Existence.
Papa’s head hangs low in dejection, it is glaring how desperately he wants to talk, to mutter some words, but he is bereft of what to say.
His legs quiver, as he keeps tapping his feet on the clay floor while mumbling and shaking his head in the same rhythm.
He looks into the clear skies, stares deeper at the full moon, and back into the dark — empty earth void of any human presence.
One glance at him, I cannot dispute his ability to commune with the gods, but papa has become a convert; he stopped believing in Ani.
Four market days ago, I informed him that I transcended into the supernatural and saw mama on her famous bicycle, riding with Nnoli who clenched his left arm tightly across her back, while the half arm hung out in shame.
“This is good news!”
He blurted, interrupting my narration.
Then continued
“its a dream not a prophesy”
He reprimanded me.
But Mama cycled past our Obi, she only halted under the achi tree, leading to Uka’s compound.
Mama was fond of Daa Uka, her gestures toward her were sheerly avuncular, partly because she has been without a child after nine years of marriage.
Mama always said that she reminded her of her mother, who had her after nine long years of marriage.
In my dream, I ran after them, and when I asked why, she responded in affirmation of her relocation.
To Papa, it meant her recuperation — she had been bedridden for ten months.
I, on the other hand, feared the worst.
Nnoli was an utter disappointment.
No parent wanted his type for a son.
When he was not in the stream sneaking up on women while they had their bathes, he was in farmlands digging up people’s yams farms. He lost his right arm to a scorned farmer.
Papa may have acted relieved over his death, but I know that no parent wants to mourn their child. He unconsciously looked up to the skies asking his chi for answers to his insufferable loss.
One minute, he is consulting the gods, then he remembers his Christian faith. I watched him grieve silently.
Nnoli’s body is still warm underground. Unfortunately, Mama joined him today -3 days — after his funeral.
I have been staring at Papa from a distance. Naturally, his default look is a stare — his eyes are far apart — like that of an eagle. At first glance, people categorize him as rude.
His morose expression vividly loud, probably still in shock.
The shrill voice of a newborn baby echoes into the earth. Women are making joyful sounds of music produced when they purse their lips together. It is a dark dusk in our Obi and a new dawn in the unknown household.
I walk towards Papa from the other corner of the hut, to console him, but I can only mutter “Dibe”.
His response to my consolation is a stare — that stare.
I see a silhouette in the dark, the moonlight highlights the figure, it’s a woman; a corpulent woman.
As she waddles toward us, she keeps adjusting her wrapper to reveal her bosom.
As soon as she steps into the hut, I recognize her — Okeke’s widow.
She shakes her head to express her sadness over our grief. After her brief moment of condolence, she speaks
“Daa Uka has just put to bed, ejima!”
Ah, she comes bearing goodness, I think, almost aloud.
she continues
“A girl and a boy without an arm”.
She had barely completed her sentence when I screamed
“Mama alola!”
I leap with joy.
It is a double reincarnation.
That is all the consolation I need.
