THE POWER OF LIFE ET DEATH
There is a saying: the power of life and death are in the hands of God. I think something was omitted in that statement, something that has the power too. Here is an event from ‘yesterday’.
It was 2003. The news came hermaphroditic in state- good and bad. Mama Emeka had given birth to the 8th world wonder- a request from her husband and her late mother-in-law; a bouncing girl but then a problem aroused; a big and complicated one. An unheard kind of problem at that time in the locality. We were confused on exactly the reaction that was suitable for the news – to be happy or sad. The latter eventually won. Mama Nnukwu took her mobile phone and quickly dialed Papa Emeka’s mobile phone number. After several attempts to reach him, she finally said a ‘Hello’ to the voice at the other end of the phone. She dropped the exchange of pleasantries protocol (for nothing much was pleasant to inquire about in the moment) and went straight to what she wants to say. “Papa Emeka, what happened? How did it happen? What is happening now?” she inquired on intervals. Amara and I were kneeling before her, pilgrims before the statue of a revered god, looking straight at her face as it displays different shades of sadness in between several “Ewo!” and “Ki buzi ifeh ndi wo?” She got the name of the hospital – Ukpai General Hospital. The conversation ended the next minute with my grandmother’s “I will be there soon”. We quickly jumped up as Mama Nnukwu made her usual little struggle to stand. “Unoma, come and take my slippers and clean for me. I want to go the hospital now” she said to me as she walked inside the house and to her room. Minutes later, she reappeared tying one of her favorite damask scarf which had obviously seen more days than my sister and I on her head and tightening her wrapper round her waist afterwards. Amara and I were quietly standing at the door looking at her. “I will be back before dusk and will make dinner when I arrive”. She said to us. She turned to me “I don’t want to hear you touched Amara while I’m away” wagging her skinny finger at my face. “Yes Mama Nnukwu” I replied. Wobbly, she walked out of the house to the dusty road and towards the village center and the hospital.

Mama Emeka was the young petty trader under the third Udala tree away from my grandmother’s house at Issele-uku. She was a friend of my grandmother who was like a mentor to her. She lived in the shack right behind the Udala tree with her husband, the firewood breaker and ‘drunkard’ and their six little boys. Mama Emeka was always in her shop no matter the hour of the day you need something. My grandmother and her friends would always say Mama Emeka loved money too much, adding that of course Igbo people don’t joke with money. But then, that was all jokes because the neighborhood knew her condition. Without her, her six children would starve to death or grow up illiterates or worse than their father. Her life situation had unconsciously made her fall in love with money (if that also could be called love of money). Without money, there was no life for Mama Emeka, if there was for someone else. People say when you come to her and not talking about things that fetches money that she won’t listen. The only thing she listens to is what will give her money. She will do anything for her customers to keep coming even if it means staying all night at her shop. Hard work had made her look twice older than her age. In her last trimester, things had gotten tougher for her. Market wasn’t good as it use to be and she hadn’t saved enough. She began to travel to the next village, Onicha Ugbo early mornings to buy maize from farmers. She would boil some during the day and roast the remaining in the evening. The maize became a source of major income for her as it saved her disagreements with her husband and the tormenting whining from her children. We had arrive the village two weeks earlier after the school vacated for the long holiday and saw Mama Emeka all swollen and heavy. Surprise and pity are understatements.
Mama Nnukwu came back just before dinner time with her friend mama Nkeonye. Their demeanor heavily veiled the atmosphere. I wonder what the situations of things were but I couldn’t ask. It would be doing more than myself. The weak oil lamp was shinning at its brightest- illuminating dimly only Mama Nnukwu and her friend’s faces. In the darkness beside the kitchen door, I sat on the rickety kitchen stool, my little hands supporting my little head. Amara, my little sister who loves body contact like nothing and normally gets enough from Mama Nnukwu was even seated on the little stone beside me. Thank God she even understood moods. We both, looking at them and listening to so many of the things we don’t even understand. Poor Mama Emeka, I thought. We won’t be seeing her anymore and who will be selling things to us now? I was sad. Mama Nnukwu didn’t say anything to us about Mama Emeka until the next morning. She told us Mama Emeka wasn’t alive and yet not dead. A strange thing. My ten year old mind fought to understand what she meant by ‘wasn’t living and yet not dead’, yet it wasn’t successful. I simply gave up, more scared.

Three days later, Mama Nkeonye came to the house at midday. She came with good news: Mama Emeka had risen. It sounded more like dead Lazarus rising from the dead. “Eh!” Mama Nnukwu exclaimed. “Daalu Osanobuwa” she said raising her hands to heavens.
What happened
Mama Emeka was trekking down what she described as the most beautiful road she had ever seen in her life. The road was like a sweet meal. She was enjoying it. Then suddenly she saw a big beautiful gate at the end of the road and was heading towards it happily. Out of the blues, this old woman suddenly appeared. “Hey! Where do you think you are going?” She asked Mama Emeka who replied that she didn’t know but heading towards the beautiful gate. “Shut up!” The old woman rebuked her. Mama Emeka was shocked. “Go back” she commanded. “It is not yet time for you to travel this way”. Mama Emeka had taken enough from the ‘intruding’ Old woman. Ignoring the old woman, she hissed and continued her journey. But the woman stopped her again saying. “It is not yet time for you to travel this road”.
“But I have travelled for long I can’t go back anymore. Please allow me to just complete this journey”. Mama Emeka half pleaded. “I know a route back home. I will show you”. The old woman said. “Look at your hand”.
“Chim oo!!” Mama Emeka screamed. Her hands on my head, she raced towards the way she had come. But then tripped and felled. She awoke.
Something was in Mama Emeka’s hands. Something that had the power to pull her back. Funny and unbelievable as it may sound, something that was able to give her life.

What Mama Emeka had on her hand was no other thing but MONEY. The money she was going to get maize with. Whatever that seems: love for money or not, money saved her life. It gave her life back. She was in coma (Something people don’t really understand much at that time) for three days and made it. It’s been years now but whenever I remember this story, I smile and I will say ‘indeed Money has the power of life and death too’.

I love this

thekhal:
I love this

Thnx dear