omobolablog

I have been called upon to give a eulogy on my friend.

I can say of a truth, I have known Alade Eleshin Ara most of his life.

Our fathers were contemporaries in our great village of Ekunkan. As children, we ran down the dirt path leading to the stream and waded naked in the clear, pristine calm waters. Our eyes not shrouded with adult concerns, our stomachs distended from our meals of fufu and mixed vegetables soup. As teenagers, our bonds deepened while farming on our fathers’ adjacent plots.

He was a great traditionalist. He ran the youthful ring that brought forth our Gelede masquerade. I do not understand why you children insist on burying him as a Christian! He was a staunch traditionalist, a true son of Ayo Oka. He embraced the ways of his ancestors and was proud of his beliefs.

In his death…

The doctor had assured me, it was a routine procedure the night before. 

‘Your mum will be out of surgery in no time.’ 

That day was anything but routine.

The last quarter of the previous year was blighted by series of hospital stays due to health challenges you tried to shrug off, challenges that hung over us like a dark curtain. 

I didn’t see it coming. 

None of us did. 

You were our oak — The strong, beautiful tree that cast branches for our shelter—the one whose strong roots gave us stability, our quiet place of abode. When my oak began to quake, in denial-I refused to see the signs.

The night before the surgery, I arrived late — visiting time was almost over. We exchanged kisses, and I started to tell you about my day. You seemed strangely disconnected, pensive as if your mind was elsewhere. After a bit…

Ours was a simple life.

My older brother was my primary caregiver. If I want to be honest, we took care of each other.

Nnayi ukwuwas what I called him – as a mark of respect. He made sure I wanted for nothing. He has been taking care of me since I was seven. Our parents were killed during a very dark time in our history. Elections were looming back then, and father was a powerful voice for the opposition. The incumbent chairman of our local government, fearing that he would lose the elections, had put a bounty on the heads of all those who would scuttle his mandate. Our house was set ablaze while my parents slept. They were burnt beyond recognition. My brother had recently been deployed to Benin Republic by his employer. I was spared because I was on admission in the hospital. My aunt, my…

Legend has it my father became a member of the elders guild of Atutu when he was ten years old.

The village was nestled in the vast hilltops of Southeastern Nigeria. The mainstay of our people was cassava. 

The elders guild was made up of a representative of each of the twelve families who owned the largest cassava farms. Each family put forward the most successful son, which of course, was the most successful farmers.

Aduba, my grandfather, represented his family. My father was the first child of seven children. His position was indisputably the most important by virtue of his gender and place. In a fiercely patriarchal world, everything in the home revolved around Aduba and his first son, Azuka.

My father was a dynamic speaker. It was said just before his birth, the village dibia visited my grandparents, and there was a prophecy. The baby would be…

untethered 1

I pedalled furiously, past the brownstone with two large French windows. It was a cornerstone piece, in a very quiet block, surrounded by many flower bushes. The flowers were all the colors of the rainbow – blue, red, purple, yellow, green and white. The titillating mixtures of fragrance as we cycled past never ceased to amaze me. The different planters carrying some of the bushes were just as picturesque. The lawn was well manicured. The fence around the property was a row of see-through vertical metallic rods. I had ridden my bicycle past that house uncountable times with my Dad as a child, then as a teenager, and more recently – this spring.

In the summer evenings, as the sunset on the horizon, the dampness clinging to our armpits and back; in the crispy coldness of autumn, tires crunching over dry leaves, we pedalled.

I was sitting at…

I was sixteen, a free spirit; he was eighteen, cocky, funny with a winsome, easy smile. 

We were innocent, without the many layers that come with age and blighting experiences.

We were friends as freshmen in college, which was twenty-five long years ago.

We moved within the same social circuit and dated each others’ friends. The beauty of youth minus the pressures of paying bills and caring for children.

Today we spent the morning together. Met for a late breakfast and caught up on the happenings in our individual lives. Our respective spouses were absent, so there was no need to pick topics, looking for comfortable grey areas that would not alienate them.

We talked about an old girlfriend of his. It’s been eons since they broke up, but he still wanted to talk about it. In walking backwards in time to determine what went wrong, he was trying to…

I grew up in an asylum. 

My mother was a cowering, slip of a woman who always spoke in a whisper. I must have been almost ten before I heard her speak properly. 

She was always afraid. 

My brothers and I were raised in fear, with my father as the originator. I hated him as a child. We never knew what could lead to an explosion. He was quick with his fists, on her mostly. Her weakness and doleful brown eyes, which were usually surrounded by a bruise; her inability to protect herself, and us from him. As I grew older, my hatred for him extended to her.

My childhood was riddled with a searing despondency. We were the outsiders in the community. Our house was located at the end of town. Perhaps he chose the location so that no one could hear our screams. As a teenager, I remember…

All three of us shared the same commute. We shared the same building lobby but not the same employer while they worked for the same company. The first time we got on the train together, I sat between them. He had his eyes fixed on her face throughout the thirty-minute journey – eyes brazen in desire. He said something I didn’t think was funny, and she threw her dark head back, ringlets flying in every direction; the laugh, a deep throat melodious sound that drew curious glances our way.

I see them at lunch a couple of weeks later — both sitting close together, whispering and sharing secret smiles. They waved me over. They are now a couple, he says. I feign surprise—the mutual attraction between them an intangible joy enjoyable to watch.

‘Remember that day on the train? We had dinner and have been together ever since.’

She tells…

I always took my pre-babies body for granted. My slim body never gave away my sweet tooth. My skin remained clear throughout puberty. I assumed my body would stay the same after the babies started coming. I was wrong.

After my first baby was born, my body went back to its original size six after almost six months. Like butter melts under heat, the fat slipped away effortlessly. I made minimal effort, still ate the same. It seemed keeping up with my maternal responsibilities sped up my metabolism. After my daughter was born, it took my body a shorter time to return to its original size. I didn’t even notice as the weight slipped off. I was that busy.

And then, my beloved Chunky was born, and I grew the ‘muffin top”. My favourite jeans refused to fit. I lingered longer in front of the mirror, doing that familiar dance…