Check Check:: It happened all the time, before peace and tranquil became shy in our land, the morning air would be filled with the sourness of yesternights supper pot, the coldness that came with the humid air would make the goats and hens and dogs stow away in solitude, the early traders would whisk pass our frontage with large-wheeled bicycles, my father would say b-a-s-i-c-u-l ndi afia.; our wooden gate would creak when papa Johny wants to go wine-tapping and the leaves on the sturdy trees would look like the furs on the aji buusu masquerade.. But now that shrapnels have made beautiful carvings on our clay ground and air strikes have become like a hilarious game of death cheating and gun shots have no effect on our ability to sleep and our nubile men have reduced in number ; the morning air has the smell of impending death, there are no animals to stow away, traders rarely pass, the wooden gate wore over it a grave silence as though it understood war, the leaves fall as much as they can and the words relief center are now a cliche.. Our in-time-of-war leaders made a siren to signal everyone to a rickety bunker whenever there was a threat of air strike and the sound so shrill a thin glass could shatter. The farmers were implored to cultivate on a big land to help in survival but no1 wanted a non-paying appointment so every family took to its available plot. I would always sit on the wooden chair with its legs pierced into the soil close to our cashew tree and watch the long wilted leaves of my mothers corns or attend to our barn with not enough tubers to be deemed a barn or kneat wooly hand gloves like the women tailors at Abagana did for our Biafran soldiers or sit on our slightly slippery clay stairs to stare despondently at nothing. It seemed as though nature obeyed the law of war, despair. Early one morning, at the time when the shabby etagare opposite the square window in our living room which panes were rusty with age usually gleamed with the heavy incident sunrays that descended through the window, my mother ran inside, grabbed Okwu and shouted well enough to be heard by the inanimate objects run to the bunker!!! . I had no underwear. I felt naked even in my big shorts. The noises that accompanied us throughout the race of life were damaging. Fighter jets flew as low as the height of our mango tree expunging bullets and bombs. I watched Dee Onwuka store house reduce to rubble and flames. Death wasnt far I thought . Without an underwear, I felt sweat trickle down my buttocks and once inside the bunker, I laughed about it. My mother was crying and for a moment I retracted in shock, my siblings werent complete in number. I held it and then let it out, a wail, a tearless wail that synced with the endless philip, philip o that rented from my mother . I couldnt wait for it to be over and so I paced around with every slow thump of each foot unloading a mussel of despair. He could be somewhere hiding , I didnt let go off this thought. After a while, the air was noiseless and so on walking out , I grasped reality and put on a cloak of intrepidity . Somewhere close to the bunker, a boy lay on the hot soil, a boy the complexion of my brother. It was him. Tears trickled down my cheeks uncontrollably . My mother had already fallen to the ground, rolling in agony . On getting to the boy, I couldnt recognize him, it wasnt Philip and just then I had the vim to clean my soiled face. I couldnt be all happy, a boy was dead, a mothers son like my learned mother. The sad physiognomy I wore jabbed my mother more just before I blurted o buro philip in that victorious voice a soldier uses. Mother leaped and it was as if she never cried.. I hid my amusement, a soul was gone and Philip was still missing. Back home, our barn was gone and Philip was kicking the split tubers. I sped towards him, grabbed him and perused his skin like a trophy. He had no scars and his peevish countenance made me want to smack him. He was alive. Mothers song of joy made me think unreasonable of her, a boy was dead, a little boy; perhaps her honour of being the only educated woman in Nsugbe could make all she did right, too right. The sweat I felt trickle down my buttocks trickled again and unwittingly, I looked at my shorts , it was soaked in red. I quickly opened it up and blood taxied down my legs. I had been shot I thought just before I concussed. On waking, I heard mother say to visiting neighbours okwa menstruation in a tone that pronounced derison as they couldnt understand her. By CHUKWUDI DANNY EGBUCHE
Posted on: Sat, 30 Aug 2014 13:14:20 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015