I Do Not Come to You by Chance (18 page)

Two days before he was due back home, my mother called me aside in the hospital.

‘Kings, I don’t think you should bother coming tomorrow.’

I was surprised.

‘Why?’

‘I want you to stay home and make sure everything is ready.’

She proceeded on a long list of microscopic instructions, and the next day I ordered Odinkemmelu and Chikaodinaka on a cleaning spree. They went about sweeping and scrubbing, dusting and polishing. I gave Charity some money to go to the market. She stocked up on unripe plantains, vegetables, and some other low-carbohydrate foods. From our parents’ bedroom to the living room, Eugene cleared the pathway of obstructing buckets and dusty storage cartons; my father would need as much space as possible to manoeuvre his faulty left limb. Godfrey changed the sheet on their bed and plumped the cushion on my father’s chair. I adjusted the television tripod stand so that it would be easier for him to watch without straining his neck. Then I went to the carpenter whose shop was close to my mother’s and collected the walking stick I had ordered a few days before.

That night, I found it hard to sleep. For the billionth time, I trembled for my life that no longer included Ola in the picture. I felt as if, like my father, I would have to start learning the basic skills of living all over again. But there was still hope. Ola’s mother might allow her to take me back once I moved to Port Harcourt and got a job.

I dug my head under my pillow and forced my mind to be quiet. Tomorrow would be a busy day; I needed all the rest I could get.

When sleep finally came, I dreamt about my father.

I was standing directly in front of him while he was sitting on his hospital bed.

‘Kingsley, do you want to be useful to yourself in this world?’

I answered in the affirmative.

‘Do you want to make me and your mummy proud?’

Again, my answer was the same.

‘Do you want people to know you and respect you wherever you go?’

Yes, I did.

‘Do you want to end up selling pepper and tomatoes in Nkwoegwu market?’

At that point, I woke up sweating.

Sometime in the early hours of that morning, my father died.

 

When I walked into the hospital ward in the morning, that strange instinct that tells a young man that he no longer has a father took over. I knew what had happened without being told. Right from the reception area, the nurses stared at me in a strange way, as if I had strapped a bomb to my abdomen and mistakenly left my shirt unbuttoned. Then I heard my mother.

‘Hewu o!’ she screamed. ‘You people should leave me, let me die!’ The sound of her voice seemed to be coming from her intestines instead of from her throat. She was engaged in physical combat with some of the nurses. Whenever she managed to break free from their hold, she flung herself to the floor or bashed her head against the cement wall. She was writhing and gnashing her teeth like someone burning in hell. I stood in silence for a while, watching this apparition. Then I walked past them and opened the door to my father’s room. Two male nurses walked in with me and stood within arm’s length.

Someone had covered him from head to toe with a white sheet that had a huge circle of ancient brown dirt right in the middle. Interesting that they had sheets for the dead but none for the living. I shifted the cloth aside. I lifted his hand and squeezed his fingers in my palm. They felt cold and stiff. I placed my ear against his chest and listened. I checked for a pulse. Lastly, I lifted his eyelids and stared. My father stared back.

When I finally understood that I would never again hear the shuffling of my father’s feet as he came to the dining table, I sat down heavily beside the bed. I gripped my head. The two nurses came closer and stood beside me like sentinels. Then, as with a person in the very last moments of death by drowning, several scenes from my life flashed before me. They came one after another, awakened from the dormitories of my mind like a parade of supernatural characters in a Shakespearean drama.

In the first scene, I was sitting on my father’s lap, while my mother was lighting a kerosene lamp. NEPA had taken the light.

‘Kings,’ my father said suddenly, ‘do you know how the tortoise broke his back?’

I had seen the tortoise several times on television. His shell was in patches, as if several pieces had been glued together to make the one. I shook my head. I did not know.

‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a famine in the land of the animals.’

The animals decided that they would each kill their mothers and share the meat. They started with Squirrel, and went on to Fox, then Elephant, Antelope, Tiger . . . Finally, it got to Tortoise’s turn.

‘But Tortoise was very tricky,’ my father said.

He decided to hide his own mother. He made a very long rope, used it to climb up into the sky with her, then came back down and hid the rope. Afterwards, he started weeping and wailing. When the animals asked what the matter was, Tortoise told them that his mother had died.

My father mimicked each animal saying ‘sorry’ to Tortoise.

Every day, Tortoise would bring out the rope from where he had hidden it, and climb up to the sky to give his mother some food to eat. One day, Fox noticed that Tortoise was always going out with some food. He became suspicious and followed sneakily behind him. He watched Tortoise climbing up to the sky.

When Tortoise finished feeding his mother, on his way down, he saw the other animals gathered at the bottom of the rope, waiting for him. In panic, he started climbing back up. The animals noticed that he was trying to escape and started pulling the rope. They pulled so hard that the rope broke and Tortoise crashed to the ground.

‘Tortoise landed on his back,’ my father concluded. ‘Till today, his shell is still cracked in several places.’

The scene faded. Another took its place.

I was having breakfast with my parents. My father went to check who was thumping our front door so loudly on a Saturday morning, like a landlord being owed a year’s rent. Five of his sisters poured in, each of whom aspired to a higher standard of obesity than the previous one. As soon as they were seated and all the pleasantries over, the eldest sister began.

‘Pauly, we’re very unhappy with the way things are. How can we come into our eldest brother’s house, and instead of the noise of children running about the place, everywhere is so quiet?’

My father did not respond. The second eldest sister took over.

‘Like Ada was saying, we’re very worried. You’re not getting any younger. You don’t have to wait until all your hairs have turned grey and all your teeth have fallen out before you decide to do something about the situation.’

She handed the baton back to Aunty Ada.

‘Pauly, we understand that you’re busy with your job at the Ministry. You might not have the time to sort things out for yourself, so we’ve decided to help. We’ve found two girls in the village that you can choose from. They are chubby and have very strong bodies. We want you to come down to the village with us and have a look at them so that you can decide which one to choose.’

My mother received the pronunciamento with silence. A woman who could not produce children deserved whatever treatment she received from her in-laws. So far, her only saving grace had been that my father was standing firmly by her. My father, on the other hand, reacted with ferocity. He slammed a fist on his knee, sprang up from his chair, and clenched his teeth till the two white rows almost merged into one thin, white line.

‘I’ve heard what you people have to say,’ he said. ‘Now would you please get up and leave my house.’

He spoke in a low voice that still managed to startle everybody. But Aunty Ada recovered quickly. She jumped out of her chair, stationed her hands on her waist, and poked her face into his nose.

‘Paulinus!’ she barked. ‘It’s not today you started allowing this, your education, to confuse you. No matter what, every man needs children to carry his name. Every man! God forbid, but what if something was to happen to Kingsley? That means your name vanish forever. Is that what you want?’

My father roared like King Kong.

‘Leave my house right now! All of you . . . get up and leave! Get up and leave! Now!’

Another scene.

I had accompanied my father to inspect the work-in-progress on our village house. The workmen were laying the foundation. Towards evening, he took me on a stroll down the dusty village path. It was the same route he had trekked daily to the mission primary school as a child - barefooted because, back then, children were not allowed to wear shoes.

‘This tree is called Orji,’ he said, pointing at a tall one with a mighty trunk. ‘That’s from where we get our kola nuts. This one is Ahaba. It makes the best firewood. This one is called Udara.’ He smiled. ‘Whenever it was udara season, I and my friends used to wake up much earlier than usual so that we could pick the ripe fruits that had fallen to the ground at night, on our way to school. We always had to wait for the fruits to fall by themselves because they are never sweet when you pluck them.’

Soon, it was time for us to go home. I was disappointed.

‘Don’t worry,’ my father said. ‘When our house is completed, we’ll come and spend a whole week here so that I can show you the river and the farms and the forests.’

Several other images came and went.

My graduation day. My father was smiling and watching me pose for a photograph. He raised his hand and asked the cameraman to wait. Then he walked up to me and adjusted the tassel on my cap.

‘This is a picture you’re going to show your children and your grandchildren,’ he said. ‘You have to make sure that everything looks perfect.’

How was I going to tell Godfrey and Eugene and Charity that their father would never be coming home, that he would never switch off the television abruptly and order them to study? Their father would never witness their matriculation ceremonies into university, tell them what courses to choose or what schools to fill into their forms? I wished I had died instead.

My mother let out another sharp scream. Then I remembered Ola, and that she was not there to hold me. I crumbled into tiny pieces.

Our house was brimming with condolers. Some I recognised, others I did not. Some came in the morning, some came in the evening. Some brought food items, some cooked what others had brought. We borrowed chairs from our neighbours to accommodate the rising numbers. Those who still did not have places to sit either squatted on the linoleum floor or stood behind the circle of variegated chairs. Each night, there were bodies snoring on the floors and limbs dangling over chairs in the living room.

Every morning, my mother dressed in her dark-coloured wrappers and sat in the living room to accept condolences. Her eyes were always wet and swollen. With each new person that came, she retold the story.

‘I usually don’t wake up at that time of morning,’ she would begin, ‘but for some reason, I woke up around four-thirty that day. Then, I noticed that I was feeling a bit cold.’

Her first thought was that her husband would probably feel the chill. She rose from her raffia mat and turned off the table fan. Then she returned to the floor and almost fell back into sleep, but something was nagging. The silence was unusual. At last, it dawned on her. Her husband’s respiratory orchestra had stopped playing. There was no rattling, no laboured breathing. My mother sprang up from the floor and crawled towards his bed. She leaned on the edge and tore at the mosquito net.

‘I started calling his name and shaking his shoulders.’

Those listening struggled to hold back their tears.

When he did not stir, she repeated his name and shook him again - more violently - hoping that he might even yelp. When he still refused to respond, she flicked on the light and saw the open mouth and half-shut eyes.

‘I didn’t even know when I started screaming.’

Those listening started crying and wailing.

After my mother narrated this story to my father’s sisters, his brothers, her brothers, her sisters, our neighbours . . . Aunty Dimma instructed that it was enough.

‘You can’t use all your energy to keep telling that story,’ she said.

‘When another person asks you how it happened, just tell them that you can’t talk now.’

Almost all the people who came proceeded on an undeclared competition to see who could wail longer and more bitterly than the other.

‘
Hewu o!
’ one woman chanted. ‘
Onwu, chei! Elee ihe anyi mere gi o
?!’

A man staggered into the living room and let out a fearsome yelp.

‘Paulinus!’ he called. ‘Paulinus!’ he called again.

The man shook his head and sat while a wrinkled man took his place and launched into the milestones of my father’s lifetime.

‘Do you remember the day he first came back from London? How his face lit up when he sighted us waiting for him on the dock?’

‘Are you telling me?’ resumed another male voice. ‘How about the day he came to tell us that his wife had had their first son? Do you remember the big smile that was covering his face?’

‘Where is the
opara?’
the elderly man asked.

They all turned and looked at me.

‘
Hewu!’
the man cried. ‘He looks exactly like his father. In fact, carbon copy.’

He was lying. I had my father’s hairline and my father’s eyebrows, but everything else belonged completely to my mother. Except nobody was sure where I got my small nose from.

‘Paulinus was the most intelligent man in our class,’ another man said. ‘He used to take first position all the time.’

‘Do you remember how he used to ask questions about everything as soon as the teacher finished teaching?’

‘And he never stopped reading; he always had a book in his hands. Truly, I’ve never met a more intelligent man in my life.’