It was inevitable: the putrid smell of carrion flowers often reminded me of the fate of my inner childhood.
It all began on the day Papa died. I had returned from vacation from Auntie Esewie, my mother’s younger sister’s house. Auntie Esewie, a dark, slim woman with impeccable character, earned respect in her community for her generosity and respect, despite being a spinster. She suffered heartbreak from men and decided not to rush into marriage.
On my journey home, I saw a brown barn owl perched on an orange tree. It is believed to be a bad omen to see this ugly creature on a scorching afternoon. I thought less about it, excited that I would be home in a few minutes.
I barely arrived at our compound when I heard Mama’s wailing. She rolled on the red earth like a wheel, blown by an undulating whirl. Our neighbours surrounded Papa’s corpse while they sympathised with my inconsolable mother.
Hurriedly, I went to see Papa’s face, placing my head on his chest and aligning our breaths until our paths were no longer intertwined. I gripped his white singlet as though to tear it from his hairy chest. I cried till my eyes were too swollen to create tears. Two women held me back and tried to console me. I pushed them away out of grief.
No one would tell me folktales, take me to wrestling festivals, and make me laugh again, my glass broken, my world apart.
Before his demise, Papa took me to watch Ugie Festival wrestling. An annual wrestling festival that brings the Benin indigenous people together. A day before the festival, a town crier announces the day of the event. Young, brave men were often glad to hear the gong. The Igbarra drummers and dancers entertained the audience.
A week later, Papa’s family members convened at our compound for his burial rites. They accused Mama of killing him except Uncle Abetu, a thin, graceful, grey-haired man.
He told them Papa died of malaria, as everyone already knew, but they still decided to gang up against Mama. Digusted by the conspiracy, Uncle Abetu left the meeting while the other members continued.
They fixed a levirate marriage, which she refused. Mama vowed not to remarry after Papa died; because of this, they confiscated his properties and subjected her to barbaric widowhood.
They shaved her hair, isolated her in a dark room without changing her clothes or underwear, fed her with a broken, unwashed clay plate, forced her to mourn, swore at the site of the deceased, and were tormented by the women in Papa’s family for seven days.
On the last day of the mourning, after some rituals by a herbalist, they forced her to bathe in a forest before dawn. This had a profound effect on her state of mind.
…………..
Uncle Abetu gave us a place to stay in his hut. He took me as one of his children, a decision that made his wife envious.
Sometimes she rained a barrel of insults on Mama, accusing her of Papa’s death. Mama doesn’t respond to her accusations. She knew everything in life happened for a reason; every day, she encouraged me to be studious and stay away from trouble. Whenever Uncle Abetu praises or buys me gifts, his wife and children get so envious that they resort to witchcraft.
Mama’s sudden illness and death restrained my dream of becoming a surgeon, where I could treat people with diseases. A huge part of my life smattered. I thought of suicide. What am I still living for? I’m not better than a corpse. Someone had taken away my red rose.
After her burial, I had several nightmares. Sometimes I go to bed hungry. I couldn’t bring myself to realise that everything happened so fast, like the speed of light.
I believed a man had the willpower to choose his path. He cannot run from himself, his very own essence. Even though we acknowledge our demise as the epitome of consciousness, we are incapable of conceptualising its fate. Therefore, this phantom of existence then centres on the virtues affected to humanity and ourselves during the years we have lived in the face of complete despair, while accepting that death is an unavoidable weight.
……………
It’s easier to see through the eyes of a needle than through the hearts of humans. Uncle Abetu and his family completely changed towards me after my mother’s death. He stopped paying my school fees.
His wicked wife forced me to perform all the house chores while her daughters did nothing. They said I murdered my parents. Sometimes, I go to bed hungry, wake up early before the first crow, and begin another marathon of torture.
I wish my parents were still alive. Things wouldn’t have turned out this way. I missed our once-happy family. Everything good will come one day.
One fateful rainy night, I heard some quiet footsteps in my room. Dark and breezy leaves rustled from trees. My heart thundered, and my teeth clattered. Who could it be? I thought. I reached out for the hurricane lamp on a bamboo chair. As I struggled to light the wick, someone suddenly covered my mouth and gripped me to the ground. I wriggled to overpower the grip.
“Don’t shout! If you shout, I will kill you.” He taped my mouth as he hoaxed.
His breath and the tip of a sharp knife got closer to my neck. I suffered from an adrenaline rush, writhed in pain, gritted my teeth, and clutched my wrapper as he popped the cherry.
“If you tell anyone, I will come for you.” He tied his wrapper, then left with a smug smile.
His wife and children had gone to visit their ill grandmother, so he waited for this moment to perfect his deeds. I wanted to commit suicide; there was no point in living. I saw the bestiality of an animal in human flesh.
The next morning, I ran out of the hut. I thought of going to Auntie Esewie’s house. I heard she had travelled to Cotonou for business. She sells clothing materials. I don’t know when she will be back.
I devised a plan to travel to Lagos without a family and plan and transport the fare. Well, I went to Oghosa Transport Park, at Old Market Road, and pretended to be waiting for someone.
The park was raucous with the blaring of music, traders selling their goods, and people talking. I observed everything until the right moment. I sneaked into the back seat of an empty white bus going to Lagos to carry some items.
No one saw me. As the driver, a bald sexagenarian, walked towards the boot, my heart pounded, covered with beads of sweat.
Luckily, someone diverted his attention. He couldn’t check it again and drove to Lagos directly.
Life in Lagos was another world of noise, from the blasting of vehicle horns to the billows of smoke and densely congested buildings.
In the middle of somewhere, I felt strange, like a pin thrown in a haystack. With the little money on me, I bought some food and slept under the Obalende bridge; plenty of other homeless people returned at night.
If I don’t start a business, I will either starve or resort to begging. I started a sachet water business in traffic because of the hot weather, and I saved and fed with the profits I made.
Although my greatest fear was fiery-looking smokers under the bridge, they have been observing me for a while, but I kept my distance. I realised everyone was fighting their own demon.
One night, three of the boys attacked and raped me. I tried to scream, but they beat the daylight out of my body and even stole my money.
I stared at the lagoon and wanted to end it all. Then came a woman who saw me in this mood. She pleaded that I shouldn’t commit suicide. I told her my worries and how life had been so unfair to me. A pool of tears dropped from her face as she heard my stories.
She sponsored my education until I became a surgeon.
By some mysterious circumstance, I ended up in the theatre when they brought Uncle Abetu to my hospital. He had heart problems and was abandoned by his wife and children. I wanted to abandon him, too. The better part of me pleaded on his behalf. When he regained his consciousness, he begged for forgiveness.
Storms of tears gathered in my eyes and lips as I hugged, footed his bills, and promised to check on him timely. I admonished the young lady who brought him to take excellent care of him.
He robbed me of my happiness and my inner childhood. I missed those days Papa took me to wrestling matches, how he taught me how to cook groundnut soup, and how Mama taught me how to cook Omisagwe, or “groundnut soup.”
I have forgiven him and myself. Life happens. Things happen. The courage to overcome our ill-fated faith, look towards the future, and define who we are.
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Joseph Marcel, Ikhenoba is a Biochemist by profession and a passionate writer. He has published several poems, articles and stories which have been published in Amazon, Poetry South, Short story.net, Poem Hunters, Core Humanity Commons and Academia.edu, Writers Space Africa, Goodreads, Afri-Library and Kinsman Quarterly.
Joseph was the semi-finalist for the Black Diaspora Award, shortlisted for Natives Award, and longlisted for Iridescence and Dr. Paul Kalanithi writing awards in 2024. He likes sports, writing and scientific research.
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