For Chigozie: My Life Experience
It was the long term break of 2015, the one during which my siblings and I had stayed at home all through because Dad had not allowed us to attend the holiday coaching at school. He told us he was impressed by our performance the previous term and wanted us to get enough rest before the start of the new session. To express his happiness with us, Dad had bought the three of us our choice gifts.
He got my brother a small sized bicycle which he paraded around, while my sister got so many stuffed Barbie dolls that if I had allowed her, she would have turned the room we both shared into a Barbie world. I on my part got tons of novels which Dad had given me with a smile etched on his face and saying I’m proud of you as he gave me a pat on the back.
Since it was the first time we were going to be all by ourselves for a considerable portion of the day, the first weeks of the holiday were quite awkward. Our Policeman father was usually not around so his absence didn’t make much difference. But we were not used to not having Mother (a teacher by day and trader after school) around, so it was difficult to adjust to this new way of living.
She would leave for her stall as early as we normally left for school and return just before the evening darkness enveloped us.
It was the season of gbomo gbomo in Ibadan, so Mother was very particular about our safety. Everyday, before she left for work, she would dole out a litany of instructions, interjecting a lot of is that clear while she was at it. Most of them were actually emphatic statements about the foremost injunction that concerned us not allowing anyone in.
As she walked out, she would ensure the front door was securely locked from within before she finally left. I thought Mother’s actions too paranoid for I couldn’t imagine our small neighborhood, where we all knew each other, being attacked by kidnappers.
Initially, the books were a reliable tool for filling up the long drab hours of leisure but soon enough, they became insufficient. Some of them even began to bore me. I yearned for more. I needed to have actual conversations; I was becoming weary of having conversations in my head. Osaretin and Osasenaga, my younger siblings were too young to understand any of these things.
Sometimes, when I could not take it anymore and would begin to speak aloud the contents of my mind, they would just stare at me wide-eyed in wonder before returning to fiddling with their toys or indulging in one of their invented games. On some days, they were usually fast asleep for a long time, waking up only to eat lunch. So I was all alone most of the day.
Things began to change, however, when Chigozie came into our neighborhood and then into my life, in that order. His family was the owner of the newly completed building directly opposite ours. They had moved in on a Saturday. Dad had returned from an assignment at Abakaliki and was resting in his room while my siblings slept.
Mother had gone to her stall as usual. I was reading Half of a Yellow Sun when I heard the sound of approaching vehicles. I looked through the window and watched in amazement three gigantic trucks bearing stacks of new furniture and other household items nose through the huge black gates of the Ebubedikes.
That evening, I accompanied my parents to pay our new neighbours a visit. The house was indeed an edifice. I noticed that there were now barbed wires around the fence. Mrs Ebubedike who was sweeping the frontage with a long broom let us in. She was beaming with smiles and kept on saying welcome in between the exchange of pleasantries.
Three cars – a Lexus, a Sienna and a Land Rover – were parked strategically in the large compound.
As we made our way into the house, we were greeted by ferocious barks from a dog caged at a corner. I hadn’t seen such a monstrous dog before. I was at the verge of running outside when our host, facing the dog, said sternly, don’t be silly Billy and the dog stopped barking instantly.
The interior of the house was in disarray. Many items were not yet placed in their appropriate place and Dad offered to join in the ongoing arrangement. It was at that point that Chigozie showed up, carrying a Ghana-Must-Go bag. He was dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and a sweat soaked singlet. He uttered a word of greeting to everyone. Immediately Mother saw him, she gave off a loud cry and ran to embrace him.
The rest of us were taken aback by this, but nerves were calmed when she went on to explain that Chigozie was one of her former students. According to her, he was not only a brilliant chap but an omoluabi to the core. She then went on to narrate a particular ugly incident where, without counting the cost, he had been the only one who spoke the truth among his other classmates.
The Ebubedikes beamed with smiles during the whole episode. It seemed as though they were used to hearing things like this said about their son.
I remember the way he had shook hands with me afterwards. He politely asked for my name and also wanted to know if I was okay. I joined in the arranging and did the little that my abilities could muster. In all of these, what I would not forget in a hurry is the congenial manner in which he had treated me throughout our short visit that day. That very first day of meeting him, Chigozie came across to me like the elder brother I never had.
The next time I saw him was on that cool Sunday evening when he came to pluck efinrin at our backyard. He was dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top that made his muscular physique more conspicuous.
Osaretin had opened the door for him when he knocked to seek permission. The way he responded to my brother’s greeting, one would think that they were close pals.
When I went outside to join them, Osaretin was already busy playing with his phone. I stood some feet away and watched as Chigozie plucked the leaves. His gaze was intently fixed on the plants as he worked vigorously. Despite the cool breeze that blew, he was perspiring profusely. I gazed at his firm biceps and wondered how they would feel in my petite hands. I stared at his broad chest and fantasized about resting my head gently on it while taking a peaceful nap.
It was Osasenaga who jolted me from my wonderland to reality. She had slammed the front door hard as she stepped out. Chigozie was also jolted as he looked up for the first time since I began to watch him. He seemed taken aback to see me standing there.
After sweeping my kid sister off her feet and throwing her thrice in the air, he turned to me.
“Ahn ahn, Eseosa. How long have you been standing there? I hope I’m safe.” he said, smiling like there was something amusing about my appearance.
I chuckled. I watched Osasenaga as she went to join Osahon in playing Subway Surf on Chigozie’s phone and it struck me how they looked so much like twins.
“You certainly are safe. If I had the intention of harming you, you’d have been a goner.” I made a show of slitting one’s throat, my left palm serving as the deadly knife and myself, the victim.
“Ah. That’s good to know.” He then smiled and his dimples revealed themselves as he did so.
“I see you’re quite busy. I didn’t know guys normally pluck efinrin o.” I said, sincerely.
“Well, I’m trying to make things easier for my mum. How are your parents, by the way? Are you the only ones at home?”
“Yeah. Dad is on one of his numerous Gulliver’s Travels while my mum went for her town’s meeting.” I replied.
I waited for it. The look. That look which I was by then used to. It was the look I usually get from people when I said things they felt I was too intellectually young to know. He only asked if I had read the book Gulliver’s Travels and when I replied in the affirmative, he said “that’s impressive” and kept on plucking. He then said he had read the book the previous semester as a recommended text for one of his Literature courses at the University.
Before he left our compound that evening, we talked at length, mostly about books. We talked about our favourite authors. He said he read more of poetry and that he was an editor at an online poetry magazine. He mentioned strange names like Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe and Dennis Cooper but the likes of Maya Angelou, Christopher Okigbo and Niyi Osundare were known to me.
The unifying chord, however, that tied us together was our mutual admiration for Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. He had read all her books and when I told him I had only recently completed Half of a Yellow Sun after having read Purple Hibiscus years ago and had totally fallen in love with her, he promised to give me Americana and The Thing Around Your Neck which he said were her recent works and promised that I’d even love her more after reading them.
According to him, the world was not ready for her greatness.
That was how our friendship began. We started exchanging books every now and then. I always had the cause to go to his house and vice versa. Mother didn’t have any issue with this as it also served as an opportunity for my siblings to learn one or two things from him, rather than lazing around at home. So whenever I got worn out from reading, I would go over to his place and we would talk for stretches of hours, without keeping track of time.
He conversed with me as though we were of the same age bracket.
It was during one of those numerous conversations that he asked me what I wanted to be in the future. If it were one of my teachers at school who had asked that question, I would have easily said a doctor. Every intelligent child should aspire to be a doctor, after all. It is known. But with Chigozie, I felt the need to be honest, to say the truth.
So I simply said, “I don’t know.”
He paused and regarded me for a moment. His eyes were so fixated on me that for those split seconds, I thought he was disappointed in me and I regretted opening up to him. But I couldn’t be so sure of his face was expressionless as ever. All of a sudden, he stood up from the cushion, said excuse me and went outside to check on my siblings whom he had given some exercises to do.
From where I sat in the wide sitting room, I could easily see what was going on at the veranda. I watched as he went through my siblings’ works. His brows were furrowed as he pored over their books. I marvelled at his actions afterwards. To each of them, he told “great job!” and then gave them a high five, after which he went through some corrections with them.
When they finished with that, he told them they were now as free as birds and led them inside where he tuned into a cartoon channel for them.
So we both stepped outside to continue our conversation.
“So you don’t have a clue about what you want to do with your life yet, uhn?” he asked casually.
I shook my head. I had by now eased up after observing the way he treated the matter with all serenity.
He went on to ask what I enjoyed doing the most with my time. When I told him reading, he smiled and said we know that already, what else? Then I told him about the conversations I usually have in my head. His face lit up at this and he seemed very interested.
“Tell me more,” he said.
I went on to tell him how I frequently assumed different personalities in my head and how these persons would have endless conversations about almost anything. I told him about how it gets so interesting at times that I get lost, totally shut out from happenings in my immediate environment and how Mother had slapped me countless times on this account. And the frequent teasings I got from classmates.
Chigozie appeared very impressed on hearing this. His face lit up and he had the same look my uncle Steve had on his face the day he was granted an American visa. I remember I had thought what strange fellow he was, expressing happiness at something that has always been a source of embarrassment for me.
“Why enjoy the experiences alone when you could share them with others?” he finally said.
“I don’t understand.” How crazier could he get? It was already bad that he didn’t think me weird after what I had just told him. Now, he wanted me to do what?
“You should write,” he replied calmly.
With these three words said, a seed was planted in me and till today, this seed continues to sprout and produce innumerable fruits.
In the following days, I started penning down my inherently formed stories. It was a really wonderful experience and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of writing until then. My characters became more animated and my stories more lucid. Chigozie was the first ever person to read my stories.
He would critically analyze my write-ups and would spot errors bordering on grammar, spelling and coherence but honestly observed that they were intelligent for someone in JSS 3 come up with. When he told me he wanted to teach after graduating, I wasn’t a bit surprised.
On some days, we simply chatted. We either sat together at the veranda or strolled around the neighborhood. We talked about recently read books and individual experiences. On one of those days, I asked him what he thought about a gay character in Chimamanda’s collection of short stories.
I can still picture his sullen face as he gazed at the ceiling intently and said that what he thinks is that people should not be terrorized for their sexuality and that the world is filled with hypocrites.
Apart from his intelligence, one thing that endeared me to Chigozie was his industriousness. Once, I met him cooking egusi soup and expressed my surprise. He simply laughed it off and said he hoped I helped my mum out in the kitchen. I truthfully replied in the negative, telling him how Mother never tire of complaining about it, saying that I would not get a husband if I didn’t change.
He had simply said that the business of feeding was a general one, not one meant for a specific gender, therefore everyone should learn how to cook.
Chigozie and I became so close that I was no longer shy to tell him things I didn’t even consider discussing with Mother. I told him about my fear of becoming a grown-up and challenges such as childbirth that came with it. To this, he said that there was really nothing to worry about as adulthood also comes with its own strengths as well.
When I asked about how life in the university was, he shared some of his experiences and stated that the university had been a place of growth and self discovery for him.
The holiday finally came to an end. I had written and passed the Unity Schools examination. So I had to prepare for boarding house. Chigozie also had to return to school. It was difficult parting ways but I consoled myself with the thought of seeing him again. It was amazing how such a brief encounter could have such a tremendous effect on me.
***
It is the first term break and my first break from Senior Secondary School. I sit on the bed with Osasenaga. She’s no longer the girl who played with Barbie dolls. She just narrated what happened to Chigozie. She had heard the story by eavesdropping on mum and dad’s conversation. In all of these, what I found difficult to fathom was why anyone would intrude on the most private affairs of others, for whatever reason.
The only thing I feel now is anger. Anger at Mother, anger at that ignobly homophobic crowd that set him ablaze, anger in fact at this whole pretentious world. I can still picture Corper Chioma, my literature teacher, as she stated emphatically that day that literature is the mirror of life. One day, I will write a book, one that mirrors life in its entirety, one that tells the untold stories of idiotic predators and helpless preys. And the Dedication will read, For Chigozie, My Muse.
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