Hard not to remember

Those of us who grew up in the village knew that there’s only one thing next to the feeling of seeing God in the eyes of every village child. And that is beholding an “obodo oyibo”(abroad) returnee!

My mother had an only brother who sojourned in Europe.

His wife frequented home more than I saw my uncle.

The reason given to his aged mother for his long absence was “work”.

The “work” that only allowed the wife visit home often?

Whenever the lady visited, my grandmother’s place was always a beehive of activities.

All her siblings would gather for daily feasting.

It did not go unnoticed to my young mind that none of all that “feasting” reached my grandmother’s table.

An incident that readily comes to mind was the period the same woman visited with their children.

It was the first and only time I saw them till this day.

Anyway, meeting those “obodo oyibo” cousins felt like seeing God Himself.

Better playmates!

I promptly relocated to my grandmother’s place.

The much I remembered was jumping wherever I saw them jump.

When they laughed, I laughed.

What they pushed, I pushed. And I nodded mostly to whatever they said…as I could not understand a word they spoke.

In those days, every child’s nightmare was the day a mother had to go for “mgbaalu” (funeral visits), because it seemed they spent all day there. And that meant eating only when they returned.

Such was my experience one day, while my “obodo oyibo” cousins were still around. And grandma went to ‘’mgbaalu’’.

For some reason, I hinged my hope on the food their mother was cooking in the kitchen.

Eventually, that food made it out of the kitchen to the plates of her children but not mine.

I patiently hovered around but nothing came out of my “long throat” stares.

I became even more famished as it dawned on me that no food was coming my way on that day.

Most of what was on their plates, the children barely touched but the plates were dumped in the kitchen sink, anyway.

I can’t remember what took me to the back of the kitchen, where the children’s leftover food ended up, on the ground.

I did not think twice before I began to eat (from the ground) the portions that didn’t have much sand in them.

Fried plantain was a rare delicacy in those days and I guzzled every bit I found on the ground, including the ones the children had half-eaten.

My stomach filled up, I ran back to continue to play with my cousins.

Why they laughed at my “English” confused me. Even though, my fellow village children admired my efforts.

Another memory of their visit was one afternoon when I hovered around for “play” but it seemed their mother’s relations visited, so I sat patiently outside.

The eldest child of my uncle who coughed up a phlegm found my shoulder an appropriate discharge outlet…as one of his mother’s younger brothers looked on.

Afterwards, the man said something in English to the boy, I wouldn’t know if whatever was spoken to the boy was a scold or encouragement. But I never received a “sorry” from the boy.

I wiped my shoulders and continued to stretch my neck for when they would come out for play…nothing else mattered.

Bless the innocence of childhood!

The only memory I have of my uncle’s family, are the accounts I gave above.

That taught me how hard it is to see whoever didn’t give you good memories (as a child) in a different light. The woman died a few years back. She battled health challenges that led to amputation.

I have not stopped wondering if it ever occurred to her to make amends because my grandmother never enjoyed the word ‘’daughter-in-law’’ for one day.

It was not in a glorious state that my uncle returned from his sojourn overseas. Some of his kinsmen claimed that he confided in them that he actually disguised his trip to the airport as “going to work”. So that his violent wife would not know that he was running away.

He died some years after his return, from health complications.

My mum and grandmother nursed him. There was no support from his wife.

My curiosity about his marriage led me to a significant discovery!

I learned that it was through photos that my uncle made his choice of a marriage partner.

In those days, word went round that my grandfather’s son who had sojourned in ‘’obodo oyibo’’ was looking for a wife. And families began to submit pictures of their finest. I guessed my uncle settled for the prettiest from the heap of photos. Unfortunately, most men have not learned to look deeper than looks in their marital choices.