and roll down my face. My eyes peppered from the wind that rushed into the bus from the open window of the passenger sitting in front of me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I blinked. The tears fell and I brushed them away firmly. My nose started running but I tried not to sniff. Catarrh ran down my nose and pooled on my upper lip. I wiped it on my shirt and looked up furtively to see if anyone saw me. Someone was watching. The guy on the seat in front of me. He turned away in disgust. “Stop the tears! You’ll cause a scene.” I told myself.
“Ama junction” I yelled to the conductor, trying to be heard above the whooshing sound of the air rushing into the bus. We slowed down as we entered the village proper to avoid colliding with any person or animal. The bus stopped me a long way from the junction despite the fact that I had told the conductor long before we reached it. “I get load for boot.” I told the conductor as I alighted. He brought out my bag and dumped it unceremoniously on the tarred road, hopped back into the bus and the driver drove away. I picked up my bag, slung it on my shoulder and crossed the road. I had to pass De Ikenna’s store, something I would have been able to avoid if the driver had stopped me at the junction proper. I pretended to be adjusting my bag to avoid calling out to him. After I passed, I sighed. I knew I could not avoid the questions for long, but I was momentarily relieved.
My heart thudded in my chest as I neared our village compound. Usually half naked village children would run towards anyone returning from the city asking for “bled” (bread). No one ran out. Did everyone know already? “Don’t be silly, it’s only eleven in the morning. The children should be in school.” I sighed unnecessarily. I walked towards the house as quickly as I could with my heavy traveling bag. I turned the corner and my distant relation yelled in Igbo:
‘Hey! Esther has come oh!’ She leaned the bicycle she was wheeling against the wall and rushed to hug me. I half expected semi-nude children to run out even though I knew they should be in school.
‘Onyinye, how now?’
‘I dey. Welcome o.’ I nodded and smiled. But my smile was strained. Maybe she noticed and decided not to comment. People don’t always say everything they see with their eyes. I had learnt that very recently.
‘Who is at home?’ I asked in Igbo. I was suddenly embarrassed. My Igbo did not sound right. It was immediately plain that I spoke my mother-tongue like someone who did not use it often. I knew her English would be nothing compared to mine, but my parents always said it was shameful not to be able to express yourself in your mother-tongue.
‘Mama is around.’ She replied in fluent Igbo. ‘She sent me on an errand a long time ago and I’m just leaving. I’m going to the market, when I return you’ll gist me... Esther, you’re not looking bad o!’ I smiled and watched her wheel her bicycle a little further before mounting it and cycling away. Mama was in the yard when I entered the compound. Mum had already sent word for her to expect me. She stopped walking and stared at me as I approached. It felt like a trek to reach where she stood.
“Mama, good morning.”
“Good morning.’ She replied coolly. ‘Go and sit there and wait for me.’ She pointed to a bench in front of her room. I was staring at my dirty toes when she returned. She sat gently on a stool opposite me. I avoided her eyes.
‘Udoka’ That’s my traditional name.
‘Mama’
‘Udoka’
‘Mama’ I replied again in a low tone.
‘How did this happen?’ She pointed to my abdomen. I kept silent.
‘Is it not you I’m asking? How did this happen?’ Mama speaks only Igbo. I began telling her everything in Igbo language. I threw in English words where I did not know the Igbo word for something. She got a sense of what I meant and when I finished, she just stared at me. Tears began to fall from my eyes.
‘If you cry, I will slap you! Don’t shed those tears in front of me.’ I wiped them and stifled my sobs.
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’ She shook her head sadly. Her eyes raked my petite figure.
‘You’re just a child. How could you do this to yourself? After you give birth to this baby, do you think you will just walk away and continue school? You’ll not be able to go to Univarsity again. You cannot drop this load for me after nine months and run o, I’m too old. It will be hard for you to get married too. Other girls find it hard to get married talk-less of one with a fatherless child. Which man will want to marry you, eh?’ I watched the ants moving in a straight line on the ground in front of me. ‘You children don’t think for yourselves, neither do you listen to those wiser than you. If you had listened to your Father and Mother, you won’t be in this mess. I’m sorry for you.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe you don’t fully understand what has happened to you and your future. My advice is for you to be strong. I can't watch out for you. You’ll have to fetch your water, cook for yourself, wash your clothes and fend for yourself. Go to your room and rest.’
I got the key from my bag and got up from the bench. I could feel her eyes on my back. I cleaned the house, dusted the furniture, removed cobwebs, and killed some cockroaches and three large rats (the others were too fast for me). I washed all the bed sheets and curtains and hung them outside to dry. I was exhausted when I finished but since Mama still had her eye on me I pretended. I waited for Onyinye to return from the market so we could fetch water. Would I tell her? I was not sure. I locked my door and cried softly till I fell asleep. It was about three in the afternoon when I woke. The kids were back. I gave them the bread and watched them play while my mind went back to my living room in Aba on the day I told my parents. It came in flashes.
Mum pleading with Dad; Dad yelling that he did not want to set his eyes on me ever again. Mum pleading some more; Dad yelling for me to disappear before he descends on me; Me sleeping in the garage; Mum and Uzoh- my fifteen year old brother, bring me my traveling bag and some money. Dad did not want me to even take a shower before traveling. Mum looking like she wanted to hug me at the Park but refraining from doing so; Uzoh hugging me tightly and whispering “Be strong. I’ll come to see you as soon as I can.” I would have cried if I wasn’t worried about causing a scene at the motor park. Uzoh squeezed my hand tightly; Uzoh waving as my bus left; Mum staring at me then at the puddle in front of her.
I’m six weeks pregnant and I’ve been sent away from my house. I don’t know if I’ll ever be let back in. I don’t know if Dad will ever forgive me for shaming him. I don’t know how I’ll field all the questions that are bound to come from the villagers in the next few days and in the next few months when my abdomen begins to protrude visibly. I don’t know how I’ll comport myself as I walk the streets, I don't know how I’ll act when people point and jeer at me. I don’t know if I’ll still go to church– if I’ll be allowed into the church premises. I don’t know if God will listen to any of my prayers. I’m confused and worried right now. All I want to do is curl up and cry then fall asleep and wake up to realize this is a bad dream.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Follow Esther's story! Part Two - Settling Down , Part Three - Untitled , Part Four - My Baby , and Part Five - The Scribbles of a "Stranger"
Posts
Look, I've told you what you are -- a terrific and amazing writer. You've just written this story, in a different way, not the all-boring narrative technique Nigerians relegate to writing. This is just amazing...
ReplyDeleteyou write so natural,...
ReplyDeletei am highly impressed.
beleive me..this is exceedingly good.
keep that 'gold pen' scribblin..
Thank you very much Onyeka and Nonso. That's encouraging. Remember that "Esther's Diary" does not end yet, it's a series. There are four more diary entries to go.
ReplyDeleteKeep reading
Thank you,
Osondu Nnamdi Awaraka
Interesting.
ReplyDeleteI don't understand Onyeka's comment. "All boring narrative technique" used by Nigerians. This is simply not true, as he knows. Jude Dibia's "Unbridled" does not use boring narrative techniques. As a style, first person narrative with gender shift (male author writing as female) this is hardly new. Not in contemporary prose literature. Your second commentator is closer to the mark: the English is natural. And there is its strength and its weakness. Yes, it is good English (only a few errors) and you do write with a consistent, elegant tone. But does the English really characterise? Does the style capture the psychology of the female narrator? You are writing a diary, therefore it has to convince the reader that it is a diary by Esther. You would learn much from "Unbridled". Have a look at how he creates psychological reality and shifts narrative voices...even uses diary entires to re-tell a story. Good luck with the remainder of posts.
Thank you 'Anonymous'for your comment. You sound like a critic, and that's not bad. You may be right when you say I have a lot to learn, we all learn everyday. They say 'Practice makes Perfect', so i'll keep practising, and hopefully you'll keep commenting.
ReplyDeleteIt's when I get comments I'm able to know my weaknesses and strenghts.Please follow Esther's story in the subsequent posts,and tell me what you think.
Thank you,
Osondu Nnamdi Awaraka
Good, good, Anonymous. No fusses. I don't know why you keep picking on me. I still repeat that Nigerians use boring technique. And come to think of it, Unbridled is not even a 'Nigerian book'. It's a 'cross-over' literature, just as people would say that Diane Evans' 26a is not a Nigerian book. Helen Oyeyemi's The Icarus Girl is not as well.
ReplyDeleteI can boast of this: that I've read Unbridled many times than you have and I think that whatever 'psychology' of the female narrator you are talking about has been fused in by Osondu.
Honestly, your critique is just flop. You don't even think anything written is perfect. And if you think that a young and aspiring author like Osondu would write this story, not yet handled by an editor, and has this excellent flow of narrative, then you must be heading for something I really don't want to mention.
Look, when it comes to narrative technique, I expect Osondu to write this in a loose English; loose English in the sense that the narrator lives in a rural area where English is spoken loosely or colloquially. Most Nigerian writers fall into this hole of building up characters who, even though they come from rural areas, narrate in a very 'good' English. That's where Osondu has failed in this sense and I think Jude Dibia actually left that, because Ngozi wasn't quite educated to meddle in such English, even though she might have learned to speak good English in England, it still doesn't satisfy.
She used the internet even though she wasn't educated.
You didn't point those things out, my dear critic. You are always talking about style, without really analysing it...
gud piece... i can see ur talent... am impressed with the writing... keep up the gud work...
ReplyDeleteI think your narative style is near-perfect and your character is natural in her rural settings but like your anonymous critic said, ur style does not convince us it is a female narrating Make Esther a litle flexible so her feminity shows in the story.
ReplyDeleteI should sore it 70%.
Bye
Onyeka. Pick on you? I merely commented on a viewpoint of yours. This shows your narcissism, making everything about you. Nigerians use bad technique? I remember you said the same thing about Uzodinma Iweala, then changed your mind because it wasn’t likely to further your creeping through the literary establishment. Your literary decisions are continually flawed. “Cross-over” literature? Another fake category you have conveniently created to justify more off-the-top-of-the-head pontificating. “I can boast of this…” you say, you have read “Unbridled” more than me. That says a lot. You like to boast. But boasting is not a literary technique. In reply to this attack (on me) I will simply point out that your boast is empty. I note your vague “whatever psychology”. Of course, you keep that response vague because you have no idea what I am talking about, something which proves that you might have read through “Unbridled” many times, but have not in fact READ it. (I don’t understand your point about Ngozi…it isn’t “good” English and does not communicate). You expect the passage to be written in “loose English”. Oh. Where did the question of “loose English” come into the discussion? There is nothing loose about Osondu’s English. I actually described it as “elegant”. You abuse him wrongly. Unlike your English, Osondu’s has a flow to it. He does not need his literary work to be corrected by a Nigerian Professor of Rhetoric so as all the grammatical howlers are removed... remember this? I dislike the way that you use “critic” as a slur. All writers are critics. All good writers submit themselves to self-criticism and the criticism of others. You dislike “critics” I suggest, dear Onyeka, because you cannot put up with anyone having a viewpoint that is not yours and smashing “critics” down (in the same way as you bash Christians) is a way of guaranteeing that your ex cathedra judgements are never exposed for what they are. I don’t know why you feel the need to champion Osondu. He does not need your protection from “criticism”. Perhaps, you feel a need to protest to make up for the offence you caused your fellow writer through vulgar comments on your blog. Or perhaps, you feel the need to defend your acolyte… your need to have someone look up to your literary wisdom. From what I see, Osondu has a command of language superior to yours. You should be his disciple!
ReplyDeleteYes, I know that definitely. Osondu is better and I keep saying it. I do not think I'm in any position to say I'm better and I've always said that.
ReplyDeleteI'm Osondu's disciple, yes, I am. And I tell Eromo that. At least, last week I mentioned that to him.
But come, Mr. critic, I should look at what you've written. At least, critics make bad writers and if they find their hands on anything, they mess around with it. I should read what you've written and I think it's cool.
Maybe you should read A Strange and Sublime Address by Amit Chaudhuri.Not every work of literature has to have a deep-root with the BIG English.
Whatever comment I make on Osondu's blog has nothing to do with us being friends. And yes, what's the whole fuss about Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children being the Booker of Bookers. If it had been written in a very 'WONDERFUL AND FLOWING' English, it would've been a trash.
And again, I should say that Osondu's prose is better...I keep saying this, because it's better...
"At least, critics make bad writers and if they find their hands on anything, they mess around with it."
ReplyDeleteActually, no, critics make very good writers. This is a prejudice which you ought to correct.Consider how many world writers are also critics of literature in universities.
Do they teach literary criticism in Nigeria?
Seems not.
Perhaps, that is why so many writers seek literary education elsewhere.
Then show me what you've written, man! Don't panick.
ReplyDeleteOnyeka...why would I want to subject my writing to your scrutiny?..You would have nothing to offer it...yet your presumption is that such would be the natural thing to do. Hm. Panic? What would there to be panic about? That comment implies that I am afraid in some way. Definitely not. I have kept my comments anonymous so as they can be taken for what they are...impersonally. So as I am not drawn into personal arguments with secondary bloggers. Frankly, if I had wanted to debate with you, I would have replied to your blog. It would be impolite to run an argument within the margin's of Osondu's blog.
ReplyDelete