Nzube
Yusuf, our driver, did not wag his tongue that day. He did not tell us stories about the recent bombings, or interpret the news from the car radio or praise us for being neat. Neither did he shake his head vigorously at the sound of music that blasted from the car radio when the newscaster decided to take a quick break. His sudden quietness worsened the already tensed situation at hand.
As he drove us home, I prayed that Mpa Obiajulu would not be back from work so that Obiajulu would have more time to open up and tell mama the truth. My gaze went to mama. I observed how her chest rose and fell like wild tides. I felt her nervousness, one which I also attributed to the fear of Mpa Obiajulu.
Mpa Obiajulu was my father. A man who made sure he saw blood before he could stop beating anyone; as if the sight of blood was the only deterrence to any form of mischief. And that day, I knew he would have every reason to strike the hell out of Obiajulu and Mama. A plethora of images filled my head: Mama, sprawling on the floor with blood gushing out from her back where Mpa Obiajulu have dealt several lashings, Obiajụlụ’s head oozing blood, like a stone shattered against steel. So I removed my gaze from Mama and fixed it on Obiajulu. But he looked away. He knew.
Obiajụlụ
Nzube’s bright eyes took the gothic form anytime he was afraid. His fair complexioned skin was now pale. He was growing more withdrawn each passing day with a weird alertness that was unbecoming of a child of his age. I wondered how much more Daddy needs to go, what more evidence he needed to understand that childhood was slipping away from us.
Look at what I had become. A petty thief. What would I have done when Nzube said he was hungry? To be an elder brother is to never be fully prepared of what circumstance would require breaking principles, of what sacrifice you would have to offer in the next waking moment. I prayed he would keep his mouth shut and allow me handle the case myself, at least for the first time.
The last time I stole from daddy’s drawer to buy drugs for the ailing mama, he had concurred with me only to start screaming; ‘Mpa Obiajụlụ, I will say the truth!’, when he thought that daddy was going to kill me after we were caught.
Yes, he grew up to hear people call daddy, ‘Mpa Obiajulu’ and ever since, he had never called him by another name, despite all efforts and tactics implored to correct him.
Nzube was a little boy, punctured by whatever style of parenting Daddy exuded, and would not allow me to protect him. He would always say, “the truth will set you free”. Or might. Because what is the color of freedom? Red? Crimson? I mean, who gets blood on his body after saying the truth?
Felicia
When their head teacher called me on the phone, my eyes went to the clock and it wasn’t time for dismissal. Their school always dismissed at exactly 2 O’clock. My mind went through a myriad of possible reasons why she was calling.
I thought Obiajụlụ had gone to another competition and brought back lots of laurels. I picked up the phone, with a smile plastered on my face and I clicked on the answer button, hoping to hear what other milestone my first son had achieved.
But the smile that was spread on my face disappeared immediately, when I heard the serious tone of the head teacher, Aunty Maureen.
I quickly called Yusuf, and he drove me to their school. It was difficult getting him to abandon his prayers. He was hardworking and strong— a strength that was quite appalling due to his thinness like a malnourished vegetarian—, a staunch Muslim and talkative. But that day, he did not talk, he did not ask questions as to why I was going so early to pick my children. He was angry. But to be a mother is to be eternally selfish with the lives that came through you. Nothing about my children could wait. Not for anything.
Obiajụlụ
This was the longest Nzube had kept quiet. Not that he did not see me that afternoon. I remembered turning around to see him with a look in his eyes that asked; “What are you doing?”. I wanted to speak, to tell him that I was doing it on behalf of him, that the needs of his stomach broke every sense of morality in me. But he sprinted away. My voice did not give me service.
That morning, Nzube had said he was hungry. Daddy never gave us enough. He would say he was training us to learn how to ‘economize’. At one point, I believed him— I wanted to believe that he meant well. I learned to adapt to his teachings no matter how hard it was. But Nzube was hungry. That, I had not adapted to— watching my baby brother go hungry. What I had not thought about was what to do if I was caught or suspected. How it happened, I did not know. So my heart flew into my stomach when the head teacher summoned me.
The head teacher was a fearsome woman with a commanding presence. I rehearsed so many times in my head how I was going to face her. But the sight of Nzube, kneeling and crying inside the office, brought a feeling that betrayed my rehearsals. Tears poured out from eyes. What have I gotten my baby brother into? Then Aunty Maureen’s voice came, demanding that I speak the truth and return the money so as to lessen my punishment. She said my brother would not speak which amazed me. She said I instructed him not to.
But the head teacher did not ask too much question if she’s sure. The last time I came into her office to collect my prize after an interclass quiz, a case was brought to her of a boy that stole his neighbor’s notebook. She didn’t ask too much question to the boy, perhaps because the reporter gave her every detail. She simply disciplined the boy that he exposed where he kept the notebook. Whoever reported this was simply guessing. Maybe it was after seeing Nzube running away, maybe because I was the only person in the class during break. Because it was only a suspicion, I had decided to feign ignorance.
I searched my brain, looking for what to answer, something that would not dent my family’s name in the school. Something that would not get daddy involved. What does it matter whether the act was good or bad? No one would get whipped because of me. That’s all that matters. But the right words refused to form in my mouth and when she saw I was not ready to talk, she picked up her phone and called mama, hoping it would get me to talk.
Nzube
The question that had resounded in the head teacher’s office was; “why did you break the locker?”. I wanted him to answer that he was stealing for me. I did not need a soothsayer to tell me that. I felt guilty for always bemoaning, but at the same time, I needed him to say it quickly.
When the head teacher said; “I will call your parents and tell them what you’ve done”, my initial self returned. I wanted to scream loudly, telling them that it was him who stole the money. But the guilt did not allow me. That was the only thing that held my tongue — the guilt
Felicia
When Yusuf parked in front of the black school gate, the tires crushing on the gravels as he hit the brakes, I dashed out of the car and headed straight to the head teacher’s office. I hoped nothing had happened to my kids.
As I got there, my last child, Nzube was kneeling on the floor, sweating like one who saw an apparition. Obiajụlụ was standing still. He did not move like one whose mother just arrived. The head teacher was fuming with anger. “what happened?” I found myself asking .
The head teacher’s narration nearly sent me into a cardiac arrest. What would my husband have said if he heard of that?
“Is it true?” I asked Obiajulu, but he would not speak.
Shockingly, Nzube would not speak too.
“Did you break the locker?!” I broke down in tears.
The head teacher told me that she won’t allow tears in her office. I beckoned to her to allow me to handle the matter, promising to report back if Obiajulu was the criminal or not. I also paid the amount that was missing in case it was my boy. And then, I took my kids away.
As we drove home, I wondered why Obiajulu did not want to talk. I had noticed the day he stopped talking like usual. It was the day my husband beat me in front of him— that day, Obiajulu carried three months old Nzube, closing Nzubes’ eyes while he watched as his father punished me for mistakenly breaking his reading spectacles. I had prayed for that trauma to leave him.
The only relief was that My husband wasn’t around. But how much time would I have to get Obiajulu talking and know how to fix things up?
Nzube
When we drove in, Mpa Obiajụlụ’s car was not in the compound which signified that he hadn’t come back yet. The entire compound was quiet and dry; dry like the deciduous leaves of the Ụdara tree during harmattan season, dry as if the universe stood still to witness whatever that day would be for us.
I could remember the loud sigh I heaved. I could remember Mama’s quick turn, her eyes wondering why I sighed. I looked at Obiajulu, but he rather opened the car door and left first. I knew he was also relieved. Mpa Obiajụlụ’s absence meant a whole lot, ample time to fix things and avoid beatings.
I wondered why Mama had to tell him everything. Why there was no secrets between her and Mpa Obiajulu but I guessed it was a marriage thing so I didn’t care to ponder much. As we entered the house, mama quickly told me to enter inside while she halted Obiajụlụ and asked him to sit.
Everywhere was well kept. The cup of tea we left on the glass center table was no more there. The sofa seats smelled of air freshener and shined in their milk colors. There was no light so that the brown ceiling fan was still.
I also looked at Obiajụlụ and I knew he was relieved that mama had sent me inside. But fear merged with curiosity would not allow me. So I stopped at the door that demarcated the sitting room with the other rooms and leaned in to eavesdrop; I could also see their faces through the thin lines.
“Now nwa m” mama spoke first. “Tell me everything. From the start to finish”
My heart raced as I expected to hear him say my name. To say that I was the one who triggered his urge to steal. But Obiajulu would not talk.
“Did you break his locker?” mama asked again and I knew she was trying hard to remain calm, yet Obiajụlụ remained silent.
They were in the sitting room for crying out loud, and I didn’t know if he understood the magnitude of that; that Mpa Obiajulu could be back anytime soon. Every guilt that had stayed my tongue was beginning to elude me when Obiajụlụ’s soothing voice finally came:
“I did not break the locker. I never did. It was open by the time I got to the class. It was open mama. It wasn’t me” he stopped there.
But it was not yet complete. Yes, I had followed him back to back without him knowing, and I knew there was not much time for him to had broken the locker. But Obiajulu was intelligent enough to know what “did you break the locker?” meant. But he didn’t go further. He had decided to evade the real question and Mama’s voice cut in.
“Then why didn’t you say so? Eh gbọ? Why didn’t you tell them that you were not the perpetrator?! Why would you allow me to go through such heart attack?!”
“Nobody would have believed mama” his voice came, more steady this time, more audible. I knew what it was he was doing. I had underestimated Obiajụlụ and his wits. My heart danced in amazement. “They were asking more from me. And I was afraid to speak. That’s the first time I had been summoned for something like this. I was afraid”
Mama heaved a sigh of relief —the same sigh that escaped my mouth when I had found out Mpa Obiajulu was not around.
“It’s alright. Go inside. I would tell your father that you were accused of breaking a locker and also to the school”. I ran to the room.
When Obiajụlụ entered the room, he bore a smile on his face. He was happy with himself. What he said was not the truth but not a lie neither. He didn’t break the locker and that was the truth but not just the truth we were expecting. He was prudent. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, I spew it out;
“Thank you.”
He looked at me, smiled and patted my shoulders and went on to remove his clothes. Then we heard the gate open and a car drove in. I skipped. Obiajụlụ patted my back again and said, calm and comfortingly: “We’ll be fine”.
Collins Ozara is a talented author with two published works: “Mute Ant: A Compilation of Short Stories and Poems” and “Na Over Hype Kill 2020,” a satirical critique of Nigeria’s Vision 2020 initiative. He also writes for Fintech companies, contributing creative content that bolsters their marketing efforts. Collins captivates audiences with his engaging stories on X @ThxOCA (formerly Twitter).
