[size=16pt]PRODIGAL BROTHER
[/size] K. C. E.

THE SKIES over Onitsha were possessed with a calm that had not been felt in what seemed like forever. No longer were the Egyptian MIGs thundering through or black thick stacks of churning smoke drifting high.

Well it couldn’t have been said that the town was at peace. No, not exactly. Since although the war had ended some months ago, and with it the gunfire and air-raids, tension still hung in the town’s atmosphere and there drifted a dangerous aura of uncertainty.

In what remained of the partially-destroyed and flame-ravaged port-town, people began struggling to begin life anew. Children young and barely-clothed began hawking fried puff-puff and chin-chin to the occupying soldiers while their mothers searched for their missing husbands. Men both young and old swarmed from near and far to read the registry at the Red Cross Station and attempt to locate their relatives who had been dispersed due to the war. Dennis Udemba was one of them.

Dennis was a man of above marriageable age who prior to the war had only once left his small village of Ubungwo. Before the chaos he worked as a bicycle-repairman, and tended to his younger sister and their ailing mother.
Sadly, the war cost him his mother and left him with a pregnant sister, who was raped by occupying soldiers. The death of his mother and the needs of his pregnant sister were mainly what caused Festus to journey out of little Ubungwo in search of Festus, with whom he was not well-pleased. For if their mother were not dead and their sister not ravaged by those ravenous Hausa miscreants that call themselves soldiers, Festus could have gone to hell for all he cared.

Their father had died at a young age and as the oldest son, Dennis inherited the responsibility of taking care of the family. He labored to the bone to make sure that Festus completed his secondary schooling and used the money he had been saving for a business to send him to Civil Service College.

“Our people say that when the right hand washes the left, the left will do the same,” said Dennis one evening while sitting in his father’s compound in the company of his uncles.

“That is right, our son.”

“Then why has Festus chosen to not only refuse to wash the left hand but to soil it with shame? Who will believe that we have a person in the govament but we are suffering like this? Mama’s sickness is getting worse and I can’t afford her medications alone.”

“You said you have written a letter to him, is that not so?” asked one of his uncles.

“Dede Uba, I have not only written a letter but I have already written one…two…three!” said Dennis as he held his fingers in the lamplight. “It has been six whole years since Festus began working with the govament people in Lagos and he has yet to show his face. He has not stepped into this compound even after I told him Mama was not well.”

The uncles grunted in disbelief and disgust. Refusing to believe that their esteemed son had forgotten his people, they sent Dennis to Lagos to bring him home. The events of that journey are enough to form a story of their own; therefore we won’t digress into them. However after returning from that thoroughly humiliating and unsuccessful journey, Dennis swore that if he ever entered Festus’ house again he should run mad.

But that was nearly six years ago, and as destiny had it, Dennis once-again found himself on the road in search of his prodigal brother. When the war began, most people ran home. But the “big men” who were willing to die and risk their lives for their numerous possessions and investments refused to leave their city jobs and return to Biafra, despite being Igbos.

The Igbo were persecuted before, during, and even now after the war. When Biafra seceded, anti-Igbo sentiment flared and spread from the North and reached the different regions of Nigeria. They not only targeted those “rebels” who had fled to Biafra but also those few who faithfully (and in the eyes of their kinsmen, foolishly) clung to their Nigerian citizenship and jobs in the cities.

Although he had not heard from Festus throughout the three years of the war, Dennis was sure that his greedy brother was still living in his government-sponsored Lagos residence.

And so when he arrived at Onitsha early that morning with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the few shillings he had gathered for his transport and feeding, he decided it would be of no use to check the registry list at the Red Cross Station. What for? His brother’s name could never be there. As much as he tried to deny it, the main reason he decided not to visit the Red Cross Station was because he secretly feared that his brother may have been dead. That’s impossible, he would tell himself whenever the dark thought would sneak into his head. Festus has always been absent from everything.

After a short rest at Onitsha after the night’s long ride from Ubungwo, he boarded a motorcar and headed for Lagos. In the evening he arrived at the Lagos motor park and found the atmosphere refreshingly different from that of Onitsha and the East in general.

As he walked the remainder of the long journey to Festus’ home, he passed by bars and joints where young people danced, laughed and blasted highlife music. Uniformed soldiers drank and chatted merrily with one another, and small children played football in the streets with worn rubber balls. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.
He refused to believe that he was in the same country as Onitsha and Ubungwo. Were these people immune to the suffering and anguish which had ravaged the East? Was this what Festus was enjoying while Mama died of illness and those rough soldiers abused Adaku? By the time he had arrived at the gate of his brother’s residence a well of anger had collected up within him. He would surely teach Festus a lesson.

Stepping to the big, freshly-painted gate, he knocked heavily.

“Who dey bang de door like dat? You dey craze?!” yelled an unfamiliar voice from within the compound. The voice certainly did not sound like that of Dauda, Festus’ gateman at the time when he had last visited. Perhaps he had finally retired the old man who seemed to be much too old for such an occupation.

There was heavy clanking and the iron gate drew back, revealing a short, rough-looking man who wore a flattened driver’s cap. From inside the compound the tune of highlife music could be heard.

“Who you be?” asked the man.

“My name na Dennis Chijioke Udemba.”

“Eh, wetin you dey find?”

“Na your oga I dey find. I be him brother.”

The man stood quietly and examined Dennis from head to toe, as if gauging whether a man dressed as poorly as him could possibly be a relative of his oga.

“My oga no dey,” he finally lied, after deciding that Dennis must be one of these beggars or charlatans that his oga had severely warned him never to allow enter his compound.

“O.K., make I wait for inside,” Dennis said as he tried to force his way through the door.

“Ah-ah! I say him no dey! Na wetin now?” replied the gateman as he forced him back.

“No be my brother’s compound? Move out o! Make I no shout for here!”

“Musa, what is that commotion?” called a voice from inside.

“Oga na one useless man o. Him say him be your broda.”

A smartly-dressed middle-aged man in a white polo and brown slacks came up to the gate and waved Musa away.

“How can I help you, mister man?” asked the man.

“My name na Dennis Chijioke Udemba. I come all the way from the East. I come make I see my brother wey live for here.”

“Look, you are confused. Your brother does not live here. I, Barrister Olamide, am the sole occupier of this residence. Get that?”

“No, no, no. See. My brother name na Festus Okwudiri Udemba. See him address sef,” Dennis produced the worn piece of paper upon which he had scribbled his brother’s address so many years ago, “See am.”

The Barrister scrutinized the piece of worn paper as if examining a legal document. “This must’ve been before the war,” he began. “Your brother must have abandoned the property and ran away like many of you Igbos did. Well he’s not here anymore. You better go and look for him.”

“Na lie! Una must produce my brother!”’ shouted Dennis, refusing to believe the man’s obviously fake explanation.

“I don’t have time for this!” howled the Barrister. “I have a serious case early tomorrow morning.”
With that he violently slammed the gate shut. The clanking of locks could be heard and in the background the sweet melody of highlife music roared energetically from a small radio.

Would appreciate it if you guys gave feedback. Thanks. Feel free to read my other stories as well.

Nice one.waiting for the concluding part.

I loff this.....you go continue so?

Mynd_44: I loff this.....you go continue so?

dude, r u a giel?

[quote author=snakova]
dude, r u a giel?[/quote
Can you read? I loff this...

[quote author=Mynd_44][/quote]
u definately a girl. shiat

Mynd_44: I loff this.....you go continue so?

Beretta92: Nice one.waiting for the concluding part.

They're called short stories for a reason lol. That is how the story ends.

odumchi:

They're called short stories for a reason lol. That is how the story ends.

This is not a story jorh. It is a comprehension passage for those secondary books

oya gimme the rights to develop it and I go turn am to novel

odumchi:

They're called short stories for a reason lol. That is how the story ends.

Aaahan? It's more like an excerpt of a complete story.

Beretta92: Aaahan? It's more like an excerpt of a complete story.

More like the prologue to a complete story