Grace Clinic

There’s a clinic situated in an area called Obigbo, on the outskirts of Port-Harcourt. I went there to visit someone who is related to someone I know well. The clinic sits on a large piece of land, but the building is not big and it looks smaller than it really is because of size of the land. Only the side of the building facing the gate is painted and the area is secluded, I had to walk a good distance inside to get to it. It’s called Grace Clinic.

I went inside the clinic and walked up to the front desk. There was only one nurse standing behind a box shaped desk. I heard sounds coming from a radio set but I did not see the radio. She looked up and kept staring until I reached the front of her desk. I gave her the name of the person I wanted to see and she gave me directions to the ward. On my way to the ward, I walked past doors with see-through glass on them. I could not see much and I did not try to peep. All I heard as I passed were indistinct voices and coughing. Before I reached the door of the ward I was going to, three nurses came out. I paused and spent a full minute, wondering if I should just turn back and go home, and then I walked inside after turning my tape recorder on. The nurse had said that his bed was the fifth one from the wall on my left. The guy that sat in the fifth bed was very thin, but not as thin as I thought he would be. His cheeks were hollowed, his arms were thin. He looked like he had shrunk, like he used to be big before. He saw me enter and stared at me until I reached his bed.

‘Good Afternoon.’

He stared at me and then at my Bagco bag. He was sitting down with pillows between his back and the iron post of his bed. He cleared his throat slowly and nodded, and then he pointed to a chair two beds away. I carried the chair and as I was returning to his bed, I noticed some of the other people in the ward were looking at me.

‘My name is Nnamdi.’ I told him after I sat down. ‘I’m Chiagozie’s (not his real name) friend. I don’t know if he told you I will come.’

‘Yes, he told me.’ His voice sounded tired and he took his time to answer. We were silent for sometime. He was looking at me and I did not know how to continue.

‘He said that you write.’ He asked me after a while.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you know HIV & AIDS is?’ He asked quietly.

‘It’s a disease that makes people get sick and die. It has no cure yet and it’s spread most of the time by sexual intercourse.’ I kept quiet and wondered if my answer was too elementary. He made a derisive sound in his throat, scratched his arm and looked at the empty bed beside us. After some time, he turned to me and said:

‘HIV does not make you sick, it only makes your immune system weak and that means your immune system cannot protect you again when other sicknesses and infections come your way. It’s a virus that damages the body’s immune system and allows other illnesses and infections to make you sick. Any infection that comes, your body’s cells will not be able to fight it. Shay you understand? Now, contacting any of those infections means a person is diagnosed with AIDS. I don’t know if you get me. Having HIV doesn’t mean you have AIDS. They are not the same thing.’ I nodded. To say I was embarrassed at that point is an understatement.

‘Did you come here by yourself or your family brought you here?’ I asked quietly.

‘No one brought me. I came when I felt too weak to continue work. All the excuses I was giving people about stress from work and exercise could not explain why I was becoming very thin and people began to show they suspected I had the virus. I don’t want to talk much about my family. My father is an educated man who doesn’t believe people with this illness should be doing all those adverts you see on NTA where people come out and say they want to be open about their status.’

‘How is this place? How does the staff treat their patients? I looked around. There was a crude structure on the ceiling to support his mosquito net, now brown with dust and dirt in some places. There were some broken louvers in the windows. The other people in the ward were either sleeping or lying down quietly. There was a small TV set in one corner that I know will be hard to watch from his position because of its size. Breeze was blowing across the ward because of the strategically placed windows that make cross ventilation possible.

‘As you’re seeing it, that’s how it is. NEPA wahala is worse than usual here because there are not plenty people living in this area. Anytime it comes, we take. There are some people who cook for the clinic. There are not enough nurses working here because people don’t want to work in this kind of place. We’ve had some nurses and caretakers who tell us to our face that we lived a bad, immoral life and now God is punishing us....God never sleeps, that kind of thing.

Some people who come here are brought by their family at night as if they have been hiding them since. The people that have money pay for private wards and special food. The patients who have Tuberculosis are kept at the other end of the hospital. This ward has more space now, before when there were more patients, they moved in more beds to contain more people. One thing is that many people come here in the final stages of the disease and die quickly, like the people that stayed in these two beds.’ He pointed to the empty ones by my side. ‘The ones that their people don’t come to carry their dead bodies- which is eighty percent of us, the clinic people bury themselves, there’s a special place they use, I don’t know exactly. Mosquitoes disturb us a lot, especially since that window was broken early this week. Sometimes, only sometimes, they spray insecticide inside here, those types that don’t bother us because we can’t leave the room. Some of us, who have it, always use treated mosquito nets every night.’

‘Where do you people get your medicine from?’ There were some medicine bottles on his side table but I could not see their names because I was far away.

‘We have to pay a different amount for the drugs. People complain most times about missing medicines, which is not funny when you look at how expensive it is, so everyone locks their own inside their bedside locker to keep them safe. The drugs are really expensive and then, sometimes we get good reason to believe some are fake. For instance a lot of our drugs have certain side effects. Some times when we take the drugs, we don’t get the usual side effects, it can be scary. I don’t bother myself with that one because I have no option. Only God can help us.’

‘How do you pay for all this?

‘I used to work for...' It’s one of the BIG telecommunications companies here in Nigeria. ‘My salary was okay. When I was working, I did not have a lot of people who depended on me so I kept most of my salary. A lot of it has gone into buying drugs and feeding, but there are so many people here that I’m better than. People with this illness need to eat very well and drink a lot of water, especially to wash down the plenty medicines. These medicines stop the duplication of HIV inside the cells and this stops the virus from taking over the immune system as it does when it’s not checked.’

‘There’s a bill the government approved that makes it punishable to discriminate against people with HIV & AIDS.’ I told him.

‘I heard about it, forget that thing. It won’t change anything. People are just too scared of the thing. Would you let somebody related to you stay in your house if you find out they have AIDS?’ He asked watching me carefully.

‘Yes.’ I replied. He looked doubtful.

‘Even if, will you still treat them normally?’

‘Yes I will.’ I answered.

‘So why is your chair so far away? Why are you sitting so far away, do you think you’ll catch it?’ His voice was still quiet and tired but I did not miss the accusing tone. There was silence. I was surprised by his directness.

‘When I came I was not sure if you had TB or not so I decided not to sit too close.’

‘Even if, there’s still a way you’re doing your body like you are afraid of contacting.’ After that statement, I did not know how to continue, I just shut up.

‘Where do you say you publish what you write?’ He asked me again, still watching me.

‘On my blog...it’s like a website. I write stuff and put there for people to read and sometimes they comment.’

‘What kind of things do you put there?’ He was asking in the same tone he had used to answer my other questions. It was as if nothing happened.

‘Experiences, sometimes stories…anything I can put.’

“Won’t they think this is another one of those your stories?’

‘No. There’s a way I let them know whether what I’m writing is true or made up.’ (Dear Reader please check the Label at the bottom of this post) ‘Do you want to read it before I post it on my blog?’

‘If it won’t stress you, bring me a copy.’

‘Okay. I brought some fruits...please manage it.’

‘You’ve tried. Thank you.’

‘I have to go now so I can get home early. There’s always hold up at Oil Mill junction on Wednesdays.’ He nodded. I stood up nervously, went closer to him and then I extended my hand. He looked me in the eye and grasped it. We shook and then I turned to go, and I felt his eyes on my back even when I closed the door of his ward. There were some other questions I had wanted to ask him but I lost the nerve.

I can’t find words to label the experience. I can’t find words my parents would use if they ever discover I went to visit someone living with HIV. My brother will never ever believe I did this. It’s another one on my list of unforgettable experiences.

Bad Day

       ‘Thank you.’
I shut the car door and waited until Ebenezer’s car reached the filling station and then I turned and walked into the University campus. I pass the Kwame Nkrumah hostel and the new Odili hostel. I can see the progress made by the site workers but I can’t admire it. Why is life so short? I’m not alive today because I’m more religious than any of the people who left this world last month or because I pray more regularly than they did when they were alive or because I’m a better husband or because I have used my life in a better way than they did or because my family loves me more and that love protects me from death. I’m alive today not by any design of mine. Every day millions of lives are extinguished. The life just goes. People just stop existing. I sigh heavily. How, how do I tell Gloria that Chinedu is dead? “Gloria…your brother is dead.”, “Gloria…someone died this afternoon…Who?...Chinedu.” Gloria will die.
       Ngozi’s call this afternoon left me stiff with shock. She was crying so much that I could not hear what she was saying. The only word I heard clearly was ‘dead’ and I knew immediately without hearing her say it, the one who was dead. I tried to calm her down by saying all the meaningless words my mind put in my mouth, while trying to pull myself together as a man must. Her sister took the phone from her and told me what had happened as told by the people who took Chinedu to the mortuary. His head had burst open after he fell down from the speeding Okada. When they got to the accident scene, the afternoon rain was rinsing his red blood from the black tar. I shut my eyes to remove the images that came to my mind but it was as if I shut the images inside. I opened my eyes quickly.
      On my left, in the field behind the Eni Njoku hostel, someone was learning to drive. The car went around the field once and then it stopped and the occupants discussed. Is life like that? A circle? Humans are born, they grow up and learn to bear the problems that come with life, they procreate and then they die leaving children who inevitably, go through the same process. In the other field some children were playing football in spite of the cold weather. Suddenly rain started falling even though the sun was still shining and then just as suddenly it stopped. I turned left into the road that leads to the University Junior Staff Quarters.
     Chinedu was Gloria’s only brother, only sibling, only blood relative. Their parents had died when they were young. He had struggled to put food on the table and to put her through nursing school. In her words “He put his life on hold, so I could go to school. During that time, nothing personal mattered. He broke his back so I could go to school.” She was always saying it, always. He’s someone she loves deeply. So how can he be dead? Chinedu? The one that is marrying Ngozi next month? The one that drank beer with me four nights ago at Jives? The one that Ngozi kept saying was ‘overdue’ for marriage? The one that told me four nights ago that Ngozi is carrying his baby? The smiling one. I was cold to the bone and the cold weather was not helping.
     I turn left, pass the quiet house of my neighbour and walk to my door. On the pavement my son Chike stands bare-chested, holding his hands out to catch the rain water running down the zinc roof. He greets me and I nod and begin to take off my shoes. He pinches one nostril shut and blows hard. A tiny glob of mucus shoots out his nostril and lands on the floor. It’s so clear; it could have been mistaken for a rain drop.
     'Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?’
     'The weather was hot before the rain started.’ He replies without looking at me. ‘I’m not feeling cold.’
    ‘Come on get inside the house and wear a shirt!’ He picks the clothes on the bench outside and goes behind the house. No one is in the sitting room. I sit heavily in the chair and put my feet on the low table in the centre of the small room. I shift my weight to one leg and bring out money from the back pocket of my trousers. One twenty, two fifties and a five naira note. I drop it on the table and sit staring at my toes. Kenechukwu, my four year old, comes into the parlour.
     ‘How are you?’
     ‘Fine.’ He says softly. I pick him up and lay him on my chest. His skin smells clean as if he has just been given a bath. I kiss his cheek and he inspects my face and then my throat. He fondles my Adam’s apple with tired fingers, and before I can complain he stops. He puts his head on my chest and pulls gently on the collar of my shirt. His twin sister, Chizoba breezes into the sitting room and makes a beeline for my newspaper. She opens it on the center table and begins flipping pages. Kenechukwu’s sleepy eyes flutter open whenever she squeals or turns the pages of the paper loudly. She calls my name, and points to a Bournvita advertisement. I nod. She eyes me, and continues turning pages. I close my eyes. Kenechukwu’s body is warming me. I stretch out a little so his full weight is on my chest. I shut my eyes for about ten minutes enjoying the warmth from his body and silently marveling at the way his heart beats. My younger sister comes in and carries Kene into the room. I want to tell her to leave him but I don’t. Now I’m cold. I turn to Chizoba and see she’s staring at me. I stare back, and she returns her attention to the newspaper. I’m still watching her when she reaches the Obituary notices. She stares silently, solemnly at the pictures of the deceased as though she understands. I beckon to her, and she comes to sit on my lap, playing with her fingers. I try to make her lie on my chest but she struggles to get away.
     ‘I’m not a baby.’ She says firmly, and then she enters the room.
     ‘Nneka.’ I call out. My sister comes to the parlour from the kitchen. ‘Kedu?’
     ‘I’m fine. I went to school this morning because I heard the admission list was out. My name is on the list.’
     ‘Oh…that’s good. Thank God.’ I manage a smile.
     ‘Thank you. Should I make garri for you?’ I shake my head and she leaves the sitting room. I have no appetite. Most of the money I bring home monthly comes from my shed in the market where I sell books. Since the University students went on break two months ago, business has been very poor. Gloria and I are Chinedu's only existing relatives. That means all the money for Chinedu's burial will come from my pocket. Since Nneka has gotten admission, and school will resume next month for my children, I need money badly. I’m tired and would like to sleep but I want to be awake when Gloria returns. I dread her return, I dread the moment she discovers her beloved brother is lying in the Nsukka Mortuary.
      I woke from troubled sleep with a start. Gloria is standing in front of me, straddling Chizoba on her left hip. It was her that woke me up. She looks at me with concern. I wipe my eyes and my hands become wet.
     ‘Dim.’She says softly.
     ‘Welcome. How was work?’ I ask her. She nods.
     ‘I have good news. You don’t look alright.’ I stand up, hug her tightly then pull her towards our bedroom. She stops at the door and puts Chizoba down. Chizoba begins to cry.
     ‘Go and collect sugarcane from Nneka.’ She pushes Chizo gently towards the kitchen and calls out to Nneka. “Biko wash the sugarcane and give Chizo half of one…ngwa go.’ She shuts the door and begins to change her clothes. I still don’t know how to tell her.
     ‘Ben, is something bothering you? You’re making me uncomfortable.’ She cocks her head to the left and starts to take off her earring.
    ‘What’s the good news?’ I ask to buy time.
    ‘When the new academic session resumes, Mrs. Eke won’t be with us at the University Medical Center anymore. She’s going to work at the new Primary Health Care Centre in Enugu-Ezike. You know what that means okwia?’ She asks. I nod. Eke is Head nurse and Gloria is under her. That would mean more money. She turns to face me after tying her wrapper above her breasts. ‘What is wrong? What is the problem?’
     ‘Gloria…I don’t know how to tell you…I have bad news.’ She stares at me nervously. ‘Nkem. Chinedu is dead. He died this afternoon. He was knocked down by a truck as he was trying to maneuver his machine at Opi Junction. I’m sorry...’ She is staring into my eyes. I go closer. She’s standing so still I’m scared. Her eyes begin to cloud. They leave my face and stare outside through the blinds.
     ‘It’s not possible…I’ve told him…who told you?’ She doesn’t look at me.
     ‘Ngozi. She called in the afternoon.’
     ‘It’s not true.’ She says. ‘It can’t be true.’ She shakes her head from left to right, causing tear drops to fall. ‘Ben…’ Her lips are trembling as she stares at me. I put my arms around her and she continues to stare out the window. ‘No!’ She screams all of a sudden. ‘No! God! God please! Please, please. Please not Chinedu, biko. Biko, Chi’m. Biko.’ She shudders violently. Someone knocks.
     ‘Go away!’
Gloria starts hitting her head on my chest repeatedly. I put my hand on her head. ‘Nkem, please…’ Her sobs are becoming louder. ‘Nkem’
     ‘Noooo! Noooo!’ She’s screaming. I hear voices and I look out the window and see that our neighbours outside. There’s a loud knock on our room door.
     ‘Brother, what is it? ‘ Nneka asks fearfully. Gloria slumps suddenly and her full weight is upon me. I move back and throw open the door. There are some neighbours in my living room.
     ‘Water! BRING WATER!’

New Neighbours

The arrival of new neighbours can "electrify" an old neighborhood. The anticipation heralding the moving in of the Ukachukwu family to the new house next to mine was nothing I had seen since we moved into the neigbourhood many years ago. In my house, we were curious about the people who had bought the large piece of land adjacent to ours. It was not the last plot to be sold on the street but they were the last people on the street to move in. They moved in during long vac (long vacation in case you're confused) last year. For little over a year work had been going on their house. The design of the house is magnificent. On completion, it became the only house on three streets that looked better than ours. It did not dwarf our six bedroom house- complete with boy’s quarters and a gatehouse, it just made it look a little old. The good colour combination of light yellow and chocolate brown and the large well kept lawn in front of the house made it exceptional and quite modern. Before they arrived, the only info on the neighbourhood grapevine was that the owner of the house worked in Shell, nothing more.

After they moved in, I noticed something about the new family on our street (the street was named after us because we were the first land owners to move in). They are – in my opinion, the epitome of what I will call “new wealth”. They showed us that it was no longer in vogue for rich people to be “big” (I mean fat, but I prefer to use big). Whereas my father is big and potbellied, the man of the house is fit and smart looking. My mother is big too; the woman of the house is slender and young-looking. It occurred to me that we were living in the past, the period of time when corpulence went with having a lot of money. It no longer does. The kids are polite, nice and very free with other neigbours even the ones who live in the buildings with many flats. We are loud, flashy and maybe just a little bit rude to everyone. Most of our associates live in their own homes- duplexes and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Very much later, in the December of last year, we noticed that they invited all and sundry to their house for a neigbourhood end-of-the-year party, a first in the neighborhood. A first maybe because the families in the neigbourhood who have the means, do not do it. The Ukachukwu's also let the less privileged people from far away, fetch water from their compound. We stopped doing that long ago because these people are often noisy and destructive. I asked my sister if she noticed they were different…somehow. She dismissed my comparison with a wave. "They’re probably one of these families who recently got money and don't know the behaviour that follows the status." I wasn’t satisfied with her explanation.

We went over later to welcome the Ukachukwus' to the neighbourhood, something we had not done with the other neighbours. We all went over, propelled by curiousity instead of neighbourly feeling. We had never welcomed any of the other neighbours who moved in after us. I don’t know what my family members had in mind, but I have to admit I was curious and determined to find a fault. Their parents seemed to be using the same family plan as my parents. With the exemption of my elder brother- who’s pursuing a master’s degree in Engineering in Spain, my elder sister is of the same age with Ada, their first. Their second daughter, Nkechi is my age and their last daughter is two years younger than my little brother, Chidi.

My sister proclaimed the first daughter alright by her standards. My brother seemed to like the little girl but was afraid to show it for fear we would tease him. Nkechi had a respectable DVD collection, including various seasons of Gossip girl, America’s Next Top Model and Desperate Housewives. There was a neat stack of magazines too, Teen VOGUE, Reader’s Digest, People, Ebony. Still not wanting to see good, I took Ada’s explanation for their behaviour and waited for Dad to prove us wrong. He did. His chat with the man of the house revealed that they had been in money for a long time. Nkechi and her sisters had been born with silver spoons.

The Sunday after they arrived, they came to our place of worship and coincidentally sat in front of us. When we were standing to sing, my eyes strayed to stare at five perfect butts. Usually my family members and I sing our hymns in low voices. It was an unspoken culture until that day… the day Mum broke all the rules. She sang loudly and moved her body to the beat of the Igbo worship song. I was very very surprised. Her voice was loud and to be sincere, not...so...melodious. I wanted to ask her to stop for her sake, for our sake. I noticed the reason for her change in behaviour. Mrs. Ukachukwu was singing beautifully and moving her body gracefully like other women around. Mum had the moves, but not the voice. She however refused to let that ostensible flaw prevent her from singing praises to God Almighty very loudly, and so she sang and shook with great enthusiasm. Very often, she would hit a note that did not suit her voice. I avoided the eyes of my siblings and stared unseeing into my song book. I had never seen my mother behave this way. It was disconcerting. I did not stare at her or my elder sister and father because it would confirm the oddity to everyone else watching us. I sensed most of them staring and murmuring at this new development. We are well known but it’s not for things like this. My little brother wanted to laugh at Mum’s loud squeaky voice, I could sense it. Despite my embarrassment, I had wanted to laugh too. I knew that once my eyes met with those of my little brother, he would lose control and so I gritted my teeth, kept my eyes on my book and my foot hovering over his own in case he lost it. I took his hand so he could squeeze it whenever he felt the urge. At the end of the singing, my left hand was numb. I wanted to laugh. I accepted our fate in silence. Much later, to my great discomfort I noticed that my Enyinnaya was staring at Nkechi. Enyinnaya and I weren’t going out at the time, but I had my eye on him and that fact made him mine. Was it because Nkechi’s breasts were fully out and mine were not at the time? After the service most of the friends we chat with, went over to greet the new family. We drove home earlier than usual that day. As dad reversed the car, Chidi played with the bulletin and Ada hummed Beyonce's Irreplaceable. I stared out the car window at the Ukachukwu’s , who were smiling graciously and accepting welcomes from everyone. I knew mum was staring at them too from behind her dark sunshades.

My parents made the helps clean one of the spare rooms on the ground floor of our house and they converted it into a gym. Dad bought an AB Pro exercise machine, a treadmill, a skipping rope and another exercise thing that looks like a bike but takes you no where. My Dad would do one or two rounds and then stop, exhausted. Mum still does her exercise with the dedication people give to a worthy cause. Before long, she discarded her glasses and got contacts like Mrs. Ukachukwu’s honey coloured ones and then a special cream to remove the dark line her glasses had left on both sides of her face.

They affected us, I have to admit. Later I swallowed my huge pride and went closer to Nkechi. She’s smart and intelligent. She attends a secondary school in Abuja for privileged children. She opened a blog like gossip girl and she posts regularly for her school mates to read. I went there and read all fifty two entries and I was impressed. She narrates well and adds a touch of humour. Her profile views are really high. She doesn’t do gossip in that nasty way that annoys and ruins people's reputations. I can’t give you her blog address because you won’t understand the gist and secondly, I don’t want to disclose our identities. This post won’t help my public image that’s why I used the blog name BLACK INK instead of my real name. I ‘googled’ Nkechi's blog and she had many listings. I was kind of envious that GOOGLE, the world’s best and most famous search engine lists her blog (it hasn’t listed mine yet). Maybe I’m here for all the wrong reasons, but I’m here and I will unabashedly admit that I need you to like me. I also admit I began blogging because of Nkechi. I have decided gossip is not really for me. BLANK INK will be my online diary. Thanks for stopping by to read my first post. I want you to do me a tiny favour. I need you to comment on this post. I would love to see at least ten comments for this post. I'm not asking or demanding for your comments, I'm begging for them. Any thought would do - nice, sarcastic, indifferent, flattering, anything. Even if one person takes the time to comment ten times, I would love the gesture. I have shared something with you, and I need you to share your thoughts with me. It's only fair.



Posted by BLACK INK 8:18 AM Click here to leave a comment

Dear God

Dear God,
       My name is Micah Ibe and I am seven years old. I know you already know that, my mummy and daddy say you know EVERYTHING and you can see EVERYTHING. Mummy and Daddy say I should pray to you and I have but I want to write a letter to you. I don’t know how I will send it to you, but I’ll ask Mummy, she will know. My purpose of writing this letter is to say “Hi” and to thank you for everything you have done for me.
       I’m okay, Chibuzo and Rose are fine too. Daddy says my dead cousin, James has gone to heaven to meet you. Please tell him that I miss him very very very much and I will not forget that time we went to the bar beach together. Please tell him his parents miss him too and I saw his mummy crying even though she pretended not to when I entered the parlour. Please make our dog Bingo find his way home and don’t let any motor jam him. God, I have a question. Mummy said I should ask Mr. Afolabi, my science teacher, but I want to ask you first. How does water enter the sky? What makes the sound of thunder? How did you make breeze? How is it that every body’s face look different even though everybody has the same thing on their face(I mean eyes, ear, nose and mouth)? How do babies come? I asked mummy that one but she looked at me somehow. Rose says these are stupid questions but I really want to know the answer. Please help me to stop peeing on the bed, I can’t do it alone. Rose laughs at me everytime. Please help me to stop being afraid of rats too. Please protect my family so nobody dies again. Please help daddy get promoted at work, he talks about it everytime and prays about it in the morning during devotion. I really hope this gets to you. How will you reply? I'll ask mummy.

Yours sincerely,
Micah

Esther's Diary: The Scribbles Of A "Stranger"

Dear Reader, this is the last part of the series Esther's Diary. To follow the series, read the first part "Exiled", the second part "Settling Down" , the third part "Untitled", and the fourth part of the series "My Baby".

ENTRY FIVE: 
Diary Esther, Aham bu Uzoh (My name is Uzoh). I know Esther has told you a lot about me because I have read her entries many times over. It’s amusing to read Esther writing in Igbo, but yes, her spoken Igbo got much better after she came here. You have told me a lot about my sister that I did not know. I know now in her own words what she has been through since the man who fathered me exiled her down to our village here in Imo State. To read in her own words how much I comforted her, how much she was grateful, and how much she loved me, made me cry like a child.

You’re probably wondering why I have read something as private as my sister’s “Diary”(You’re actually just an exercise book she found lying around). You’re also wondering why I had the guts to scribble in it too. I was the one who captioned each of her entries as I deemed fit after reading it. I captioned the third one “Untitled” because I could not find a suitable word to label that entry. Under normal circumstances, all these things I have done to you would be wrong. But the circumstances are not normal. They have never been normal since she started writing in you. Diary Esther, Esther died after childbirth. Esther is dead. I was by her hospital bed when she went into labour. She pushed and pushed until the baby came out. It was a dark complexioned baby girl, not a boy as I have read she hoped. She looked at it from under heavy eyelids while the nurses took it away to bathe. She fell asleep while I was rubbing her hand gently and dabbing her sweaty forehead. When the nurses returned with the baby, I left her side. You should have seen the baby; so tiny and light I was worried I would drop her. She stared at me with great intensity and gripped my index finger tightly. I covered her with kisses. She did not cry, neither did she smile. The nurses woke Esther up to breastfeed the baby. I watched her suckle the baby while thinking aloud what to christen it. Now I realise she probably had only names for boy child in her head. Finally, she decided to name her after Grandma and Onyinye; she christened the baby Ezinne Onyinye Ezeilo. After breast feeding Ezinne, she handed her to me and slept. She never woke.

I have never cried so much in my life. I ditched school for a month to take care of Ezinne. I’m happy I made that decision because a month after she was born, Ezinne died of sickle cell anemia. I mourned Ezinne for a long time. It was like losing my sister again. You’re cold print, you can’t understand what it’s like to be bereaved and I don’t think I can put it into words. Turns out that bastard, Emeka is an AS, Udoka is also an AS. Ezinne did not get a chance to be all her mother wanted her to be. I’m going to have to repeat SS2 but that’s nothing. Nothing at all compared to what I have gained in these two months.

After these deaths, I was seething. I was furious with everyone who abandoned her, everyone who made her feel less than she was. Remember Uche, Mazi Ikenna’s son that called Esther a prostitute? He came for the burial to eat rice. I ran into him a few days later in the dark. I did not “smack him silly”, I gave him a sound beating and left him on the ground crying loudly. I don’t see how I can possibly payback Charity and Adanma, but I will always bear what they said in mind.


There is so much Esther did not tell you. She gives no detail of her family background and she doesn’t mention our youngest sister, Amara at all. I can’t explain why. In her four diary entries, she refused to mention her surname… Was she afraid of ruining Dad’s reputation by telling you? Her surname is MMADU! She is Esther Udoka Mmadu! Our father earns a living, travelling from one school to another in the East, educating students on the ills of premarital sex and sexually transmitted diseases, especially HIV/AIDS. He’s renowned and he has won an award from an NGO (I don’t remember the name). Yes, I can understand how he may feel terribly embarrassed by Esther’s pregnancy, but is that enough reason to just abandon her here? He never called her, he never carried her child. He refused point blank to let me invite Esther’s friends or even mine for the burial. The burial was a family affair. Is his fear of losing his reputation and every thing he has worked for, so strong that he could not come down here even for one day in those nine trying months of Esther’s life? I’m ashamed to call him my father. God forbid that I’d be like that. Diary Esther, I’ll keep you safe. Reading you is like listening to Esther, the sister I’ll never forget.

THE END

Esther's Diary: My Baby

Dear Reader, Esther's Diary is a short story series. Please go back to read the first part "Exiled", the second part "Settling Down", and the third part  "Untitled".

ENTRY FOUR:
Diary Mu,
All I think about now in this ninth month is my baby. Will it be a girl or a boy? I’m seriously thinking of what to christen either one. My baby's first name has to be Igbo, followed by an english second name and then Ezeilo (Emeka’s surname). It’s funny how a prerogative like christening my child excites me. My baby kicks hard now. He or She will be a fighter. A strong ‘Ada’ (first female child) or ‘Okpara’ (first male child). I'll raise him here in the village so that he will pick up Igbo first and when he begins school he can learn English. My parents were raised that way and they turned out alright, I’m sure it will be the same for my baby. Uzoh has promised to be around when I put to bed. Since it’s anytime from now, I don’t know if he will make it. I hope he will, it would be lovely to have someone by my side as I push out my baby. He bought me a phone (NOKIA N1112 model) from his pocket money(my phone was seized by Dad after I became pregnant). This phone is made especially for the Nigerian market because it has Igbo among its phone languages. I have changed it's language setting so the phone Menu is in Igbo. "Message" is written as "Ozi", "Contacts" reads "Kontakti".... The most hilarious part is the speaking clock. It tells the time out loud in Igbo language! Mama clapped her hands together and said "Te-ki-no-lo-gy!" when I showed it to her. If the time is twelve minutes past two, it will say "Nke gi iri na abuo gafee elekere abuo".


I no longer care what people do or say, I follow Onyinye to her stall everyday and have a nice time. I no longer think I’m the worst sinner in the world. The Bible says Jesus came for sinners like me. The Bible is a wonderful book, it’s what keeps me occupied now instead of trashy romance novels. One of my favourite passages is Revelation chapter 21 verses 3 & 4. I haven’t lost anyone close to me in death but this scripture resonates in me. It reads “ With that I heard a loud voice from the throne say: “Look the tent of God is with mankind, and he will reside with them, and they will be his peoples. And God himself will be with them. 4. And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away.” I love to dwell on this promise and when I do, tears cloud my eyes. I also love Romans chapter eight verse thirty-five. It reads: “Who will separate us from the love of the Christ?...” Certainly not those people who judge me like I’m the greatest sinner on earth; those people who tell me with their eyes that i'm living in sin; those who look at me and shake their heads; those who won’t let me pass by before they begin to gossip maliciously. My parents have abandoned me. In these nine months, the woman who bore me has come to see me only nine times. “Check-up visits” I call them. I have told my parents that I’m due, but neither of them has promised to be there. I have lost their love. But I love Uzoh. He’s the one who supports me. He calls me regularly to check up on me. He worries about me constantly. My eyes are clouding as I think of the many ways this fifteen year old boy has supported me in these months when everything went haywire . My tears are salty, it has made the ink on this page blotched. I love him, Diary. If I come back, I could not ask God for a better brother than Uzochukwu (which means 'God’s way'). He constantly tells me not to worry; it’s not the end of the world or everything will be okay. I sometimes don’t see how everything can ever be okay, but the hope in his eyes make me strong. The way he says it, the way he wipes my tears as the roll down my face- “Be strong, Udoka.” he says. He’s planning to skip school once the new week begins so he can be with me. That will mean missing some of his exams but he says he doesn’t care. I worry for him. The sacrifice is too much to make on my behalf, he might have to repeat a year. I’m truly touched. No one has shown me this much love in so long. If you ever read this Uzoh, I love you very very much.

Uzoh and I went to the market to buy baby care products. We bought a plastic bath tub, a plastic basket for babies, some feeding bottles, diapers and a few clothes. I chose to buy the ones coloured blue because I think my baby is a boy. His kicks are tough. The baby feels like a fighter. He plays in my stomach. He’ll be strong. He’ll stand up to people. He won’t let people make him feel inferior just because of a mistake made in the past. He won’t be like me at all. I think it’s better to buy baby care products in colours meant for a boy and then I give birth to a girl than the other way around. I think he’ll be irritated by soft pink while the girl would tolerate blue (I don’t know where I get these ideas from). I’ll teach him to respect women and live up to his responsibilities no matter how hard it might seem. I’ll keep him away from Emeka, though I doubt he’ll come calling. I’ll teach him to be like his Uncle, Uzoh.

Mama worries if my body can handle childbirth. I push that fear out of my mind often. I think it will be tragic for me to enter the labour room wondering if I’ll make it out alive. She says she’ll keep the baby so I can go to school. I’m grateful, but make no mistake, I won’t abandon my baby. I’ll go to a school closer to home like IMSU (Imo State University). I can’t wait to deliver this baby, lose my post pregnancy weigh and begin to straighten out my life.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Follow Esther's story!  Part Five - The Scribbles of a "Stranger"

Esther's Diary: Untitled

Dear Reader, this is the third part of the short story series "Esther's Diary". Please go back to read the previous parts "Exiled" (Part 1), and "Settling Down" (Part 2) so you can follow the story.

ENTRY THREE:
Diary Mu,
I’m six months pregnant now. My baby moves often, my nipples are darker and there are dark splotches on my neck and cheek. I’m more dependent on people now. I can’t do all the household chores I used to do before. I have bought a broom with a long stick attached to it's end, so at least I can sweep where I live. Mama and Onyinye help with the cooking. They cook soup for me, so all I have to do is warm it and make garri. Uzoh my brother comes every Friday after school. He takes off his school uniform, picks up kegs and uses the bicycle to fetch clean drinking water from the busy borehole that serves the entire village, some distance away. He went to the market the other day and bought this large drum where he pours the water he fetches. It lasts till the next time he comes around. I use the water there to cook and I also boil some to drink. When I fall asleep, he studies by candle light because NEPA usually takes the light at night. I can’t thank him enough.

Onyinye is making me “billowy” dresses (maternity gowns) because I can’t enter any of my former clothes. She insists I must look good, but I don’t dress to look good. Maybe it comes from that urge to punish myself for what I have done, I'm not sure. What she does with the local Ankara material is wonderful, she makes good use of the patterns. She bought me some very colourful plastic bangles that I wear always. I went to the market the other day to purchase textile materials for the clothes. The women there clicked their tongues, clapped their hands, rolled their eyes and pointed at me openly. I have become a spectacle. None of them refused to collect my money though. I bought some beautiful Ankara prints from some women who did not seem to be talking about me at the moment. I’m sure they did afterwards. On my way home, not too far from my house, a little boy of about ten years called me “Akuna kuna” (Igbo word for prostitute). If it was three months back when I was still considerably agile, I would have chased him to his door and smacked him silly. This time I watched him run into Mazi (Igbo word for Mister) Ikenna’s house laughing. I think his name is Uche. He must have picked that up while listening to the older people in his house gossip. I walked on hoping (not praying) that God would punish him for my sake at least for being rude to me.

One day, I sat outside because there was no light and inside the house was hot like a furnace. I tied a wrapper above my breasts and my stomach bulged out. One woman came in to ask for Mama. I told her she was not in.
‘When she returns, tell her Adanma and Charity came to see her about the farm.’ She pointed to indicate that Charity was standing outside beyond my view. She ran her eyes over my figure and her lips curled upwards. I nodded and she went. I heard her talking somewhere near the gate, not even bothering to lower her voice.
‘Charity, you will not believe what I saw with this my two eyes now.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Nwa Theresa (that means Theresa’s Child. Theresa is my mother’s name) is pregnant!’
‘Eh?’ Charity sounded both shocked and excited at hearing this.
‘She’s seated there with her big belle. Small children are spoiling oh!’ I heard her clap her hands together in the fashion of gossips. ‘Is that small girl up to fourteen?’ She clapped again and whistled. I pictured her with her hands on her hips.

‘Tufia! (God forbid)…go and see now.’ Adanma urged. I shut my eyes as though I was asleep and sensed Charity staring at me to “see for herself”. In retrospect, I wish I had gotten up and chased them both away. But I was heavy and rightfully ashamed. Who knows, they might have put up resistance. I’m not an aggressive person. Truth be told, I think I might be timid.

Mama says I need to eat good food to help the baby and enrich my breast milk. She keeps reminding me that I’m eating for two anytime I don't seem to be eating enough. Diary, I’m fatter than a pregnant cow. She still tries to persuade me to take akpu. I feel like her daughter now because she has warmed up to me. Sometimes we would sit outside and she would tell me funny stories about herself and village life back "in those days". The stories are entertaining; she’s quite a storyteller you know. She often says she thought my father would have cooled down by now and come to see me. She tells me not to worry, and as if to compensate she tells me how it was raising my Dad and tells me in detail all the trouble he made as a child and teenager. I think she tells me that bit to let me know that nobody on earth's surface is perfect no matter how much they pretend to be. She told me about the point in her life when her husband died and how dark her world became. I like her much better now. Sometimes at night when there’s no light, we would sit outside with Onyinye and listen to traditional Igbo music from the radio. Mama would get up sometimes and dance gracefully like an old woman. Onyi would get up and dance wonderfully, like a true daughter of the soil. I would get up and dance to the Igbo music like a pregnant woman dancing to western tunes. My dance steps always provoke laughter.

Uzoh bought me a CD player that uses large batteries. He also bought me lots of music CD's. I listen to a lot of sad songs that evoke feeling. When I’m not listening to music, I’m reading. In my attempt to be more Nigerian, I asked Uzoh to buy me novels by Nigerian authors or at least African authors. In this short period of time, I have read Things fall Apart and A Man of the People, both by Chinua Achebe, Witnesses to tears by Abubakar Gimba, African Child by Camera Laye, The concubine by Elechi Amadi, The Year of the Locusts by Adebayo Williams, The Lion and the Jewel by Wole Soyinka, The Gods are not to blame by Ola Rotimi, Toads for supper by Chukwuemeka Ike, Unbridled and Walking with Shadows, both by Jude Dibia, Purple Hibiscus (this one gave me an excuse to cry and I did.) and Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie then lastly 26 a by Diana Evans. I sit on a bench outside and read the books most of the time. Some of them have funny parts and I laugh out loud and long. Some of the village children usually gather and stare curiously. They must be thinking “that girl they say is a prostitute, must be crazy too”. I don’t care. I have also been given a Bible by a preacher (I forgot mine in Aba), and I read it often.

Uzoh got a carpenter to change the mosquito nets on the windows. He’s so worried I'll catch malaria again. He says he hears that when pregnant women take medication, it affects their babies. He’s quite right. I have started attending prenatal classes at the village hospital. I crave so many things. Most weekends he would go out and buy a large quantity of suya and we would gobble up everything while sitting under the stars. Uzoh is the man in my life. Uzoh is my all.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Follow Esther's story! Part Four - My Baby , and Part Five - The Scribbles of a "Stranger"

Esther's Diary: Settling Down

Dear Reader, Esther's Diary is a five part short story series. Please go to the previous post for the first part in the series, "Exiled".

ENTRY TWO:
Diary Mu,
(That’s “My Diary” when translated word for word from English to Igbo). Yes, my spoken Igbo is getting much better. I can’t say the same for my Igbo spellings. I think I have anglicized the words. I wish I had taken my Igbo classes more seriously at school.

I’m exactly three months pregnant now. I’m sorry I haven’t written anything since my last entry. Village life is boring. There’s nothing here for me to write about every day. I have settled down to life here. The days feel longer because I don’t have much to do. The first month here was not easy; I really had problems adjusting to life here in the village. I have suffered from malaria four times in the past two months. Now I spray the house with insecticide every blessed night before going to bed and I sleep under a mosquito net hanging from the ceiling.

I bought a stove, cooking pots and a few kitchen utensils at the market the day after I arrived. Getting all those small gas stoves would not have been expensive normally, but my parents keep me on a tight stipend. The money is just enough money for me to get by without suffering. Mum doesn’t work, so she can’t really contribute if she wants to. The good bit is things here in the village are relatively cheap. At first, I was cooking meals like Indomie, Spaghetti (pasta), rice and stew – those meals that do not require any culinary skill. Mama watched me in irritation for some time until she could not contain herself any longer.
‘Bring that pot down from the fire now! Ah ah! Is this what you will eat for you and the baby? I have been watching you cooking rubbish everyday! You need food rich in nutrients, not these snacks!’ She began teaching me how to make soup. Ofe Ogbono (Diary, ‘Ofe’ means soup), Ofe Oha, Ofe Egusi, Ofe Owerri, Ofe this, ofe that. She also tries to make me eat akpu(I don't know what to call that in English, but it's a staple meal made from cassava) but I can’t stand the smell. Garri is much better.

The first month I spent here, I prevented myself from being happy. I thought that being happy in this sinful condition shows God that I’m unrepentant, so I stressed myself constantly, removing Joy from my life, dwelling on my wrongdoing. Uzoh told me to stop thinking like that. He comes every weekend now, defying Dad’s orders. I look forward to his visits. He’s the only person who comes to see me without querying me for information to gossip with others afterwards. He buys me provisions with his pocket money and stays very late sometimes before heading back to Aba. I’m grateful but I worry about him traveling in the night because our roads are not safe.

I follow Onyinye to her shop once in a while. She sews there. Onyinye has sat for the WAEC exam twice and JAMB four times and has decided to stop trying. I sat for WAEC once and cleared all my papers in one sitting. I passed JAMB and got admission to the University of Benin before I discovered I was pregnant. She makes garments in a little stall in the market square. I think she’s really good. When we converse in Igbo, sometimes I don’t understand her but I nod and have to infer to get her meaning.

Mum has come to see me twice. One for each month I have been here. It’s usually to bring me money. She asks how I am and we sit in silence. It’s awkward. Before she leaves, she hugs me but not long enough. The books I've been reading say, my baby’s face should be forming and the arms and legs are developing. It should be able to turn its head now. I’m curious but not excited, does that mean I won’t make a good mother?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Follow Esther's story!  Part Three - Untitled , Part Four - My Baby , and Part Five - The Scribbles of a "Stranger"

Esther's Diary: Exiled

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"

Lost Prose - Chapter One

It was on one of those days when I was just itching to write something, that ideas began flowing for a book, which would, to my great surprise and anguish, become a nationwide bestseller. How I accomplished such a great feat at seventeen years of age, I still cannot fully explain, but I will tell you why it caused me great anguish.

I began writing when I was in eight grade. Then, I wrote about the things that caught my attention. No one in my house knew; if they did, they said nothing either to encourage or discourage me. I worked with childish delight and ecstasy at finding something I love deeply. My mother is a well-known writer. At the time, she was the author of four truly wonderful books. Three of them are bestsellers (the third book hadn’t stayed on the bestseller list long enough to please Mom). The last book, published seven years before I wrote mine, sold a little more than five hundred thousand copies. My Mom had been noticeably disappointed about the sales figure and as a young child, I thought she was greedy. Five hundred thousand - plus copies of anything sounded like a lot to my ten year old self. She complained severely about not making the New York Times bestseller list, I had not known what that was and why it bothered my Mom so much. Once when she was sober, she said she was having a prolonged case of writer’s block. Writer’s block? “What’s that?” I had asked, but she shooed me away. After a while, she took to locking herself up for four hours every day in a study she pronounced out of bounds to my brother and I. It was the last four hours of the day, by then I was back from school and usually I skulked around, praying for her expression to be bright whenever she emerged. It never was. Mom tried to look happy at other times, I could see the effort, but there was no hiding it from me. I could see beneath the façade. I could see that she was troubled. Dad knew it too.

Like I said earlier, ideas began flowing for a book and I worked on it mostly at night when I was through with supper and homework. I did not tell a soul what I was up to. Not Billy my brother, not Diane my best friend and not even Dad my buddy. After months of work, I completed my book. I called it Ten storeys high. It was a two hundred and twenty-one paged book about two families that lived on the top floor of a ten storey high building. I was excited and nervous. I wanted my Mom’s approval; I wanted her to read it. I read and re-read Ten Storeys high, corrected all the grammatical and typographical errors I could spot and with the only copy of my manuscript in my hand, I knocked nervously on Mom’s study door.

This short story is part one in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts two, three, and four.

Lost Prose - Chapter Two

‘Who’s it?’
‘Mom, it’s me.’
‘Is the house on fire?’
‘No…’ I waited for what seemed like a decade. I was about to lose my nerve when she came to the door.
‘Sweet heart…I’m trying to work. I want four hours to myself. When I come out, I can attend to you. Okay? What’s that you’re holding? You want help with a school assignment?’ She asked wearily.
‘No…I want to show you…’ I faltered. ‘I wrote a book.’
I looked up into her face. I’m sure she wanted to laugh. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
‘You wrote a book?’ With raised eyebrows, she pointed at me chuckling mildly.
‘I would like you to go through my book…and tell me what you think.’ I handed it to her.
‘Honey, I can’t promise to read this soon. It would take a chunk out of my time.’
I nodded.
‘Okay.’ I wanted to tell her not to take too long or I might burst with impatience. She rubbed my shoulder wearily and went into her study. I was in my usual corner when she came out three hours later, smiling. I was about to mess my hair up, when it occurred to me that I did not know why she was smiling. Had she read my book, or had she received inspiration for whatever she was working on? She called me into her study three days later.

‘I read your book yesterday in my spare time…’
‘Did you like it? What do you think?’ I could not help smiling. I knew my book was not terrible. However, my Mom sighed dramatically.
‘Abby sweetie, to be sincere, it was not good.’ My smile sagged. ‘I’m your mother and as much as I would love to tell you it was a very good first try… you have got talent, and all that sweet stuff, I don’t want to raise your hope. The book is below average. The story deals with too many complex issues at the same time. The characters are not “breathing” as my editor would say. It’s…it’s like Soda without the gas…sweet, but lacking…’ She waved her hand in the air as she searched for the unpleasant word that would summarize my book. Not finding any, she continued.
‘To sum it up, you still have a lot to learn. But don’t be disparaged.’ My smile had disappeared long before she finished. Disparaged? I was crushed. Didn’t she see anything commendable about my book? Couldn’t she encourage me, didn’t she know she was crushing my spirit? And why was she being sweet with me as though I was still a ten year old? I sat there, staring at my fingers. She rubbed my knee sympathetically.
‘Look, I am proud of you. You’re my girl and I love you. It takes time to develop writing skills. There are millions of books published on a daily basis worldwide, you have to constantly keep readers entertained or you lose your audience.’ I nodded slowly. ‘I am saying, being a writer means more than penning down a couple of words that make sense. Face your studies for the mean time. I don’t think this is where your talent lies.’ With those last words, my mother ruined my entire week.
‘Mom, I will leave, I have some homework to do upstairs.’ In truth, I wanted to run up to my room and weep.
‘No, wait a while. Tell me about your book? Your characters, the plot, the end –why is it so tragic? Who knows, I could spot one or two places you veered off track.’ I nodded, curled up in the leather sofa and began telling my Mom in earnest, everything about my book, Ten Storeys High. I left later on without my manuscript and my Mom never returned it.

This short story is part two in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, three, and four.

Lost Prose - Chapter Three

Mom was on the phone a lot over the next couple of weeks. I did not know what to think, and since the phone line in her study was secure, I could not eavesdrop on her conversations. I came home from school one day to find the hard disk of my laptop formatted. Mom claimed the technician had erroneously formatted the memory while trying to upgrade my system to the new Microsoft Vista. I had not asked her to upgrade my operating system; the Microsoft XP was doing just great. I was pissed. I lost a lot of things I had written, my photos and school assignments. I assumed she was trying to surprise me and it had gone wrong.

It was with surprise I greeted the news Mom made over dinner two weeks later.
‘I have written a new book.’ She announced brightly. I looked up from my vegetables.
‘Really?’ I asked. Dad kissed her gently.
‘What’s it called?’ Billy asked after swallowing.
‘Ten Storeys High.’ She replied brightly. I should have choked on my vegetables, or on my drink, but I did not have anything in my mouth. I just stared at the woman I call Mother in surprise, my mouth hanging slightly open. I watched as my mother narrated an abridged version of my story to Dad and Billy. I was sitting across her on the square, four-sitter dinner table, but she did not look at me once. Billy and Dad were listening attentively. I chewed my bitter vegetables slowly and listened to her, while a thousand things ran through my mind. Maybe later, she would explain to me why she was stealing my story; Maybe she would tell me that she needed to give something to her publisher because she had signed a five book deal and was under intense pressure to deliver; Perhaps she would beg me on bended knees, not to feel betrayed as I glare down at her; Maybe she would bribe me, give me hush money. My mother did none of those. After the meal she and Dad went into the kitchen to wash up, while Billy went to the living room to watch TV. I left my room door wide open; it was my silent invitation for her to come in and explain herself. Mom walked past twice but did not enter my room.

I came back from school and Billy showed me the finished book, Mom’s publishers had sent over. The cover art was beautiful; maybe not what I might have had in mind, but it was good. The only error I spotted was, the publishers had printed boldly -Ten Storeys High by Cynthia Schroeder instead of Ten Storeys High by Abigail Schroeder. She had dedicated it to her husband “for his love and support”. I was still waiting for Mom’s apology, but she had been avoiding me. I rushed upstairs to peruse it. It was still my story, the style was hers, but it was my story. She had changed the names of most of my characters.

I was still waiting for Mom’s apology when Ten Storeys high began to make waves around the country. It entered the New York Times bestsellers list and was still there ten weeks later. Mom went on shows nationwide promoting my book, she spoke about the characters like they were her creations, and answered various questions about the twists and the tragic manner the novel ended. She gave them the same answers I had given her in the study. Critics were raving, calling it her best book so far. It sold twelve million copies in three weeks. I watched Mom do book signings and book readings. I watched her on various talk shows; she laughed sweetly as ABC’s Sandra Sullivan interviewed her; she spoke warmly on NBC’s tonight show when asked about family life; her cheery voice came out the radio speakers as she discussed Ten Storeys High on YWO Radio. I watched her squeal excitedly as her agent called to say three studios had indicated interest in buying movie rights to my book.

In the twelfth week that Ten Storeys High was on the New York Times Bestseller list, we moved to a bigger house in a more affluent neighborhood, and hired a maid full time to clean the big house. Mom bought me a Porsche that made me the envy of my schoolmates and bought Billy a terrific Mountain Bike that even wealthier kids in the neighbourhood wanted to ride. Ten storeys high was phenomenal. Mom began to rub shoulders with the bigwigs in the literary world. She sent Toni Morrison an autographed copy of the book. She was on a judging panel with John Grisham, Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon. Guys whose books I had, prominently displayed on my shelf, Men whose books coloured my youth. My ex-crush –CNN’s Shihab Rattansi, was quoted as saying he loved my book; there was a paparazzi shot in People magazine of Ryan Gosling clutching my book. Jealousy clutched my heart. Hate. Hate was conceived inside of me, dwelling inside of me, feeding on everything I was seeing and hearing. I did not want her to concede publicly that I wrote the book- it would destroy her reputation. I wanted her to tell me face to face, that she had stolen my story; and she was sorry; could I ever forgive her?

I don’t think Mom knew I admired her, that the autographed copies of her books that I had on my shelf were just as important to me as my worn copy of Sidney Sheldon’s If Tomorrow Comes. She did not know I would have been excited to help her, honored to be of assistance, if only she had asked.

This short story is part three in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, two and four. 

Lost Prose - Chapter Four

One day fed up with everything that was going on, I walked into our living room to talk with Billy who sat on the new leather couch. His abdomen was exposed, and with a Q tip in one hand, he used the fingers of the other hand to pry open his belly button. He dug out tiny black lumps and dropped them onto a tissue by his side. Mom’s chattering on a pre-recorded talk show came out the speakers of our new flat screen TV.

‘You look like Mom…but a younger…less sophisticated version.’ Billy said massaging his neck. The maid’s loud singing of what sounded like a lullaby in an African dialect, floated into the living room.
‘Do you think I can write like Mom?’ I queried watching my Mom smile beautifully and hating her.
‘Not in this life.’ Billy chuckled. ‘Okay, seriously, I guess it’s possible…you might have inherited her skill or gift…whatever.’
‘Do you think I can write a book as good as Ten storeys high?’
‘If you want me to be frank, I don’t think so.’
‘Mom stole my book.’ He turned to look at me, his expression quizzical.
‘Abigail, don’t say that. It’s not funny.’ He turned and headed in the direction of the kitchen. It was then I decided that the worst thing to do would be to divide my family. I had to find a more mature way of handling this. I apologized to him later. I told him that I gave Mom one or two ideas, and I wished she had acknowledged that in her book. He nodded and promised not to tell anyone if I let him stay up later than usual.

I never confronted my mother like I had planned to. I let her be. I think there are some things you should just let be. This might not be one of them, but I took it as such. No one knew I had written the book. I did not have an electronic copy; I did not have anyone who could vouch for me. Ten storeys high by Abigail Schroeder existed only in my head.
I have tried to put everything behind me, but that’s nearly impossible. Every new person I meet usually talks about how my mother’s book touched them; how I must be proud of my mother; if I could arrange a meeting for them with my mother. I’m writing something now. It’s complicated but nothing like Ten storeys high. I’m working very hard on it, and I am not worrying about making the New York Times bestsellers list. I want to write books that will touch people, reach them, entertain and free them. When I was young, I scrawled in my diary:

“I would love to possess the gift of moving people with written words.’

Maybe I already possess that gift considering the success of Ten storeys high. I have not forgiven Mom, the way she acted disturbs me very often. If truth be told, every time I go over my uncompleted manuscript I wonder “Is this new book like a can of soda without the gas?” It haunts me and I don’t know why. If there is a measured quantity of love that a newborn child has for its mother before it comes to know her, that’s the exact same measured quantity of love I have for my mother right now. Love, because she gave birth to me.

This short story is part four in a four part short story series. Click to read parts one, two, and three.