benjames:

Perhaps in those days girls marry early.. Check the Igbo history my brother.

Ishilove:

Just couldn't help it


Wikkid!! So your granny was 12 when she started 'kponjaing' ?

Tell her to check her age well, she was prolly older!

Ishlove: very funny! unfortunately that was the order of the day in those days..girls were actually married out early in Ibo land. believe it it or not there are girls same age having children even now in places that are considered part of the "civilized world" this days.

#7
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A few weeks later, my father and his kindred, with the elders of Owerri Nkworji, left for Orji Uratta Town. They took with them kola nuts, bundles of yam, red oil, and other gifts traditionally required for this sort of visit. At Orji Uratta, the visitors met up with the station pastor, who had already informed the king and his kindred about my father’s intended visit.

My father and his people were warmly received by the king. After introductions and the traditional breaking of kola—signifying that the visitors were welcome—the king asked what the purpose of the visit was. As is the custom with Igbos, especially on such occasions, discussions are carried out mostly in proverbs and adages. The king sent for Grace, and when she arrived, he asked her if she knew why the visitors were there, and if she wanted her kindred to accept the gifts that the visitors had brought, signifying that marriage proposal had been accepted. Grace acknowledged the visitors and asked her grandfather to accept the gifts. King Ewurum reached into his garment, took out a white cloth, and laid it on the table, declaring that it symbolized the purity of his heart and that he gave the marriage his blessing. Both families rejoiced at the king’s pronouncement.

A month later, my father, the elders, Nwanyi Burunnu, and all her children and relatives headed off to Orji Uratta for the traditional wedding ceremony (igbankwu). All the invited guests were assembled at the king’s palace, among which were chiefs, elders, youth leaders, and kings from other kingdoms. Members of Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Owerri Nkworji and Orji Uratta were also in full attendance. The ceremony began with traditional dances, which were prohibited by Faith Tabernacle doctrines; however, the king allowed it due to the presence of the other traditional dignitaries. The masquerade dancers displayed their fantastic moves, after which the Faith Tabernacle youth choir performed.

Later, the head of the traditional council announced the arrival of the bride. Lengths of cloth were laid on the ground for her to walk on, and she was flanked on either side by beautiful single females all dressed in traditional attire. Grace headed straight to King Ewurum, who blessed her and gave her the cup of wine that she would give to the man who would be her husband, as per tradition. In the traditional marriage ceremony, the husband-to-be would be seated among the crowd, and the bride would wander around looking for him. As she did this, other young bachelors would call out to her, trying to persuade her to give them the cup of wine. According to tradition, whichever man she gave the cup to would be compelled to marry her.

Grace found my father and knelt in front of him, handing him the cup of wine to a jubilant roar from the crowd. He drank the wine, helped Grace to her feet, and embraced her. They both went and knelt before the king, who broke a kola nut and shared it between Grace and my father, after which he gave them his blessings. In accordance with the practices of the Faith Tabernacle Congregation, Grace’s bride price of seventy naira (less than $1) was paid. Other traditional gifts, including kola nuts and yams, were also handed over to the bride’s family. After the ceremony, it was announced that the church wedding would be celebrated at the Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Orji Uratta in a week’s time.

The pastor of Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Orji Uratta was the minister at the wedding, and pastors from other Faith Tabernacle churches were also present. He advised the new couple to be faithful to one another, stressing that “what God has joined together, no man shall put asunder.” He further admonished the new couple to not allow others interfere with their family and to always seek wise counsel. The wedding went marvelously well and the newlyweds were showered with gifts, including a bicycle from King Ewurum.

The couple returned to Owerri Nkworji, to the one room given to my father by his father. Grace, who had never visited Owerri Nkworji, was surprised to find that her new husband lived in a small room in his father’s compound. However, she was not too disappointed because she was deeply religious and did not care too much for material things. She had a deep conviction that everything would work out fine between them.

Grace adjusted nicely and became a housewife; Faith Tabernacle forbade its women from engaging in business while their husbands were alive and able to provide for the family. However, she and my father engaged in large-scale farming on the land that my grandfather had given to Nwanyi Burunnu. At the same time, my father continued with his trade, which took him to the northern part of the country and beyond. When he brought his products home, they were stored in a warehouse at the town’s market (Nkwoorji market). He would take the goods in small quantities to sell in Nkwoorji market, and other markets in towns and villages all over the region. With time, his profits accumulated and brought a relative improvement to his life. Several months later he was able to buy a used bicycle for transporting his goods (though he could use the bicycle they received as a wedding gift, it was mainly designed for women).

My father became relatively successful. He was well known in his line of business and had many customers, who always sought him out because of his kindhearted and jovial nature. He was also considered articulate and intellectual, and many wondered why he had chosen trade instead of becoming an academic or politician, given his great insight and vast knowledge of life and current affairs. His business grew and he employed servants for the house, as well as to help sell his products in the markets.

In the Igbo calendar there are eight days, divided into two groups and associated with markets. The first four (Eke, Orie, Afo, and Nkwo) are the small market days, and the other four (Eke-ukwu, Orie-ukwu, Afo-ukwu, and Nkwo-ukwu) are the big market days. The markets were unique and well organized. At the end of each market day, traders were required to pay a small amount to a caretaker committee for the maintenance of the market. Market days were something the people looked forward to. It brought together people from different clans, villages, and towns. While most people—including petty traders and bigger ones like my father, who sold larger products—went to the markets to buy and sell, some went there to meet with friends, relatives, and loved ones, and others went merely to browse and enjoy the vibrant market atmosphere.

While things seem to be getting better for my father, the political situation in the country seemed to take a terrible turn. There was a sudden dramatic change of events that affected everyone in Nigeria. Political instability became the order of the day in early 1967, and it culminated in the outbreak of the Nigerian civil war in the same year, after then-head of state General Aguiyi Ironsi, an Igbo man, was brutally assassinated in a coup d’état by army officers from northern Nigeria. After the coup, power moved from the Igbos to the northerners. During the subsequent regime, led by Major General Yakubu Gowon of northern extraction, the Igbos felt politically and economically marginalized. They claimed that the northern-led government was systematically eliminating the Igbos and that the country’s resources—which largely came from the Igbo region—were not being equally distributed. As a result, the Igbos began agitating to secede from Nigeria, and this led to the Nigerian civil war.

The Igbos proclaimed their region’s secession in 1967, naming the new state the Republic of Biafra. Meanwhile, the Nigerian army was dominated by northerners. The army systematically reassigned all the Igbos in the Nigerian army to less strategic posts. The leadership of the four army divisions around the country was filled with people of northern extraction and their presence was felt in every part of the nation. Notwithstanding, the aggrieved Igbo officers and men quickly mobilized and declared independence from Nigeria, and thereafter the bloody war started. According to the Igbo narratives, Nigerian soldiers, who were by then predominantly northerners, carried out indiscriminate bombings of villages and towns in Igbo land even before the start of the war. Rumor had it that in the northern parts of the country, Nigerian soldiers maimed, killed, and beheaded Igbo civilians, even women and children, who were living peacefully in those parts of the country at the time. Consequently, Biafran soldiers launched a brutal counteroffensive.
The destructive attritional war did not spare King Ewurum’s community as massive bombings by Nigerian forces began to intensify within his kingdom. Orji Uratta was at the point of being decimated. As a result, the king, his family, and closest relatives, as well as my father’s three brothers who had been living in a nearby city, had to flee for their lives. On their way to Owerri Nkworji, one of my father’s brothers was hit in the chest by stray bullets and died instantly, while the other two were captured by Nigerian soldiers and branded enemy combatants. They were executed in cold blood. Those who had witnessed the horrific death of my uncles said that the soldiers had tied their hands and bound their feet before butchering them like cows. King Ewurum and his family arrived safely at Owerri Nkworji, one of the lucky towns where there was no heavy fighting and less destruction, and sought refuge at my father’s home, which he gladly opened up to them.

At this time, my father and mother were still living in the single room. However, they managed to accommodate everyone who sought refuge with them by placing most of the displaced people in any available space in Onyechere’s compound. My father dug a safety bunker in the backyard, where everyone would run for protection in case of bombings. This bunker was also used to hide men who were avoiding conscription into the Biafran army. My father, being a warrior, loved and wanted to join the rebellion, but his religion and his wife compelled him not to. Therefore, he focused his energy on saving lives and helping the more than one hundred displaced people who sought refuge in his house. When the war was over, King Ewurum and his family returned to their town and, fortunately, met their house and properties with minimal damage.

The war officially ended in 1970, but it took a while for things to return to normal. The effects could be seen clearly in the traumatized and dejected faces of the people. The Nigerian government had orchestrated a blockade against the Republic of Biafra during the war, which effectively prevented much-needed aid from getting into the area. Fertile land and crops had been destroyed. There was famine in the entire region, and people resorted to eating cassava leaves, grass, and ants. There were starving people everywhere, and the entire Igbo region was riddled with all sorts of diseases and ailments. The soldiers still maimed and killed people indiscriminately, and raped and sexually assaulted young and old women. It was undoubtedly the worst period in the history of the land.

Fortunately for my family, my father managed to carry on with his business through the hazardous conditions, and our lives were much better because of his bravery.

It would take many years for our village to rebuild itself.


Chapter One

I was born in 1971, at the end of the war. My family was overwhelmed with joy after my birth. I had come out a whopping eleven pounds and as a result was nicknamed “double man” by my mother’s only brother. I was born in an oba ji (something similar to a manger), where farm produce was stored for the next planting season, and was later taken to Aba General Hospital in order to get my birth registered. I was the first son of Monday and Grace, the first grandson of Eunice Ewurum, and the second grandson of Nwanyi Burunnu.

Unbelievable as it might sound, I was fully conscious of my environment as soon as I was born, a gift that I will try to explain later. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on who you ask—I remember things that happened right from my birth. No one could tell that I had this ability and it was a particularly difficult situation for me. There I was, a baby with the ability to understand all that was happening around me, yet having to depend completely on adults—who sometimes had no clue what I wanted—to think and act on my behalf, simply because I could not speak yet.

My grandmother Eunice came to stay with my parents after my birth, and she brought with her my cousin Ijeoma.

Traditionally, after every birth, the new mother would be aided by her mother for at least three months, and at the end of that period, the new grandmother would leave her daughter’s house with loads of gifts in exchange for the help rendered. However, my grandmother and cousin would stay with us for more than a year.

I remember that my mother used to lay me in a bamboo chair in the single room where they were still living when I was born. Above my head was an array of weird wooden objects, which I suppose were meant for my amusement. I was indeed amused, not by what the adults around me were doing to please me, but by their sheer ignorance and inability to discern exactly what my needs were at the time. My parents slept in a bamboo bed across from my chair-bed.......

Haaaaaaa!! Jake! Jake!! Jake!!! How many times did I call you??

You are the incarnate of an old soul...gaaaaangster!! Who were you in your past life? Did you come with your memories come with you intact when you were born?

Haaaaaaaaaa!!

Can I suggest something? Your prologue is WAY TOO LONG to be classified as a prologue. Why not name it 'Part 1-In The Beginning', or Part 1-'The Genesis' or some thing like that.

Then subsequent chapters will be classified under 'Part 2.

My thoughts anyway

Ishilove: Can I suggest something? Your prologue is WAY TOO LONG to be classified as a prologue. Why not name it 'Part 1-In The Beginning', or Part 1-'The Genesis' or some thing like that.

Then subsequent chapters will be classified under 'Part 2.

My thoughts anyway

Ish: you really sound like my editor. Anyways, my publishers thinks that we're OK. however, I will exercise some brevity in volume 2.

Allow me to indulge you a little, here is the book editorial review:

**************
Conflicted Destiny by Pete Amadi

OPENING NOTES

From the author’s ancestral home of Owerri Nkworji Town in the eastern region of Nigeria to JFK Airport in New York City, Conflicted Destiny is a profoundly visceral and spiritual memoir of one man’s unrelenting focus to transcend his circumstances to fulfill the destiny that is written on his heart.

Driven by an insatiable ambition and an unquenchable fire in his spirit, author Pete Amadi eloquently and tirelessly describes details of his life from birth to young adulthood. While facing chaos, poverty, and abuse in a country known for its diversity and tension, Mr. Amadi is forced to summon the fullness of his own intellectual, spiritual, and emotional resources to cope with complicated and tangled cultural traditions. Despite all the obstacles in his path, it was his vision and inspiration for a greater life that caused him to remain steadfast and strong in completely unacceptable situations—and it was this vision and inspiration that ultimately delivered him to the shores of the United States of America.

GENERAL SYNOPSIS

Born in 1971 in the Igbo region, the author describes the experience of being keenly conscious and aware of his surroundings from the time of his birth. While being raised in a large family that was steeped in Faith Tabernacle traditions—which promotes prayer and fasting, and forbids traditional medical intervention—Amadi places his ultimate faith in the power of the blood of Jesus, whom he calls upon in the many instances of his life being dangerously close to ending.

Wishing to nurture his instinctive interest in literature and learning, he is, as a young adolescent, sent to live with extended family in order to be able to attend educational institutions that will equip him for adulthood. While he is with extended family, he suffers discrimination, multiple humiliations, abuse, and repeated instances of sexual assault at the hands of those who should have been mentoring and nurturing him.

After finally exploding in a fit of rage at one particular attack, Amadi reaches a turning point and spends a brief period in jail amidst deplorable conditions. Once released, his vision for leaving Nigeria for Europe (and eventually America) becomes all-consuming. After a series of complicated and dangerous attempts, he risks his life once again, leaves the continent, and finds himself—after much hustling—in Las Palmas, Spain, where he settles for a time in order to prepare for his next move. Thus he finds himself in Madrid, where he meets Maria Joana, a wealthy and successful woman who provides Amadi with financial support out of her natural attraction and love for the young, energetic, charismatic man.

However much he truly cares for Maria, he continues to think of her as his “meal ticket”, and the relationship is complicated by the racist worldview held by her family and by the Europeans within the city he dwells. After attempts to reach the United States by way of different countries, Amadi decides to marry Maria for immigration purposes. And yet, “...what had started as something of a marriage of convenience gradually turned into something of a real marriage...”
Eventually, Pete Amadi leaves Europe, making his way to the United States to attend school, arriving in New York City in time for New Year’s Eve, 1994.

STRENGTHS

It is abundantly clear that the manuscript has been crafted by a well-educated, eloquent, and focused author with strong editorial support. The description of the history of the spiritual practices in Owerri Nkworji Town were vivid without being gratuitous, and were fascinating while at the same time frightening. Additionally, the description of the abuse was clear and simple, and the delivery effective and meaningful. The author’s honesty about his “hustling” is refreshing and unique, and his clarity and self-awareness in relating his acts of deception and promiscuity are neither self-congratulatory nor self-deprecating; they are simply expressed for the sake of the greater story with a sobriety and authenticity that reveals a strong character and a quiet confidence.

Nice synopsis

#8
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In other corners of the room were heaps of items—personal belongings like clothing, shoes, and cooking utensils, as well as my mother’s bicycle and sewing machine.

Even though my father was doing well in his business at the time, the war had devastated most of the cities in the Igbo region. During the three years of the war, the independent state of Biafra had created and used its own currency, but after losing the war, the Biafran money became valueless. Everyone had to start all over again.

As I grew into a toddler, soldiers, guns, and hunger—remnants from the war—were familiar sights to me. In that period, it was typical to see children look sickly and malnourished, but I was chubby and healthy. This amazed the soldiers who came around, and they took to calling me “double man” as well. The soldiers grew quite fond of me and would visit my village just to play with me. I loved having them around, but my joy was at the expense of most of the villagers who, having lived through the war, were still severely traumatized by the mere sight of soldiers and would take to their heels whenever they approached. Though I never felt their fear, I understood it, so whenever I saw the soldiers in the distance, I would alert my cousin Ijeoma; she would lock the doors and hide while I remained outside, letting the soldiers lift me and throw me up in the air. That environment had a tremendous effect on me. I started to fantasize about becoming a leader and a soldier, and vowed that I would work toward this, even if it took a lifetime.

Unlike many other children, I started walking by the time I was seven months old and was talking before my first birthday. According to my mother, my first word was onyeocha, meaning “white person.” She remembered me telling her that I wanted to marry a white girl, and was amused not just by my speaking, but by my fascination with white people. This enthrallment grew, and in my elementary school days I would draw pictures of white people while other children drew tigers and elephants. So deep was my fascination that my relatives believed I would one day marry a white girl.

I grew up with a lot of adult attention, which I enjoyed immensely. One evening, roasting corn with Uncle Francis, I had a terrible accident. For about a minute Uncle Francis had left me sitting on a tall, rocky stool in front of the charcoal fire that was roasting the corn, while he went inside the house. I dozed off on the stool and fell into the fire. Nobody believed that I would survive the third-degree burns, and in following the Faith Tabernacle teachings, I was never taken to a hospital. I endured the excruciating pain, a remarkable feat for a baby, and still have a scar on my chest from the fire. What I never told anyone was that I did not fall into the fire by accident. When I fell asleep on the stool, I saw some strange people in a dream who were trying to take me with them; as I struggled, they pushed me into the charcoal fire and held me there, where I lay screaming until someone found me. It might have seemed like a dream, but the hands pinning me down were all too real. I suspect that this incident was connected to my father’s involvement with the secret society.

I grew faster than most children my age, and I retained the gift of seeing supernatural things. I sometimes told other children of their future, though mainly the negative aspects. Sometimes I would tell them of the impending death of a parent, or when they were about to receive beatings from their parents or get hurt in other ways. Many times I would see the death of my friends or relatives and tell them. My predictions usually came to pass, and because of this my friends became afraid of me.

At age four, I was enrolled into elementary (primary) school. At the time, the enrollment requirement was for the middle fingertip of the right hand of the prospective pupil to be able to go across the child’s head and touch his or her left ear. This was to ascertain the age of the child in the absence of birth certificates, which many did not have during this period. The usual age for enrollment was six, but I took the test and passed. However, some of my friends, even those who were up to six years old, failed the test because their growth had been impeded due to malnutrition brought about by the war.

I was happy to be in school. At that time, I would go to class with the square piece of slate that I wrote on, as well as different colors of chalk. When I got home each day, I would take time to clean my slate. I would gather some fresh green leaves (particularly the ones called Awolowo leaves) from the bushes, mix them with charcoal and a little water, rub the paste over the slate, and leave it to dry for hours. I had a lot of fun in primary one (first grade). Between learning our ABCs and numbers, we spent a lot of time singing and playing. We were also told a lot of folktales and were taught Christian religious studies.

I was fearless—unafraid of the dark or of being alone—but that changed suddenly after a traumatic experience. One day, returning from the creek with my cousin Uchenna, our buckets of water balanced on our heads, something very unusual happened. We saw a female in black approaching us. That would have been no reason to fear, except that she was hovering above the ground, not walking, and beside her was a creature I find hard to describe. It had the head of a crocodile and four enormous, diamond-shaped eyes. Its neck was like a giraffe’s, and it seemed not to have well-defined feet but had several hands, with nails about twenty-four inches long. The creature’s abdomen seemed to change color like a chameleon. Chills ran through my body, almost paralyzing me. Uchenna and I ran home as fast as we could, abandoning our buckets where they had fallen. When we told our family about this, they said we must have seen a ghost—but I suspected, once again, that it was related to my father’s association with the secret society. From that day on, I became fearful of the dark and of being left alone.

My ordeal with ghosts persisted, and I developed a serious fear of them due to many terrible recurring nightmares. Nevertheless, I defeated these ghosts every time by using the magic words my mother had taught me to shout whenever I was in trouble: “The Blood of Jesus!” Most of my dreams were extraordinary—to borrow my father’s words, they were more like out-of-body experiences or astral traveling. These dreams usually involved me coming out of my body and floating at the speed of light through a series of scenes, while still conscious of my body lying in my bed. Sometimes, while in this state, I would be attacked by the same group of ghosts who, for some reason, wanted me dead at all costs. In each encounter, when I got tired of running from them, I would become bold and declare to them: “Do as you wish! You can cut and chop me into pieces, but it doesn’t matter because I know that I am dreaming and I will wake up in my bed.” Each time, after taunting and telling off the ghosts, I would repeat the magic phrase, “The Blood of Jesus.” The phrase never failed; it always saved me, and whenever I said it, I would wake up in my bed.
I was a very stubborn child and remained so through the years. At times I could be extremely violent and out of control. There was no moderation or compromise in anything I did; it was always my way or nothing at all. In spite of all this, I was still influenced by certain religious beliefs that my parents had inculcated in me. The Bible readings and prayers that we had at my house early each morning since my birth had a significant effect on me, causing me to rebel against certain aspects of the culture that surrounded me. At a very tender age I became a crusader, bent on destroying all the idols’ houses scattered around my village. Sometimes I would gather boys and girls my age and we would go around the village, knocking down all the wooden gods and the objects of their worship that were so common at the time—despite the fact that most of the townspeople went to church and claimed to be Christians.

In my village there was a popular goddess called Nneorji (mother of the iroko tree). The iroko is highly revered among the Igbo people, possibly because it grows to be very large, with lots of branches that provide shade. People often gather under the iroko to conduct meetings or to get respite from the heat. The iroko has a very long life span, some living more than five hundred years. When an iroko is cut down, it becomes a huge source of revenue. The timber is cut into different kinds of construction wood, and the branches are used as firewood. Traditionally, before an iroko tree is cut down, certain venerations and sacrifices are required. Some villages in Igbo land don’t cut down their iroko trees at all; instead, they worship and make sacrifices to them—animals and humans included.

The little house of the goddess Nneorji—nine by nine feet and made of mud, with a thatched roof—was built hundreds of years ago, located prominently at the entrance to the village. A carved wooden statue of Nneorji stood in the center of the hut, leaning against a wall. To the left and right were a number of smaller wooden gods, which I presumed were Nneorji’s sons, daughters, and kindred—more than twenty of them all together. Every few days the keeper of Nneorji’s house would bring sacrifices to her. I could not fathom why my village was spending so much on inanimate objects, and it reminded me of a portion of the Bible my mother used to read to us, in which it clearly stated that idol worship was very offensive to God. It also reminded me of the Bible story in which Moses, having ascended Mount Sinai, returned with the Ten Commandments only to meet the Israelites worshipping a calf that they had made out of their jewelry; in his anger, Moses smashed the slate on which the commandments had been written, and the Israelites were severely punished. I concluded that since the adults in my village weren’t brave enough to stop the idol worship, I would do it myself.
It was believed that whoever went into Nneorji’s house without going through the proper process would die. Though my friends and I bravely went to the house with the intention of destroying it, they wouldn’t dare go inside with me. I marched into the hut and knocked down all the wooden gods, including Nneorji, challenging her to fight back in order to prove she was indeed a god. Of course the figure remained silent, and I said, “I thought as much. You’re just a piece of wood.”

I returned to the house later, shocked to find the gods and goddesses standing again. I repeated my destruction several times, always returning to find the statues intact. But I was not deterred. I remained relentless in my quest to destroy every idol in my village. I gradually took the gods out of Nneorji’s house and burned them, until there was nothing left in the house.


******

As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism.

*******

You story is most remarkable. Extraordinary!

So far so good, you are doing a great job

I'm still following, hooked on to it.We share thes same surname BTW, although got mine by marriage. YOur childhood was indeed scary, wow, read somthings I don't think even as an adult I would be able to handle. Good work, please keep it coming, really enjoying it.

repogirl: I'm still following, hooked on to it. We share the same surname BTW although got mine by marriage. YOur childhood was indeed scary, wow, read somthings I don't think even as an adult I would be able to handle. Good work, please keep it coming, really enjoying it.

repogirl: your comments as always were very refreshing. I truly appreciated you vote of confidence

#9
.....


Except for a few of my friends, no one knew that I was responsible for destroying Nneorji and her family, and as far as I can tell, no harm ever came to me as a result of this. With time the people of Owerri Nkworji would become enlightened, and the wooden gods, and their houses, would disappear from the town.
Meanwhile, my clairvoyant ability grew even sharper and, though it had at first seemed like a good gift, it was rather tormenting to foresee terrible events—of which the potential victims were unaware—and mostly be unable to do anything to stop them, except for a few occasions where I was able to keep myself and my siblings from harm.
I remember one time, when I was five years old, my Aunt Mercy had just gotten married, and her husband had taken her home to his village in Nnaze to spend a few days with his family, as tradition demanded. Since Aunt Mercy did not want to be alone in this strange village, she persuaded my mother to go with her. My mother agreed, and took my siblings and I with her. Nnaze was a very small village at the time, and all the houses were made of mud with thatched roofs. My aunt’s mother-in-law lived in a small three-bedroom mud house. The first few nights, my aunt and her husband slept in one bedroom, my mother and the mother-in-law slept in another room, and my siblings and I slept in the third. Since there were no beds available, we all slept on the hard floor. On the fifth night, a huge python came into the room where my siblings and I were sleeping, and lodged itself between us. We were asleep and oblivious to the danger.
My mother, though, was able to hear the hissing of the python from her room and called out, asking what the noise was. Still deep in sleep, I responded, telling her there was a python in our room trying to swallow us. My mother hurriedly woke everybody, and they eventually killed the python. I slept through all of this and only saw the dead python when I woke up the next morning. Everyone marveled as to how I could have known about the python while still asleep, but I knew better, since I understood my powers more than anyone else. They recounted to me what had transpired that night and praised me for saving the day. They also told me that it was my mother who had struck the blow that killed the snake. This was no surprise to me: I had always known that my mother was a matador when it came to snakes, while my father would run like a little girl and jump on a table, refusing to get down until the snake was killed. I was surprised and confused by my father’s reaction to snakes; he was strong and very well respected, and most people thought of him as a daredevil. I realized that every Superman has his kryptonite.
Of course, I had my own kryptonite—though it would take many years before I could see what it was.


Chapter Two

Holidays were the best part of my schooling experience. I would always travel to Aba City, where my uncle lived. Uncle John was my mother’s elder and only brother. He was a vibrant, kind, single man and was a lot of fun to be around. Every holiday I spent with him in those days was like a Disney World experience. The two of us loved hanging out together. He had a Vespa—a fashionable motorcycle at the time—and he drove me around town. His bachelor pad of an apartment was like a dream to me, with all the modern amenities that were lacking in my village. It was always difficult returning home at the end of a vacation spent at Uncle John’s.
At the end of primary three (third grade), my parents allowed me to live with Uncle John. By this time, he had gotten married and had three children, the first of which was a few years younger than me. Within few days of being in his house, it became obvious to me that my uncle’s wife didn’t like me and didn’t want me around. She was jealous of my relationship with Uncle John, and managed to poison my uncle’s heart, turning him against me. Things changed and he began to show hatred toward me.
My uncle’s house at the time was a townhouse with a large yard and a beautiful garden. The house was located in the affluent part of the city. My uncle was a thriving architect and had about a dozen apprentices working and living in his house, of which about nine slept in the boys’ quarters while the others slept in an office on the ground floor.
One would imagine that my uncle would let me sleep in the main house with his family, or at least in the living room, but his wife convinced him to make me sleep on the bare floor of his office with strangers. Many times I complained that it wasn’t fair to let me sleep with strange adults and asked that they allow me sleep in his children’s room, or at least in the living room, which no one slept in anyway. But each time I did, he would beat me until I cried, and then he would pour pepper mixed in water on my face and lock me in a toilet for hours. This happened often because of his wife’s hatred toward me. I remember one time when I fell asleep in the living room and didn’t make my way down to my assigned sleeping place. In the middle of the night, my uncle crept up on me and violently shook me. When I didn’t wake up, he threw ice-cold water on me and flogged me with a cane, after which he forced me to go back down and sleep with the apprentices in the office. That same night, after I had fallen asleep again in the office, two of the apprentices killed a cockroach and tried to shove it into my mouth, which woke me up, startled. When I later reported the incident to my uncle, he punished me for lying, and as usual poured some peppered water on my face. This time I was briefly blinded by the pepper, and I ran into the street and got hit by a car. My injuries were serious, but not life-threatening, and the incident was never reported to my parents.
My uncle’s wife had four sisters and two brothers, and occasionally they would come to my uncle’s house, sometimes for a few hours, other times for days. The youngest of them, Okey “De Boy,” was my age. I really enjoyed having him around. He was my only friend in my uncle’s family, and whenever my uncle locked me in the toilet, he would plead on my behalf.
As time went on, my uncle’s business became even more successful. He became one of the richest men in Aba, and he bought many cars and hired more servants.
Despite my terrible ordeal living at my uncle’s house, I have a few memories that I treasure from that time, particularly of my Sunday morning walks. Every Sunday, my uncle, his wife, and my cousins would dress up in their beautiful, expensive clothes—the females in exquisitely tailored dresses with nice shoes and scarves, the boys in nicely tailored suits and lovely shoes—and drive to church in the Volkswagen and the Volvo, while I was left to walk to church alone. I would wear my short pants with a tattered shirt to church because I had no other options. I was also barefoot because my uncle and his wife didn’t think I deserved shoes. On my way to church I would stop to admire a British girl of about my age, whom I would usually find sitting on her balcony. She would look at me and smile as I passed. I would return her smile and stand there, staring at her. Finally, she would wave at me, and I would wave back before continuing on my journey.
Walking to church provided me the opportunity to take in the beauty and scenery of the city. Seen through my young eyes, Aba was very beautiful compared to my village. There were nice buildings made of glass and brick, and electricity and neon signs everywhere. Beautiful cars cruised along the streets, and there were many people in their Sunday clothes heading to their various churches.
Most important on my Sunday walks was the mechanic’s shop two blocks away from the church, which I constantly fantasized about. My naïve young mind didn’t understand that the cars in the shop belonged to other people, and that they had only brought them there to be repaired. I would stand there for a few minutes, admiring the cars and wishing that I could just go in and drive off with one of them, perhaps to show my uncle that I, too, could have a car. This delusion came to an end when my mother paid us a visit once and decided to walk to church with me. As we approached the mechanic’s shop, I stopped as usual, then started crying and refused to go any further until she bought me one of the cars. She did her best to explain the concept of mechanics’ shops. I let it go, but I was not deterred. I never gave up hope of buying my own car.
Sundays were also days of freedom for me, and I always did my best to use the opportunities they afforded me to the fullest. Most times upon my arrival in church, I would search out Okey De Boy and we would sneak out of the service and go out on the street, looking for fights and adventure. When picking fights, I tended to gravitate toward older boys, and sometimes I would even fight with a whole group. Looking back now, I think it must have been a way of releasing all the repressed anger and frustration from the constant abuse by my uncle and his wife. During these fights, De Boy would always stand aside and watch me, but whenever he saw that there were more people than I could handle alone, he would join in. At the end of every adventure, usually ten to fifteen minutes before the end of the service, we would abandon our fight and hurry back to the church, taking care to not be seen by my uncle’s or De Boy’s family.
I also had an overwhelming crush on an older girl who lived next door to my uncle’s family. Every evening I would sit on the balcony and watch her coming and going. She was always dressed to kill and had countless suitors and boyfriends who frequented her house. I never expected her to notice me or discover my crush, and she never did. She was nineteen years old and wouldn’t want to have anything to do with a child my age. She had a younger sister named Daisy, who was my age and liked me a lot, but I liked her only as a friend. Daisy and I belonged to the same neighborhood play group, and we were always paired up together. We were almost like brother and sister.
School provided yet another source of personal struggle. The main reason I had come to live with my uncle was so I could be enrolled in a reputable primary school like Santa Maria, where his children were attending. It was undoubtedly the best school in Aba at the time—not just for its excellent academic reputation, but also because of its beautiful facilities. But my uncle didn’t see fit to enroll me in the same school as his children, so I was sent to St. Michael’s Primary School, which, by all standards, was one of the worst schools in Aba. I hated it.
On several occasions I abandoned classes at St. Michael’s and went to Santa Maria just to admire its facilities and mingle with the students. Afterward, I would go in search of food, since I was never fed at home in the morning and wasn’t given lunch money like other kids. My search usually took me to the waterside, where I would follow other young boys to assist the palm wine dealers. Palm wine is a famous drink in Nigeria that comes from palm trees. It is extracted in its natural form and drunk fresh without brewing, processing, or mixing it with anything else. The palm wine sellers from the villages used bicycles to transport their wine all the way to the cities. However, just before reaching the center of town, there was a hill that always proved difficult for them to ride over, so they would hire young boys to push them up the hill for a token. I would use the few kobo coins I earned to buy lunch. I would always leave smelling like palm wine, and I would have to go to the waterside and wash myself off. I did this job almost every school day.
Once, I almost drowned at the waterside. I was washing off the wine smell as usual when some children invited me to go swimming with them, and I foolishly obliged. I didn’t know how to swim, and before long the fast-flowing river swept me off my feet. The only thing that came to mind was a wish to see my mother again. I started shouting the magic words: “The Blood of Jesus!” It was the last thing I remembered before I blacked out, and I woke up to find myself on the bank of the river. From that day on, I became afraid of water.
I needed relief from my uncle and his family, and I would beg him to allow me to spend my school vacations somewhere else, particularly with my mother’s elder sister, but he always turned me down. One particular holiday, I became dejected because, once again, I was being forced to spend a dreary vacation at my uncle’s while being made to work like a slave. But a few days into the holiday, I overheard my uncle and his driver discussing sending the driver to my aunt’s town. As the driver left, I jumped onto the back of the pickup. I hung on for many miles until the driver finally noticed me and, instead of slowing down, he accelerated. I lost my balance and fell off the truck, sustaining serious injuries. Some good Samaritans later found me on the side of the road and took me back to my uncle’s house. Instead of treating my wounds and consoling me, my uncle gave me the usual treatment. He beat me up, put pepper into my eyes, and locked me up in the toilet.
During the second term of primary four (fourth grade), I became more adventurous. I started to attend more classes and do things I couldn’t previously imagine myself doing. I became more interested in schoolwork, for a good reason: there were rumors that my school had been chosen to be featured on a National Television Authority’s children’s program in Aba City called the Children’s Variety Show. I wasn’t selected to participate—but, being a smart kid, I was able to find a way around the highly biased selection process, which tended to favor children from wealthy families.
I connived with a friend, and we both went to the television station on the scheduled day. We walked for about five miles, and when we reached the gates, we calmly told the guards that we were participants in the show, but we had arrived late at school and were left behind as a result. The guards were nice and immediately allowed us to enter. By the time we got inside, the show had already started and was broadcasting live. We joined the already seated students and, because it was a live show, nobody could do anything to stop us. I sat at the center of the group, where the camera would directly focus on me. I started waving into the camera, giving a few shout-outs to my friends and becoming a distraction to the whole event. Though I later calmed down, the damage was done. After the show, I received a lashing and caning by the presenter/teacher.
The next day, the headmistress was informed of what we did, and because she was a friend of my uncle’s, she contacted him and reported my actions. When I got home that day, my uncle flogged me and rubbed pepper all over my body, as usual, and I ended up spending the rest of the day in the toilet. Punishment notwithstanding, my TV adventure was definitely worth the trouble because I wanted all my friends to see me on television, and they did. I became bolder and more adventurous after this experience.
At some point I came to the realization that my uncle would always punish me, regardless of how I behaved, and I decided that I might as well earn the punishment. There was a train station near the house, and some days, pretending to go to school, I would get on the train and travel to Port Harcourt without paying. There, I would beg for money. Other times, I would take the train to Mbawsi, where my aunt lived with her husband and children. I loved traveling to Mbawsi because my aunt and cousins treated me well and seemed to genuinely care about me. My aunt’s youngest daughter, Mercy, was a little more than a year older than me and we got along very well. My aunt’s husband was a pastor and treated me like his son. During every visit, he would pray for me and give me money before I left their house. On the journey back to Aba, even though I had received money from strangers or my family, I would still avoid paying the fare. Whenever the conductor came to check for tickets, I would go from one coach to another. Finally, I would hide inside the train’s bathroom until the conductor was done, then return to the first coach, which he had already checked.
One day, while returning from Mbawsi, the train began to experience mechanical problems and finally broke down. The train operators couldn’t fix it on the spot and everyone was forced to sleep on the train. We were in a remote area and there was no alternative means of transportation. Around midnight, while I was asleep, some teenagers attacked me, taking all the money my aunt’s husband had given me. The next morning the train was fixed and I continued my journey home. By this time I had been declared missing in Aba and people were looking for me everywhere. When I got back to my uncle’s house, I received one of the worst beatings yet. I was peppered and locked up in the toilet for an entire day. While in the toilet, I decided that I would take revenge on my uncle and his family for all the wrong they had done to me.
I conceived of an ingenious way to carry out my revenge while reflecting on the doctrine of the Faith Tabernacle Church. I knew that my uncle was wayward in many ways, but I had to ascertain which one of our church’s revered doctrines he and his wife had violated completely. There was the doctrine prohibiting the consumption of alcohol, which he violated on a daily basis. There was also the prohibition of the use of medicine or medical treatment, which his wife also violated constantly. At about this time, my uncle’s wife had given birth to her fourth child. I rumbled through the baby ointments and found a powder she was using on the newborn baby. The label indicated that the powder contained medication. I also looked through the various brands of wines that my uncle drank, and noted that the labels on the bottles indicated the alcohol content.
Satisfied with my findings, I marched straight to the church to report these violations, taking some of the evidence with me as proof. I met with the assistant presiding elder, who....





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As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism.

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Ishilove: You story is most remarkable. Extraordinary!

So far so good, you are doing a great job

extraordinary is an understatement! my guy dey blow my mind!

Jake.....I beg no stop ooooooh!!

interesting write-up....

#10
......was the second-in-command of Faith Tabernacle Church of Nigeria. He was also one of the station pastors of Faith Tabernacle Congregation, Aba, the national headquarters in Nigeria. My hope was that my uncle and his wife would be excommunicated from the church. However, I did not get a favorable response from the pastor. It turned out that my uncle was one of the three richest men in the church, and also happened to be the architect who had designed and built the church’s national headquarters. I had completely underestimated my uncle’s influence—as well as the power of money—on the church.
The tables were turned on me, and I became the evil miscreant for reporting my uncle and his wife. Everyone was against me, and my uncle and his family increased their brutality toward me. I learned that no one, not even a pastor, could be trusted, and that there was no respite for the poor, especially not from a church in Nigeria.
Added to my troubles at Uncle John’s house was Charity, his wife’s sister, who moved in with us. She seemed to take great pleasure in beating me, and I had no one to complain to. It would be her word against mine. My uncle’s wife started a teaching job soon after she moved in, so I would often find myself alone with Charity. At such times she would beat me up, wrestle me to the floor, and rape me. Before this time I had little or no knowledge of sex. This abuse went on for a long time.
Eventually, I got to the point where I could no longer tolerate the bad treatment from my uncle, his wife, and Charity. Fortunately, around this time, my father came to visit so he could attend the Faith Tabernacle Congregation’s annual meeting, which all pastors and deacons were required to attend. By this time, Emmanuel, the man who had introduced my father to Faith Tabernacle, had passed on, and by default my father became the head of the church while retaining his position as a deacon. My father usually stayed at my uncle’s house when he visited Aba on such occasions. When I told him of all that had been happening to me, he was furious. He immediately confronted my uncle’s wife and warned her never to abuse me again. I watched the whole thing from a window, and the look on her face was priceless. She was fully aware of my father’s reputation and knew not to cross him. After my father left at the end of the three-day meeting, there was a significant improvement in the way I was treated.
After my last term in primary four, while school was on vacation, a friend of my uncle’s came to visit from London. He stayed at my uncle’s house and made a big impression on me. I liked him a lot and would run errands for him. This impressed him and made him like me more. Every evening he would tell me beautiful stories about London, after which he would play country music and we would listen together. I even saw him as a possible way of getting to England and realizing my dream of marrying a white girl someday.
My uncle’s wife naturally became jealous of the relationship I had with the London man. He was not only a friend—he was also my protector. While he was living with us, neither my uncle nor his wife was allowed to touch or maltreat me.
One evening, after our routine, the London man promised that he would take me with him to England. I was overjoyed and could neither eat nor sleep that night. I borrowed his tape player and listened to music by Jim Reeves, Dolly Parton, and Skeeter Davis all night long. The next morning, the London man informed my uncle and the rest of the family that he would be taking me along when he returned to England.
Over the next few days, I begged the London man to visit my family in Owerri Nkworji, and he, my uncle, and I traveled to the village in my uncle’s Volkswagen. We were greeted by the villagers when we arrived. My two younger brothers, James and John, were now all grown up and my mother had just had another baby boy, Andrew. My father welcomed us, ordering his maids to prepare the best traditional meal. They killed a goat for pepper soup, and prepared yam porridge, pounded yam, rice and stew, homemade peanut butter, ugba (oil bean seed), and the traditional egwusi soup with okporoko (stockfish), dried fish and nama (dried meat).
After the meal, I revealed the good news about London to my family. My father’s reaction was typical. Not one to express emotions, he didn’t respond positively or negatively. My mother laughed as though she didn’t believe it, and I tried to convince everyone that the London man was serious about taking me with him. I wondered if they knew something I did not know. After the visit, the London man, my uncle, and I traveled back to Aba.
Two weeks later, I returned from running an errand and the London man was nowhere to be found. When I asked where he was, I was told that he had gone back to London. I was angry and devastated, and could not comprehend why my trusted friend would leave me after promising to take me to England. Nobody could tell me why he had left. I felt betrayed.
My attitude got worse. I ran away from my uncle’s house and went to the motor park, where I began hustling. I helped drivers load their vehicles in exchange for a little money for food. I slept on the streets, preferring that to returning to my uncle’s house. After two weeks of hustling and sleeping on the streets, I ran into a gentleman from Owerri Nkworji. He was shocked to see me looking like a bum and asked what was happening. I explained everything, and he begged me to return to the village, but I refused because I was afraid my father would beat the living daylights out of me. When he got back to the village, he told my parents what I was doing in Aba. Anticipating this, I changed my location.
After two days at my new spot, I met my father’s stepbrother Emmanuel. Upon seeing me, he thought he had seen a ghost. He couldn’t understand why I was living on the streets and begged me to return to the village with him. I refused, so he bribed me with a lot of money, telling me to buy whatever I wanted. I was thrilled. I took the money and bought a camera first (I had always wanted one—I had an almost unnatural fascination with taking pictures), and then I bought some new clothes, a bag, and shoes. Finally, I agreed to return to my village with Emmanuel, but knowing my father’s temper, I stayed in the market, refusing to continue on to my house. Emmanuel left and told my parents that he had brought me back, but that I was too afraid to come home for fear of my father’s wrath. My mother immediately hurried to the market and brought me home with her. To my greatest surprise, my father was very delighted to see me. He embraced me and called me Enyinnaya (“my father’s friend”) and his “lion.”
I spent the rest of the holiday in my village, and it was the happiest holiday I’d had in a long time. I played with more than twenty other cousins who lived in our compound. In our free time, we would play football and go fishing in the river. Grandmother Nwanyi Burunnu didn’t approve of the fishing because she thought that something bad would happen to me. My father never approved, either, preferring that I stay at home or do some farm work. But whenever he went to the market to sell his products, I would follow my friends wherever they decided to go, including fishing.
Normally, I would return home just before my father got back from the market. These fishing expeditions usually took about eight hours, and after casting our baits, we’d run around the bush. When we got hungry, we would crack and eat nuts from the palm trees or eat wild berries. Sometimes we would lose track of time and return home late, getting in trouble and earning a good beating from my father. After this had happened a few times, whenever we thought we would be late going home, we would perform a traditional ritual that was supposed to prevent anyone from beating or saying any harsh words to us. It involved tying a knot with palm tree leaves, saying the name of the person we thought might punish us. We would say, over and over again: “I am tying your mouth so that you cannot talk to me or yell at me. I am tying your legs so that you cannot kick me. I am tying your hands so that you cannot hit, touch, or slap me with them.” For some reason, it worked like magic. Whenever we got home after doing the ritual, no one would say anything to us or beat us. Instead, there would be food waiting for us.
One of the things my father encouraged me to do was attend all church services. After everything that I went through at my uncle’s house, I thought pleasing my father was the best thing to do. Besides, I had no choice. I could either attend church services or get a good beating. Nonetheless, I would always find a way to sneak out of church during the sermon, which I found very repetitive and boring. I would go into the bush to look for fruit and to climb trees. I was truly happy in the bush, climbing fruit trees.
My father also encouraged me to set traps for rabbits and other bush animals. So, for the rest of my vacation in the village, I followed my cousins into the bush at night to set traps. We would dig holes, activate the traps, cover them with fine sand and camouflage them with dry leaves, then sprinkle dry corn and fresh cassava to bait the rabbits. We did this for many weeks, and though all of my cousins were lucky to catch some big rabbits, I never caught anything.
One day, my father’s brother gave me a bigger trap, and we set it as usual. The next morning I went to see if my trap had caught anything. Going into the bush, I saw one of my cousins come out with a big, wild cat. I was amazed at its size and thought how lucky he was to have caught such a big animal. Looking closely, I realized that the cat’s leg was caught in my trap. My cousin explained that his trap had caught the cat first, but the animal was so strong that it escaped and started to run, until my trap caught it. He removed the animal’s foot from my trap and gave the trap back to me. As I arrived home, my grandmother and parents saw the blood on the trap and started laughing at me; they knew that each time I had managed to catch an animal, it would escape by removing its foot from my trap, leaving specs of blood behind.
This time I told them what had happened with my trap and my cousin’s. My grandmother became angry. She stood up, beat her chest, took off her head scarf, and tied it around her waist, a sure sign that she was ready for war. She took off before anybody could say a word, heading straight to my cousin’s house. At my cousin’s house, they spotted my grandmother from afar and, knowing her reputation, my cousin immediately started to confess his wrongdoing to his family, admitting that the wild cat was my catch. They apologized to my grandmother and gave her the cat.
When the holiday came to an end, I did not want to return to my uncle’s house in Aba. My parents decided it was best to put me back in Owerri Nkworji Primary School, where I had been before going to Aba. However, I could not go on to the next class (grade level); I would have to repeat primary four because I had failed the final exams in Aba. I tried falsifying my results to make it look like I had passed, but my uncle’s wife, being a teacher herself, was able to put two and two together quickly and saw the forgery.
I didn’t care. Repeating a class was a small price to pay for my freedom.

Chapter Three

I was delighted to be back at school in Owerri Nkworji. Though I was repeating primary four, my cousins were now in the same class with me, and this made me happy.
One morning, the second week after school started, I woke up weak because of a nightmare. It was the usual one, with ghosts trying to kill me. As always, I knew that I was sleeping in my bed and was conscious of what was going on. In this dream I was taken to a river and all the ghosts were suspended above it. I also saw my father arguing with the ghosts. One of them, a huge, strong man, was holding me by the neck with his left hand and holding a machete in his right. My feet and arms were bound together. I saw my father yelling something at them, and I suspected he was telling them to release me, but they refused. Then I told my father not to worry, that I could handle it since I was only dreaming. I also told him that I knew what to do to get back in bed; instead, he should try to get home himself. I looked straight into the eyes of the man who was holding me and said I didn’t care what he did to me because I was only dreaming. I told him to chop me into pieces if he liked because I would surely wake up in my bed. Then I yelled, “The Blood of Jesus!” and woke up.
The next morning, my grandmother could sense the battle that I had fought in the nightmare and encouraged me not to go to school, but I went anyway. At school I started to feel chills all over my body, even though the classroom was warm. It got worse during the break period and I was unable to get out of my chair. I eventually succeeded in getting up, and went outdoors to sit on the grass and be warmed by the sun. It felt like a thousand invisible hands were raining blows on me. I fell on the ground and lost consciousness. I would later learn that somebody called my grandmother after I passed out, and she and my father came and took me home. While I was unconscious, the same huge man from my earlier dream grabbed me and carried me to the same river. This time the ghosts tied me to one of the tallest trees by the river and had five pythons wrapped around the tree to prevent me from escaping. From the tree I was able to observe their activities.
Once again, the ghosts were gathered together, hovering above the river. This time they were having some kind of ceremony. There was a stage, and in the center was a slab of rock. On the slab were my two best friends from Owerri Nkworji Primary School. The boys were tied down, and I saw the huge man lift a machete and cut off the head of one of my friends. As the head came off, the huge man lifted the body, turned it upside down, and drained my friend’s blood into a container. My other friend started to scream, pleading with them not to kill him. They told him to shut his mouth, but he wouldn’t. A light-skinned female appeared, and with her bare hands grabbed the head of my friend and plucked it from his body, then turned him upside down and drained his blood into the same container. As the blood filled the container, they started to chant, escalating into a frenzy. At that point, someone I recognized as their leader joined the group. Then they all approached the container, each holding a calabash, and proceeded to scoop blood from it to drink. I started shaking and screaming, “The Blood of Jesus!” Instantly, thunder and lightning struck the group and they all scattered in different directions.
After that, I became conscious again. The first thing I realized was that I was at home, on my bed, and as my eyes opened, my vision still blurry, I saw my mother, father, and grandmother sitting by me. I asked them what had happened, and they told me that I had been unconscious for about two days, and on the third day I had died. I had woken up just as they had started to cry. Sadly, I was told that my friends had died in their sleep the previous night. My parents thought that we had eaten something at school that killed my friends, and that I would be next to go. They were overjoyed to see me come back from the dead.
Life went on and I passed my final exams in primary four. I couldn’t wait to get back to school and start primary five (fifth grade), but at the same time, I didn’t want the holidays to end. My father’s best friend, Monday Nnabugwu, who lived in Onitsha, had come with his family to visit us in the village. They had brought their beautiful daughter, Chioma, who was a few years older than me. We were very fond of each other and liked to play together. Matter of fact, we called each other “husband” and “wife.” I told myself that if for some reason I was unable to marry a white girl, I would console myself by marrying Chioma. Better yet, I would marry more than one woman, like my grandfather—a white girl first, and then Chioma. Every day I would take her out into the bushes where I set my traps. I would climb all the fruit trees in my village and get all the best fruits for her. I walked hand in hand with her to church, and at every meal I made sure she had a portion of my food. Everyone was amazed at my total devotion to her. Whenever Chioma’s mother went to the market, she would take both of us with her, and whatever she bought for Chioma, she bought for me as well. We were like twins. At the end of the holidays I was sad to see Chioma and her family leave.
School resumed and I started primary five. Things were not going well in my family. My father was constantly fighting with his stepbrothers over land. Before my grandfather died, he had distributed his property and land among his wives and children, and because he loved my grandmother so much, he had given her and her children more land than the others—to the displeasure of his other children. They wanted the property redistributed.
Suddenly my father became sick. He lost a lot of weight, often vomited blood, and had a constant toothache, yet he wouldn’t go to the hospital because it was against the doctrine of Faith Tabernacle Congregation. Even in his poor health, my father continued to go to the market and bake his cookies. At some point, everyone started to urge him to go to the hospital, at least for a diagnosis. Even his friends and his sister who lived in Aba visited to take him to the hospital, but my father refused. He remained true to the Faith Tabernacle doctrine.
At one point he went to Aba and had twelve of his teeth surgically removed without any anesthesia or medication. When he returned home, blood was still gushing from his mouth. For about seven days he had to have cotton wool in his mouth to absorb the blood. I was devastated to see my father in that state, a shadow of his former self. For once I didn’t mind the thought of getting beaten by my father—like he had beaten me and my cousin Daniel after we had tortured and killed a chicken that belonged to someone else—if it would make him better. When the sickness got bad, his coughing also got worse, and he would cough up more blood and mucus.
This was when I realized just how much I loved my father. Strong as he was, nobody could really tell how much he suffered, but those who knew him could see the dramatic change in his body. I only admitted to myself how serious his illness was when he came home from the market one day and told us how he had been slapped by someone who had an argument with him. Unlike the father I knew, he did not fight back.
After that incident, my father got even worse. Even though he didn’t say it, he knew he was going to die. He started to teach my mother how to bake the cookies he made. He showed her all of our properties, which included farmland, and all of their boundaries. At that time he could hardly move. He no longer went to the market; all he did was lie in his bed or on his recliner.
My whole life was turned upside down. I couldn’t bear to see my father dying slowly and could no longer pray for him to live. I just wished he would die so his suffering could end. At the same time, I kept hoping that he could see me as a man and give me his last words—maybe tell me to take care of the family, give me advice that would guide me in life, but he never did. He kept talking to my mother instead.
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As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism.

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Lovly!!!!!
Please dnt stop

the story keep gettng better by the day...pls keep it coming!!!

What!
No update yet?
Abeg abeg continue

#11
....

Early one morning, we woke up to hear my mother shouting. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what had happened. I did not cry—I had shed all my tears while he was sick. According to tradition, all members of the family living in different cities—brothers, cousins, relatives of both parents—had to return to the village for the burial. Since my father was a member of Faith Tabernacle Congregation, he could not be buried in the traditional way, so he was buried in accordance with the church’s doctrine. His sister and my grandmother, who were not members of the church, had to fulfill all the traditional requirements for the burial.
My father’s funeral was not without drama. My grandmother and aunt were convinced that somebody had killed my father, that his sickness was a result of voodoo charms made by his stepbrothers. Because of this, there was some tension during the funeral as they did not allow certain people to see my father’s body before he was buried.
The other incident during the funeral was more like comic relief. There were poor people in the village who were constantly searching for funeral venues where they could get free food and drink. They would show up at funerals, not knowing who had died and not caring, and cry louder than the bereaved, some jumping up and throwing themselves to the ground. Sometimes in their feigned grief they would cry out loud, calling the wrong name of the deceased until someone corrected them. One such group was at my father’s funeral, crying my father’s name. They lay on the ground, shaking uncontrollably. The attention of the funeral guests was drawn to these people and everyone started to console them instead paying attention to the bereaved family. My father had been very popular—people came from far and near to attend his funeral—so it wasn’t strange that people confused this group of actors to be among the family of genuine guests. Eventually, the actors calmed down and took their seats, waiting patiently for the drinks and food.
There were four tents set up at my father’s funeral, marshaled according to traditional protocol. Members of Faith Tabernacle Congregation were in full attendance in the first tent at the far right corner. The choir members were dressed in their usual funeral white gowns with black hats. The prominent people who had come from afar to console the bereaved family were seated in the tent at the left corner, dressed in their traditional black funeral attire, while the bereaved family, including the children, was in the middle tent where the corpse was lying in state. Everyone in the family was dressed in black except for my mother, my siblings and me, because such tradition contravened the doctrine of our church. The friends of the family and the village women were seated in the last tent, where they clapped their hands and sang along with the choir.
The actors were spread around the tents. If food hadn’t come to them yet, they would keep crying. As soon as one of the servants responsible for food passed by, the actors would whisper, “He that cries must also eat and drink,” and then continue with their fake crying. If the food still didn’t come, they would cry louder and start heading toward the kitchen, where they would ask, in a sad tone, how long it would take for the food to be ready. They would do this until they were fed, after which they would leave the funeral area—only to return later. This scam would continue throughout the three days of the burial, with repeated performances every day.
My immediate family now consisted of my mother, who was pregnant at the time; my brothers, James and John; my only sister, Joy; and me. My brother Andrew had died a year before, on his first birthday. I was told that he had died in his sleep, but I was convinced that it was the same ghosts from my dreams who had killed him. A month after Andrew died, my mother gave birth to Joy. I was really disappointed. I had never wanted to have a sister, simply because I was afraid that she would be unable to defend herself. Besides, I hated the sister jokes that the other kids were fond of telling, so if I didn’t have a sister, I wouldn’t have to hear the jokes. Nevertheless, I grew fond of my sister with time.
After my father’s death, things became extremely difficult for my family. Luckily, my father’s male servants were still with us, selling the products that were in his warehouse. We also survived on the Daihatsu my father had bought, which my mother gave to my father’s stepbrother to use as a taxi. Unfortunately, he was cheating us out of our share of the profits from the taxi, so my mother had to sell the car. Around the same time, all four of our male servants took off, carrying with them my father’s entire stock from the warehouse. After that, we were broke.
A few months later, my mother gave birth to Joseph, a very handsome and healthy child. Though we had no money and very little food, we were still happy to have this addition to the family. We all wished that my father could have lived to see his son. One month after Joseph’s birth, my four siblings and I fell seriously ill. I started to have those nightmares again. This time the ghosts’ intention was to wipe out my entire family. My mother wouldn’t take us to the hospital, even though everyone asked her to; instead, we kept praying and fasting. Joseph eventually died from the sickness.
Months after Joseph’s death, my father’s brother Francis came to visit. He had finished attending technical school and was living in Orji Uratta in King Ewurum’s compound, working as a supervisor in my uncle’s construction company. He explained the reason for his visit: he got a revelation from God that we had to move back to my grandmother Eunice’s home in Orji Uratta because the land on which our house was built was a forbidden land—my father had no business building on it. This situation, he said, had contributed to our ongoing sickness and the death of my two brothers.
We didn’t move immediately. My mother continued to pray and fast, and we remained sick. But after a newly ordained pastor who was related to my mother came to us with a similar revelation, my mother was convinced.
We left Owerri Nkworji and traveled to Orji Uratta to live with my grandmother, Eunice Ewurum. We arrived to find that she lived in just one bedroom in her father’s compound. I couldn’t understand why the daughter of the king had only a bedroom, but I later learned that according to Igbo tradition, women didn’t inherit property.
The king had several daughters and a son, Sydney. Upon his death, the king had left most of his property to Sydney, including the palace where he had lived. However, the king had also given a lot of land to my grandmother and her children. He had divided all of his land into two portions, giving half to Sydney and the other half to my grandmother and her children. I suspected that he was thinking about the continuity of his lineage.
Obviously, the king had not thought Sydney to be a smart man. As the only son, Sydney was spoiled rotten. He had all the opportunities to be educated, but he chose not to, believing the wealth of his family would be enough to sustain him all his life. With the death of King Ewurum, Sydney was forced to become the head of his family. His wife and seven children needed him to be a man, so he became a jack-of-all-trades. He raised pigs, worked as a carpenter, raised honeybees, set up a brick factory, and got involved in every other thing one could think of. But like most jacks-of-all-trades, he was a master of none.
My uncle John, being a successful architect, took charge of the land that King Ewurum had given my grandmother and her family. Knowing that Sydney wasn’t smart, my uncle was able to manipulate him, allowing him control of all the land that belonged to the late king. Uncle John constructed several rental houses within the king’s compound, giving them to Sydney and asking him to collect rent on them and use the money to sustain his family. This was one of the things Uncle John did to garner favor with Sydney so he could continue to control the late king’s property. Nothing happened within the king’s house without my uncle’s approval. Sometimes, when Sydney was broke and wanted to sell his own land, he had to get permission from my uncle and then give him half of the proceeds after the land had been sold. The saying “a fruit does not fall far from its tree” was particularly true for Sydney’s children, especially the males. The first son was a jack-of-all-trades like his father, while the second was a mama’s boy. The third, fourth, and fifth sons were exactly like their two elder brothers. Education was not something Sydney’s boys had interest in pursuing.
Meanwhile, my grandmother continued to live in her one room with her grandchildren—ten of us, including my mother—and there was no justifiable reason for it. There were other empty rooms in the old palace. Uncle John had a room reserved for his family, even though they didn’t visit often, and even when they did, they would stay at a hotel. I was totally dissatisfied with the arrangement. I quarreled with my grandmother and even questioned Sydney as to why he couldn’t give us another room when he and his children each had a room to themselves. Sydney’s attitude toward us made it very clear that he regarded us as strangers in our great-grandfather’s home. Sometimes, when he was upset with me, he would remind me that we did not belong there and should return to Owerri Nkworji.
Living in my great-grandfather’s house without a job was not good for my mother. We had to rely on my grandmother’s income for our livelihood. The king’s palace was located on a major road, and the front of the palace was converted to shops that were rented out mostly to traders. My grandmother and my aunt Mercy shared one of the big shops. My grandmother, a professional seamstress, specialized in custom-made clothing. She was very good at it and had many clients. Aunty Mercy ran a provision shop, which she started with capital she had made selling peanuts. Their two incomes were able to support our family.
Aunty Mercy played a critical role in my life while I lived at my grandmother’s. She was the only one who understood me, and whenever I got upset, she always knew how to calm me. She kept me busy sometimes by allowing me to help out at the shop, after which she would give me soft drinks and cookies.
Aunty Mercy also had her share of problems with Sydney. She had gotten married six years after my mother, but after her wedding and the traditional period of living at the groom’s house, it become impossible to continue there, since he didn’t have a room in his name and was unemployed. So she and her husband moved back into the king’s palace, where Mercy, her husband, and their children all lived in a small room in the compound. From time to time, Sydney and his family would provoke my aunt, but her husband would be unable to say anything because he was ashamed that he lived in his wife’s family home. Unlike him, though, Aunty Mercy was a no-nonsense woman and always gave Sydney a piece of her mind.
In Orji Uratta, life remained a struggle for us. My siblings and I were enrolled in Orji Uratta Community School. It was the second term and I was in primary six (sixth grade). School was very challenging for me; I was distracted and didn’t pay much attention in class, probably because of the traumatic events that had preceded my family’s relocation to town.
However, life after school hours got better by the day. I had no one to control me, no curfew, and I could do mostly as I pleased. After school I would play outdoors for as long as I wanted. I would go into the bushes with my friends to pick fruit, and in the evening we would play soccer for as long as we felt like it. At night, I would go from one relative’s home to another until I got tired. There was only one problem: the compound had a big gate, and Sydney had a rule that everyone had to be in the compound before 9 p.m. when the gate would be locked. As far as I was concerned, Sydney’s rules did not apply to me.
Nighttime was always important to me, especially when there was a full moon. Traditionally, the full moon period was a time for folktales, and people would gather outside in small and large groups under the moon and listen to folktales. I always joined in. When I returned home at night during the full moon, I would usually find the gate locked and I would bang on it for a long time. Sometimes, someone would open the gate for me and say something that I would totally ignore, and sometimes the gate would not be opened for me at all. When this happened I would climb the wall to the roof, and then down into the yard.
The humiliation from Sydney’s family continued over time, but his children were actually very nice to me. I played and hung out with them most of the time. His wife was a kindhearted woman; sometimes she would make delicious food and give some to me. She seemed to like me a lot, but my hatred for Sydney overshadowed his wife and children’s goodwill. Whenever I got mad at Sydney, I would take it out on everyone related to him. Sometimes I would beat up his two sons, even though they were a lot older than me.
At the end of the semester, I decided that I would return to Owerri Nkworji to live with my grandmother at our old house so I could finish primary six and maybe take the entrance exams for secondary school (high school). But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She would not let me go back to the house that had already killed two of her children. We were able to reach a compromise: she would allow me to go back to Owerri Nkworji Primary School, but I would not be living in my late father’s house. Instead I was to return to our house long enough to collect my mother’s bicycle, and then go to live with an old woman who lived ten miles away from my village. I would ride the bicycle to and from school. This arrangement seemed very good at the beginning, but it didn’t last long.
I spent a month with the old woman and her crazy son, after which I decided that I’d had enough. Riding the bicycle to and from school was very hard for me. Each day I would stop at my grandmother’s home on my way back from school, and though she never said anything, I knew that deep down she wasn’t happy about me living with another person. She was glad when I decided to move in with her. I did not tell the old woman and her son that I would be going back home; I simply didn’t return to her house one day after school. The next day she came looking for me. It turned out that she liked having me around since she had no young child except for her son. I apologized to her and expressed my sincere appreciation for her hospitality, and then told her that I would not be returning to her house.
It was nice to be back in my father’s house, sleeping in my own bed and eating my grandmother’s delicious food. It was like returning to my own kingdom and I felt like a prince.
There were many unforgettable events that happened after I returned to my village. One was the climax of a prolonged, misguided adventure of some teenagers. Owerri Nkworji Girls Secondary School had both boarding house and day students. The school was fenced with a block wall. The dormitories were located in the middle of the school, and the toilets and bathrooms were built along the fence walls. The bathrooms were like mini halls; they had no demarcations or roofs and could take twenty to thirty girls at once. On the other side of the bathroom wall were farms and land belonging to the people of the village. Early in the morning, and in the evening, the girls would troop into the bathrooms, and most of the unscrupulous village boys—myself included—would sneak through the farms and bushes to watch them bathe. We made holes in the walls through which we could observe the girls without being noticed. This went on for many years, unbeknownst to either the girls or the school authorities. Our luck eventually ran out, and one unfortunate kid and his family had to pay the price for our bad behavior. The kid was one of Mr. Onwuka’s sons.
Mr. Onwuka was a very poor man and could barely feed his family of eight boys and four girls. One of his sons, Boniface, had climbed the wall to take a peek at the girls. Unfortunately, he tripped and fell over in the process, landing on the other side of the wall, in the middle of the bathroom where thirty girls were bathing. They immediately descended on him, beating him up thoroughly, after which they paraded him through the village. They ended up at his house, and after some hot exchanges between the girls and Boniface’s family, the fight escalated further, ending with the girls beating up the entire family, including both parents. After seeing what punishment Boniface and his family had gone through, no one ever dared go back to watch the girls.
Though my siblings and my mother were not with us, my grandmother and I were not all alone in my father’s compound. My grandmother had a male servant, and there was a former apprentice of my father’s who had decided to come and live in our house in order to do his business. He had brought along his youngest brother, Raphael, who was my age. The presence of these people helped fill the vacuum that existed in my siblings’ absence.
By this time I became more serious about school, having realized that it was crunch time. I had to pass out of primary six to get into secondary school. This was like the ultimate achievement, both for the students and their families. For me, getting into secondary school meant a couple of things. First, I would have accomplished more education than my parents. Second, it was my ticket to total freedom. At that time, most secondary schools in the country had boarding houses. Before taking the entrance exams, candidates had to select their preferred schools, and while most of my peers were scared and only chose schools close to home, I was eager to select schools that were far from everyone I knew so I could live in a boarding house. This would give me the freedom to do whatever I wanted without any interference from anyone. With this in mind, I studied very hard and did everything I could, including buying gifts for my teachers so they would be nice to me. I no longer avoided the headmaster as I typically would.

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Complement of am talking!!
As usual all criticism are welcome

This is absolutely great. Reminds me of Adichie's power of the pen. Weldone, Jake.

Larry-Sun:
This is absolutely great. Reminds me of Adichie's power of the pen. Weldone, Jake.

Thanks my brother..means a lot coming from you.

#12
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However, my headmaster happened to be a grumpy old man who usually took out his frustration on the innocent pupils. He loved to mete out corporal punishment for every little offense. For example, tardiness—whatever the reason—would earn a student thirty lashes of his cane. And God forbid you chose to go to the bathroom during class—that would earn you twenty lashes.
During this period, when I had started paying attention in class again and was working hard to pass my entrance exams, I came to school late one day. That morning I had felt sick and had no intention of going to school, but eventually decided to drag myself there. I had to walk a mile to get to my school, and I arrived late. I encountered the headmaster, and even though it was obvious that I was sick, he didn’t care. He took off my clothes, then rang the bell and had the entire school come out to witness the punishment he was about to give me. He combined three canes into a bunch and beat me with them. He was merciless and brutal. My cousins could not bear to watch him beat me, so they rushed to him and begged him to stop, but he didn’t. He even beat one of my cousins for trying to stop him. That was the worst beating that I had gotten from anyone other than my father. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pushed him down and ran away. My body was sore and bruised for two weeks. I did my best to avoid offending the headmaster and focused on my studies for the rest of the term.
After my final exams, I had a while to wait for the results to come out. I spent two weeks helping my grandmother tend to her farm, and after that I left for Orji Uratta to be with my mother and siblings for the rest of the holiday. The anxiety of waiting to see if I’d made it into secondary school made the holidays less enjoyable than usual; it was only a bit more bearable having the knowledge that all over the country, other primary school graduates were in the same boat. There was nothing more we could do until the results were released. We all waited in shared agony.


Chapter Four

The results finally came out—and I passed. However, for some reason the examinations council didn’t state the school that I had been admitted to. My uncle Francis decided to visit the Ministry of Education to look into the matter, and I was eventually posted to a school near my village. The reason my uncle chose this school was that it was built by another one of my uncles, Richard Ihetu. Uncle Richard, aka “Dick Tiger,” was the brother of my Aunt Comfort’s husband. Uncle Dick Tiger was the world featherweight champion from 1969 to 1971, and toward the end of his boxing career, he built a school for his hometown, Amaigbo. A few years later, he passed away due to complications from cancer, and the community named the school Dick Tiger Memorial Secondary School.
The school had a very good academic curriculum, as well as a sports program and boarding house facilities, and all my cousins were encouraged to go there. Two of my cousins were already students there when I was enrolled, so I was not alone. The female and male dormitories were separated. The boys had three dormitories, divided into houses A, B, and C. I was put in house A, the same dormitory as Cousin Ike, who was a senior student.
Living in a boarding house was not as exciting as I had thought it would be, especially because as a junior I was burdened with responsibilities that included washing seniors’ clothes, fetching their water from the stream, receiving their food from the cafeteria, and running all kinds of errands for them. Normally, everyone ate in the cafeteria. The food was prepared by the cooks, and then the juniors would take it to the dining hall, where everyone would lay their plates on a long table. Following that, the assigned students would dish out the food, usually eba (small tapioca balls, also called garri, which are dipped into soup and swallowed without chewing) and vegetable soup with various spices, fish, and meat. It was tasteless and disgusting. The assigned students usually made sure the seniors got the best part of the meals, and what little was left would be shared among the juniors. Sometimes the juniors had to go without food, because part of their responsibility was to ensure that the seniors, who might have gone out before the meal hour, had enough food reserved for them upon their return.
I once had an unpleasant experience in the dining hall with a big bully, a senior in house B, who was known to be part of an armed robbery gang in the area. Everyone was afraid of him, including the faculty and staff. On that fateful day, I was very hungry, and by the time I was done securing my school father’s food, there was none left for me. The only remaining food belonged to the bully. So I weighed my options: I could either go hungry until the next day or eat the bully’s food. It didn’t take long for me to decide. I immediately ate the food. The whole boarding house couldn’t believe that a junior would do what I did. They all knew I was about to die, and they waited in anticipation. For me, it was simple: I was fed, happy, and could care less about the consequences.
As soon as the bully returned that evening, he was told what had happened to his food. He and his gang members tore up their shirts, exposing their huge muscles, ready to beat up the junior who had dared to do this. He had been expecting that whoever ate his food would be his match, at least, not a small, skinny junior student like me. He and his gang seemed disappointed when they learned I was responsible. Still, the bully’s reputation was very important to him, so he punched me many times, lifting me up in the air and allowing me to drop like a sack of potatoes. I passed out, and someone lifted me up and took me to my bed.
Our dormitories had double-deck beds. The seniors were assigned to the bottom bunk while the juniors slept on the top bunk, which had no protection whatsoever; the top bunk was four feet above the ground. I gradually recovered from the beating and started to regain consciousness around midnight, and as I did, I felt pain all over my body. As I was rolling around in pain, I lost my balance and fell from the top bunk to the floor, where I regained full consciousness. During my fall I had inadvertently hit the senior on the bottom bunk, who was trying to get off his bunk at the same time. We both lay on the floor in severe pain for a long time, and ended up spending the rest of the night on the floor, grunting.
As far as academics were concerned, I did not adapt to the curriculum quickly. I found the subjects boring and didn’t pay too much attention in class. I started to skip classes, going out with friends, riding bicycles, and sometimes playing dangerous games. One day my head split open while my friends and I were playing with broken bottles. We were acting out gang fights using bottles as weapons. One of them threw a broken bottle at the back of my head and the sharp edge went three centimeters inside my head. I bled so much that I thought I was going to die.
As the days went by, life at school did not improve. It kept becoming more dangerous for me, and I continued to ignore the real reason I was in school in the first place. By the end of the third term I had only attended a month’s worth of classes, so it was no surprise that I didn’t pass my final exams that should have gotten me into the next class.
When school closed, I went back to Orji Uratta to spend the holidays. I told everyone that I didn’t pass my exams and wouldn’t be promoted to the next class. I also made it clear that I would not be attending that school again, since I wasn’t ready to repeat the class under any circumstances. Before the end of the holidays, my uncle obtained a fake result that said I passed my exams and a transfer certificate that got me into the next class at Amandugba Technical School, seventy kilometers from my village. One of my uncle’s friends was a senior there, and he entrusted the boy with my care.
As usual, I wasn’t into academics, though I took an interest in French class. Meanwhile, my uncle’s friend and I lived together in a rented room outside of the school. Once again, it became obvious that as his junior, I had to do all the work around his house, so I moved out of his room and into the dormitories the next term.
I found life in the dormitory a little more exciting than living in town with my uncle’s friend. I was fortunate that no school father was assigned to me, but as a junior, I still had to run errands for the senior boys. The food was just as insufficient and terrible as in my former school. Fortunately, there was a senior girl who liked me a lot and brought provisions for me. I was a shy twelve-year-old boy and was unable to look her in the face. I always avoided unnecessary contact with her and would run away whenever she wanted to hold my hand.
One of my best friends in class, Ngozi, helped make me feel at home. He would often take me to his house and his mother would make food for us. He had one of the best sports bicycles that I had ever seen. Ngozi knew everything that went on in the school as well in the community.
My school was not the best technical school in the area, but it sure was the best in producing armed robbers. Some of the senior students would attend school during the day and go on the prowl at night. While most students walked or rode bikes to school, these students were driving expensive cars. Andy was one of them. All the staff and students were aware that he had killed many people, but no one dared question or challenge him, not even the principal. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up to school for weeks or take exams, yet he got A’s in all subjects, and the principal himself treated him like he was someone special.
Those students not into armed robbery were involved in adolescent rebellious behavior such as smoking marijuana and listening to reggae music while classes were in session. It was a popular pastime in that era. Sometimes I would go into the bushes with this group and watch them smoke, but I never joined them. I had never smoked in my life and wasn’t about to start. Smoking and doing drugs was contrary to the way I was brought up. But I did form a habit of listening to reggae.
It was at this school that I became exposed to weapons and ammunition. Almost every single one of the male students possessed some type of weapon. I learned how to make a pistol, along with its ammunition. It was quite an exhilarating experience for me to own a gun. I felt powerful, like I could do anything. With that attitude, I went to my village for the second-term holidays. I gathered all my friends, showed them my weapon, and taught them how to make gunpowder. I also took them to the bushes to fire some rounds. We also attempted hunting, but never actually killed anything.
During the same holiday, I almost had a tragic encounter with my father’s stepbrother, Godfrey, whom we called “Sir”—the same stepbrother who had constantly fought with my father; the teacher who had thrown my father out into the streets when he went to live with him in order to attend school.
Sir liked to beat children. On this occasion, one of his children told Sir that I had beaten him, and without hearing my side of the story, Sir proceeded to beat me in spite of my protests. I ran toward my house at top speed. He followed me. He didn’t know I was running for my gun—which I found and fired at him. My shots missed him, but he was sufficiently stunned and left me alone from that day on. After that incident, the word got out, and everyone knew that I had a gun and I was dangerous. I received enormous respect from my peers, who envied and admired my courage.
Back in school for my third term, I continued to do as I pleased and still didn’t take my academics seriously. I bought my first motorcycle and music box. I moved out of the dormitory and moved in with another senior, Acho. He was the kindest guy I had ever met. I later found out he was an armed robber, not because he drove an expensive car—his brother was very rich—but because he failed to return home one day, and word came a week later that he had been arrested.
The community in which my school was located was also famous for witchcraft. Most times before an armed robbery, the criminals would visit local witchdoctors to seek special powers that would protect them from harm and prevent them from being caught. Most of the deaths that happened in the town were a result of people killing each other through witchcraft. Sometimes it made people go mad. Just before the end of third term, a guy went crazy and killed seven people on the street with his machete.
By the end of that term, I’d had all I could take of that school. I already knew I wouldn’t pass my finals, and returning to that school was completely out of the question. I went home to my family in Orji Uratta to enjoy my holidays.
This time, I moved out of my grandmother’s house and into a one-room apartment with my uncle Francis. It was a very difficult living arrangement because he had only one bed, which he shared with a friend of his who also lived with him. At the same time, my cousin Ike was also visiting, and so he and I would lie on a mat on the floor.
Living with Uncle Francis had its own drama, especially when it came to love. There was a young, single female customs officer who lived next door to us. She had two younger sisters living with her, and they were all beautiful. One of the sisters was a senior in a secondary school and the other was a junior, and both were flirtatious. The younger sisters were in love with me and enjoyed being around me. Ike, who had always been jealous of me, didn’t like this, so he spread a rumor about me. This caused the girls to stop spending time with me and befriend Ike instead. Even the customs officer grew to like Ike and would invite him to her house. It didn’t matter to me that the younger sisters no longer liked me. In reality, I had a big crush on their elder sister, but she was way out of my league. Every day I would see her with a different man; almost all the rich guys in town must have dated her at some point. There was always drama in her house because she could hardly coordinate her timing with all these men.
Sometimes the men would accidentally run into each other and fistfights would occur. I would usually sit by her window, eavesdropping in a hidden location. Once, she had a heated argument with a young man who threatened to kill himself if she did not stop seeing other men. She didn’t take him seriously, and he responded by swallowing some Valium, right there in front of her. The customs officer panicked and called her sisters into the room. They all thought the man was dead and didn’t know what to do. The sisters, oblivious to my presence outside their window, began discussing what to do with the body. The youngest sister started to cry, accidentally spilling her glass of water on the man’s body. Suddenly, to everyone’s great relief, he woke up.
That same holiday, I found another interesting hobby. James (Sydney’s son), Jonathan (another relative of mine), and I started to write songs and create music. James was just like his father—crafty and naturally gifted. He never formally learned carpentry, but could build anything with wood. At a young age he was building objects such as guitars—including one we used in our band—and selling them. Jonathan, on the other hand, was like a Casanova: articulate and very good with people. He was so persuasive that he could easily convince people to do things they wouldn’t normally do. In spite of his good qualities, Jonathan was a kleptomaniac. He couldn’t seem to keep himself from stealing. His biggest victim was his father. Jonathan constantly stole from his father’s business, and once, even stole his entire savings. His father threatened to kill himself if Jonathan did not give the money back, but he never did return it.
Jonathan became the vocalist in our group because of his great voice; James was the guitarist, and I wrote the lyrics. We spent most evenings practicing our music and writing songs, and one of them became popular among our peers. I still remember the lyrics:

I was caught making love with another man’s wife
I was caught making love with another man’s wife.
That was yesterday, when I came across a pretty woman at the beach side…
Then she tells me, saying, “Boy, I love you and I love your style…”
And then she took me home and we were making love when her husband broke in…
I was caught making love with another man’s wife
I was caught making love with another man’s wife….

Though my holiday was exciting and full of adventure, there was always an elephant in the room—I didn’t do well in the promotion exams and wouldn’t be going on to the next grade. I had no intention of returning to the technical school, so Uncle Francis came to my rescue once again and completed arrangements to transfer me to Imerienwe Comprehensive Secondary School, where I would start the next grade. I suspected that he forged a report card for me, and maybe purchased a transfer certificate from my previous school in order to get me to this new school. I loved him very much for his ability to get things done for me.
Imerienwe Comprehensive Secondary School did not have a dormitory, so Uncle Francis arranged for me to stay with one of the teachers. The teacher lived with his wife in a bungalow that had one bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen. After enrollment at the school, Uncle Francis dropped me off at the teacher’s house and gave him a large sum of money for my upkeep. That night, the teacher and I bought some gifts and took them to the principal’s house. I guessed the teacher needed to do this as a bribe for enrolling me into the school. At the principal’s house, I met him and his family. The principal had four beautiful girls and two boys in my age group, and we formed a connection right away.
As usual, I wasn’t focused at school. I found a new passion: country music. I bought a tape player and lots of tapes by country singers like Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Don Williams, Jim Reeves, and Skeeter Davis. I spent so much time listening to this genre of music, especially Dolly Parton—I just fell in love with her.
Fortunately for me, the principal’s children had the same passion for country music. I often skipped classes to go to their house and listen to music, sometimes staying until very late at night. I had a wonderful time with the principal’s children. I really felt at home with them. I suspected that the reason they liked me so much was that one of the older daughters had dated a relative of mine, Robert, who lived in Aba with my uncle. She must have been aware that my uncle was one of the richest men in Aba.
Meanwhile, the living arrangement with the teacher wasn’t working out so well. He turned out to be a stingy old man. He made me sleep in his kitchen, which was small and had no bed, and I would wake up every morning with aches in my body. And as if that weren’t enough, he and his wife refused to feed me, even though Uncle Francis had already paid for my room and board. I swore not to allow them to get away with treating me this way. At night, while everyone was sleeping, I would get up and help myself to some food. I would eat all the meat in the soup. Unfortunately, the food wasn’t refrigerated and would turn sour by morning, after I had run my fingers through it at night. They got smarter and started to lock the food in their bedroom.

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As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism.

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great...gosh..i love the power of ur pen...

fiolaP: great...gosh..i love the power of ur pen...

fiola: thanks! this is just the beginning ..stay with me for the ride and enjoy a 200,000 words of pure adventure/misery traversing several continents.

#13
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By that point, I didn’t care too much anymore. I was spending less time at the teacher’s house and more time at the principal’s house. The principal and his wife liked me a lot, and even allowed me to sleep in their children’s room. The teacher was infuriated by my relationship with the principal’s family, but he dared not say anything or challenge me because of my close tie to the principal. He was even angrier not to be receiving money for my care. When I told Uncle Francis what was going on, he stopped paying the teacher and gave my money directly to me.
During this period my ambition to travel out of Nigeria was rekindled. I started to read books about different countries in the world. I also carried a map with me wherever I went, looking it every day to remind myself of where I wanted to be. But since I didn’t have the resources to travel, I buried myself in books instead. I read every novel that I could lay my hands on, from James Hadley Chase to Pacesetters. These were so much more than just novels to me—I became a character in these books. I felt transported from my environment into the world of the book, leaving behind all the sadness, tragedy, and suffering that seemed to surround me while embracing the glamorous, more civilized, progressive, and futuristic environments that existed in the novels. I became less interested in everything else, including food, and instead wrapped myself up in my reading. On average, I read one book a day.
One of the books talked about a famous West African kingdom—Mali Empire—which had a very powerful king called Sundiata Keita. I knew immediately after reading this book that I had to explore West Africa before moving on to Europe. Other series that I read talked about the European countries, and I was most fascinated by the story of the Spaniards, their culture and their way of life, especially the Flamenco music and the Gypsy culture. I decided that Spain would be my starting point whenever I was ready to explore Europe. I highlighted the different countries that I would travel to on my handy map.
At some point while I was busy reading, Uncle Francis decided to go into politics—a very dangerous venture in Nigeria at the time—to the disapproval of many people. My mother tried to dissuade him, saying that it was against our religion, but he wouldn’t listen. Uncle Francis was a very charismatic man. He was also considered handsome and was one of the tallest people in town at about six feet four inches. He was very articulate and would often play the role of master of ceremonies at events. He had an aura that commanded respect, and people liked to be associated with him. It wasn’t surprising that his peers talked him into joining the world of politics.
Within a short time of becoming a politician, his popularity exploded. He became well-known not just within the state, but at the national level. He joined a new party founded by billionaire Tunji Braithwaite. Tunji was the presidential candidate for the party, and Uncle Francis was responsible for setting up offices and coordinating the party’s activities in the eastern part of Nigeria. Tunji subsequently persuaded Uncle Francis to run for the senatorial seat in the Orlu Zone.
Uncle Francis’s campaign started smoothly, and all the people in Orlu Zone were taken with him because of his youth, good humor, and charisma. But because of the nature of politics in Nigeria, he sometimes felt that his life was in great danger. Though he attended church regularly, he decided to see a witch doctor. He wanted to make himself invisible to protect against any political enemies who might try to kill him.
One weekend, I left school to spend time with Uncle Francis, and he seemed rather nervous and jumpy. He was rattled by every little noise. Before we went to bed, he would ask us to lock the doors, double-checking them each time. He said that his concern was for us, not for himself, because he had been assured by the witch doctor that he could not be killed by a human being.
Two days before the elections, Uncle Francis was summoned to Lagos by Tunji Braithwaite to collect some money, or so I believed. Unbeknownst to the family, Uncle Francis had his own car and driver. On this occasion the party didn’t have enough funds to pay for his flight, so Uncle Francis had his driver take him to Aunt Comfort in Aba and she lent him enough money to get a plane ticket. He proceeded to Port Harcourt to catch a Lagos-bound flight. That was the last time anyone would see my Uncle Francis alive.
On the day of the elections, no one saw him. My whole family went out to vote for him anyway. I wasn’t of voting age, but I cast about ten votes for him, and so did everyone I knew. He was running neck and neck in the exit polls with his opponent, a billionaire called Arthur Nzeribe. We became very worried when we didn’t hear from him that day. Rumors began to spread, but we could not get any confirmed news. One of the rumors had it that my uncle had been shot in Onitsha. Tired of the suspense, I decided to hitchhike there without telling anyone.
When I got to Onitsha, I went straight to the general hospital to inquire about accident victims from two days before. I was given a description that fit my uncle. They said that he had been shot in the back of the head on his way to the bus station to catch a bus to Lagos.
It felt like my life had ended.
Since I didn’t have any money to return home, I decided to go nearby to my father’s friend Chioma. I explained the tragedy to Chioma’s family, and they were all saddened by the news. Chioma’s father gave me enough money to get back to my village. By the time I returned to Owerri Nkworji, my family had already confirmed that Uncle Francis was indeed dead. My grandmother refused to cry, saying that she had already lost more children than any one person could endure, having buried ten of her twelve children. Just four years before, she had lost one of her two remaining daughters, Adaoha, and now her youngest son had been shot dead in cold blood.
Uncle Francis’s death was a loss not only to my family, but also to everyone in Orlu Zone. The newspapers and radio programs talked about the tragedy, and the police never did find conclusive evidence about the circumstances surrounding his death. The mystery remained as to why, after purchasing his plane ticket and having a chauffeur to drive him to the airport, he would turn around and travel two hundred kilometers in the opposite direction to catch a bus to Lagos. It made no sense at all. Rumors began circulating about his death. One was that he was going to win the election and that the opposing candidate, Arthur Nzeribe, had hired people to eliminate him. The other was that his driver was part of an armed robbery gang and had convinced my uncle not to go by plane, but instead had driven to Onitsha, where Uncle Francis got shot by the driver’s gang. We didn’t know what to believe, but the fact remained that he was dead, and the voodoo did not protect him from the bullet that had killed him. The driver kept the vehicle he had used to drive Uncle Francis around, claiming that it belonged to him and that my uncle had only been renting it.
After my uncle was buried, I went back to school for my exams, but I was very distracted. Life had become meaningless, like I had no future. Uncle Francis had meant everything to me, and he had planned to take me to Belgium after the election. I didn’t know what would become of me without him. Somehow I was able to pass my exams, which meant that I would be promoted to the next grade the following term, but I didn’t plan on returning to that school. It reminded me too much of Uncle Francis.
I went to visit my Aunt Mercy, who had since moved from Orji Uratta to Nnaze with her husband and children. I supposed her husband, Emmanuel, had grown tired of the embarrassment from Sydney and his family, and decided to move back to his hometown. Their house was a brand-new one-story building, one of the most beautiful in Nnaze at the time. While I stayed with them, I worried about what I would do next—how I would continue my education and pay my fees. I felt sad and very lonely.
One day Emmanuel suggested I remain with them and attend secondary school there, saying that they would pay my school fees. I gladly accepted the offer. As usual, something extra was required for me to be admitted, so Uncle Emmanuel and I bought gifts for the principal, who accepted them and welcomed me into my new school.
Nnaze Community Secondary School was the most boring school I had ever attended. My class was the most senior class because the school was still new. As usual, I was unable to concentrate in class. I was still devastated by the death of my uncle Francis. Although I’d had minor nervous breakdowns in the past due to all the deaths in my family and all the experiences I had lived through, nothing had affected me like Uncle Francis’s death.
Living at my aunt’s house became very uncomfortable for me. I loved Aunt Mercy and Emmanuel; they were both very kind to me. I had always known them to be a loving couple and had aspired to be like them when I grew up. But the loving relationship I had been familiar with was no longer a reality. Emmanuel had found a new religion as a Jehovah’s Witness. In the past he had always argued about what he saw as inconsistencies in the Faith Tabernacle doctrines, so it was no surprise to me that his faith eventually waxed cold and he left the church. However, switching churches did not make him a better man; instead, he became a cheater and a wife beater.
It was devastating for me to see my aunt with a battered face, constantly crying. Sometimes Emmanuel would beat her so hard that other church members would rescue her and keep her in their house for days. The circumstances were such that I could not take revenge on behalf of my aunt, which was very unlike me. I liked her husband a lot because he had always treated me very well, so I was faced with a terrible dilemma. I couldn’t get him to stop beating my aunt, and I couldn’t convince her to leave him and return to Orji Uratta, where she still had her shop and her family. She would not abandon her children.
I couldn’t see a way out. I decided that I would rather leave than stay with them and be tortured by my aunt’s predicament. I moved back to Orji Uratta and commuted to my new school every day from there. Somehow I’d have to make things work.

Chapter Five

Moving back to Orji Uratta presented a unique set of challenges. Not only did I have to wake up early every morning to catch a taxi to get to school in Nnaze on time, but I also had to have money to cover my transportation for the rest of the term, and I had no job. My mother and grandmother could not afford to pay my taxi fare every day.
Eventually, I found a solution. My uncle John had started building a house in Orji Uratta more than ten years ago, and though it was completed, no one had moved into it. From time to time my uncle would come up with excuses as to why the house wasn’t ready to be occupied, claiming he needed to make more changes to bring it up to standard. He would tear up the ceiling and redo it in a different style one day, and then replace the roof the next.
People began to suspect that he was in a secret society, as was typical of many rich people in Nigeria. In every secret society, members were required to sacrifice something, sometimes a son or daughter, in return for which they would be rewarded with riches. When a member was without a child, or refused to sacrifice his child, the member was allowed to pledge his or her own life and would choose a specified number of years to live. Members could also choose a tentative period or event that would precede their death—for instance, constructing and moving into a house. So it was rumored that whenever Uncle John’s house was finally completed, he would die.
I saw an opportunity in my uncle’s inability—or refusal—to complete his building. Vandals would often go to the house and steal louvers from the windows, and I began thinking: Why allow strangers to benefit from my uncle’s stupidity? I started taking some of the louvers myself and selling them on the black market to pay for my daily transportation to school. I did this until it became difficult to smuggle the louvers out to sell.
Luckily for me, right about the same time I stopped selling the louvers, another opportunity presented itself. There was a large warehouse by my grandmother’s house in Orji Uratta. Recently, the Nigerian government had brought into the country a huge consignment of foreign rice, part of which was destined to be stored in this warehouse. When the trucks started bringing the rice to store at the warehouse, it created employment opportunities for many young people, including me, for several weeks. We would get paid to offload the rice from the trucks into the warehouse. Despite the pay we were getting for our services, some of the guys were also stealing the rice and selling it to villagers. At first I did not join in; I simply did my job and, when permitted by the supervisors, collected the spilt rice from the floor and took it home. But one day, one of the guys I worked with told me he had a way of stealing bags of rice from the warehouse in the middle of the night with little risk. He said all he needed from me was a place to store the rice. At first I told him I didn’t want anything to do with his scheme, but later when he told me how much money I could make, I had a change of heart.
I took him to my uncle’s unfinished house. I showed him the room where I had stored the stolen louvers before selling them, and told him we could store the rice there. The first night he conducted the operation all by himself, but he was only able to take one bag of rice. The next day he convinced me to go with him, explaining that I wouldn’t have to go inside the warehouse with him—all I’d have to do was climb over the outside wall and into the compound, and when he dropped the bag of rice through the window, I’d pick it up and throw it over the wall.
That night we started the operation at 11 p.m., and by 1 a.m. we had smuggled more than five bags of rice out. I started telling him that we needed to leave because we had taken enough, but he ignored me. I started to shout at him, but he paid me no attention and kept taking out more bags of rice. At 2 a.m., fed up and ready to abandon him, I saw two security guards suddenly appear from nowhere, brandishing shotguns. They saw me and started shouting at me to freeze. But that was one command that I would not obey. I thought of the shame and public humiliation that would come upon my family, as well as the possible incarceration, and I ran. Not even a shotgun could have stopped me as I flew over the wall with lightning speed. They fired some shots at me, but I was unscathed as I landed on the other side of the wall. I ran straight home and jumped into bed.
I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I wondered if they had caught the other guy and he had exposed me as his accomplice. I made up my mind that if that happened, I would deny it and claim that I had been in bed all night. I would have an alibi when my neighbors saw me in the morning.
I needn’t have worried. The next morning, the guy showed up at my house, saying that he had hidden himself in the roof of the warehouse and the security guards had been unable to find him. When they had given up searching for him, he had entered the warehouse and buried himself under a pile of rice until daybreak. As the workers started going into the warehouse, he emerged and blended in with them, resuming work as usual.
Later that morning, we went to the room where I had stored the rice. As we sat there discussing how to move it, Sydney suddenly appeared. As soon as I saw him approaching, I shut the door to the room containing the rice, and we immediately intercepted Sydney at the outer room. I thought we were busted, and that maybe everyone knew we were the robbers at the warehouse last night. Why else would Sydney be at the house at this time unless he had seen something that had prompted him to sneak up on us?
I was completely wrong, though. That morning Sydney was just being his nosy self. Greatly relieved, I indulged him, introducing my accomplice as a friend, and we sat talking about random matters for more than half an hour, after which Sydney finally left.
That afternoon, we were able to move the bags of rice in a taxi to my accomplice’s house. The next day he sold all the rice, and when I went to his house to get my half of the money, as we had agreed, he became belligerent. He said that he had done all the work and taken all the risks, pointing out that I had abandoned him. He concluded that the only thing I did was provide storage for the rice, and therefore I did not deserve to get any money from him. I became furious and felt


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As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism. grin

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Wow this is fantastic. I wonder if this is a true life story

chinedumo: Wow this is fantastic. I wonder if this is a true life story

chinedum: absolutely! its actually a memoir coming out in both paper back and hardcover in July. hang tight and I will take you through the journey as this is just the beginning.

My only requirement is that readers opine (positive and negative welcome) after each read.

#14
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cheated, but there was nothing I could do. He was a hardened criminal and I could not challenge him. I counted my losses and went home empty-handed.
The next day, the hustle and bustle at the warehouse continued. That afternoon, a Hausa man came to our house with a bag of rice. He claimed he had just bought the rice from the warehouse and needed a safe place to keep it so he could go back and buy some more. When he approached me, I told him I had no place to put it. But unbeknownst to me, he was able to convince Sydney’s wife to keep the rice for him.
That evening I came back to the house and went to visit James, Sydney’s son, in his room. I opened the door and found that there was nobody in the room. I was turning to leave when I heard noises in the ceiling. I found a chair and propped myself up, removed a piece of the ceiling, and looked inside. There in the ceiling was James, dragging a bag of rice. Apparently, he had taken the rice from the adjacent room and was smuggling it into his room. When he saw me, he was speechless. I asked him what he was doing with the rice, and he explained that someone had stolen it from the warehouse and stored it in one of the rooms, and he was trying to steal the rice from the person. He promised to share the rice with me if I kept my mouth shut. I consented.
Later that evening the Hausa man returned to collect his rice from James’s mother, but the rice was gone. The Hausa man went mad; he screamed and cursed until people started to gather in the compound. Everyone was questioned, but no one admitted to taking the rice. James’s mother was visibly upset, and my mother and grandmother were astonished at how something like this could happen in a God-fearing family like ours. Everyone rained curses on the perpetrator, and the Hausa man vowed that when he returned to his hometown he would use witchcraft to render the thief useless. The whole family appealed to the man, telling him to calm down, but he would not listen. He was told to return the next day and leave us to discuss the matter as a family.
When he left, we had a family meeting and everybody was asked to come clean. We were told that the theft was a grievous act, and if the thief did not come clean, he or she would be cursed for life. But my heart was hardened and James was not budging, either. My rationale was that I had not actually stolen the rice; I was merely a witness, and whatever curse would be placed on the perpetrator would be on James, not me.
The next day the Hausa man returned. It had been determined the previous night that the family would pay him the value of rice, so Sydney gave him cash. The man thanked us and left, still vowing to carry out his witchcraft threat as soon as he returned to his hometown. He must have concluded that the thief was an outsider, and thought he would be helping us by cursing him or her, especially since we had taken the trouble to pay him for the rice.
As years went by, the mystery of the rice was not forgotten—it kept popping up from time to time. I never said a word about who stole the rice, but I wished I had confessed the day it had happened because after James sold the rice, he did not keep his side of the bargain. Also, to my shock and dismay, James gave a confession several years later that wasn’t completely true: he told the family that he and I had conceived of the plan together and stolen the rice. I was furious with him. My whole family believed that I had been in on the plan, and my mother and grandmother were very disappointed in me, not only for the theft, but also for not confessing when given the chance. As hard as I tried, I could not convince them that I had merely witnessed the theft and had never benefited from it; my grandmother died believing James’s accusation, and I would never get over that. My only consolation was that God knew the truth.
Meanwhile, it was our last term in school, and teachers were going on strike across the country. Toward the end of the term, some teachers returned to school, and my class was one of the few that had a teacher. A few students returned as well. On the day of our exams, less than five people showed up. I took all of my exams and, for the first time in my life, I was number one in my class. No one could believe it. The truth wasn’t that I was smart or happened to do well on the tests; my average was still very low. I was number one because, in some cases, I was the only one taking the exams.
During the holiday, I stayed at my Aunt Comfort’s house in Aba. Aunt Comfort was one of my favorite aunts. She was close to my father and loved him very much—love that I believe she transferred to me after my father’s death. She took care of me like I was her own son; whatever she bought for Ike, she would buy for me. She was a very good mother to all of her children. Her daughters, Lois and Joy, took after their mother and treated me like their own brother. Ike was Aunt Comfort’s only son, and though I liked him a lot, he was always jealous of me and wanted to harm me.
Aunt Comfort had several shops in the market, staffed with salespeople. She sold mostly bar soap, which she bought in bulk and distributed to her shops. While I stayed with her, I helped with her business. The two of us would go to the soap factory, load up large boxes of bar soap, and take them to her shops. As I got deeper into the business, I realized that the manufacturers were exploiting my aunt. They didn’t have many customers and Aunt Comfort bought eighty percent of their products. Her profit margin was very small compared with that of the manufacturers. While she was barely making enough, the soap manufacturers were rolling in money, buying new cars and building houses while my aunt still lived in two rooms with her family and didn’t even own a bicycle. I planned my revenge.
One of the soap manufacturers had come to know and trust me. Sometimes, when we placed our order, Aunt Comfort would send me to get the delivery, and if the manufacturers weren’t done making the soap, I’d wait until the order was completed. The owner would sometimes ask me to help the soap cutters to cut the soap and package it, after which I’d collect the boxes that were to go to Aunt Comfort. When I had the chance, I would often add five to ten extra boxes of soap to Aunt Comfort’s order, and because the workers trusted me, they wouldn’t recount the boxes before loading them into the trucks. I’d drop off most of the boxes at my aunt’s shop, saving two or three of them to sell to a woman in town. The woman understood that the soap was stolen, but she encouraged me to continue. I was never caught. I believed I wasn’t doing anything wrong, since I felt my aunt was being exploited by the soap manufacturers. I was only paying them back in their own coin.
Aunt Comfort was impressed by my helping hand during the holidays, and encouraged me to live with her permanently and attend school in Aba. Fortunately, one of the school administrators lived in the same building as my aunt and agreed to enroll me into the next grade. As soon as the next academic year started, I was transferred from Nnaze Community Secondary School to Eziama High School Aba.
Fortunately for me, Eziama High School had a boarding house, so I lived there. Class four (eleventh grade) was exciting and I made a lot of friends. I soon realized that most of them were just like me—uninterested in academics. We spent time having fun and engaging in gang activities, not paying much attention to classes. When we did, it was for the wrong reason. Many of our teachers were young women and we’d spend most of our time admiring them. As it was a boys’ school, it was a bit distracting to have young female teachers wearing short skirts and other provocative attire. Sometimes a teacher would sit in front of the class, and we would attempt to peek between her legs.
Most secondary schools in Nigeria had sporting events, called inter-house sports competitions, every year. The school would group all the students into different houses that would compete against each other. At the end of the competition, trophies would be awarded to the houses that excelled. The event usually ended with students throwing parties all around town, which would involve drinking and dancing. The competitions were a great opportunity for male and female students to interact and start relationships that could lead to one-night stands or something potentially more meaningful. I was the king of inter-house sports competition.
By this time my Uncle John had moved to another affluent part of the city, which happened to be a mile away from my school, making it easier to visit him. My relationship with Uncle John had greatly improved by then. Next to his compound was Aba police commissioner’s house. Coincidentally, the commissioner’s son, Ikojeh, was my best friend and my classmate. He always encouraged me to visit my uncle often so we could meet.
Uncle John had grown exceedingly rich, and equally stupid. He owned a lot of property in Aba and his construction business was booming. He had many employees and servants. His children attended the best schools in the country, and his wife continued to teach. My uncle exploited the very poor and most venerable around him. Although he helped a lot of these poor families by sending their daughters to school, paying their school fees, and giving money to their parents, he took advantage of their circumstances and sexually exploited the girls he purported to be helping. I’m not sure whether the girls’ parents were aware of this, but it didn’t matter because they were poor and helpless, and couldn’t challenge him even if they knew. What shocked me the most was that Uncle John attempted to do the same to even his closest female relatives. On several occasions when my cousins Lois and Joy spent the holidays at his house, he tried to force himself on them.
He also took advantage of my mother—in a different way. Pretending to help her, Uncle John moved her from Orji Uratta to Aba. My mother had no choice, so she left the rest of the family and moved—not to enjoy the wealth and beautiful life her brother and his family were enjoying, but to farm on the forty acres of land Uncle John had purchased in a remote village outside of the city. On weekdays my mother would spend her time on the farm in a small hut with no electricity, kitchen, or toilet. Her job consisted mainly of organizing the laborers to till the ground and plant the crops, and sometimes she worked with them. She would spend months there during the planting season, after which she would return to Orji Uratta to do the same thing at harvest time. She did this for many years without receiving any pay for her efforts; she was willing to sacrifice her own well-being in order to please my uncle, and he continued to exploit my mother’s kindness. While she worked on his farm, my mother would stay at his house in Aba on weekends, and I would leave school just to spend some time with her.
I was keeping busy with all sorts of activities in Aba, and I indulged in many bad hobbies, one of which was visiting prostitutes. It would be an understatement to say that I was very promiscuous. A while back, some boys from my village, who had returned from Lagos, recounted to me some of their wild adventures with prostitutes there. At first, I thought that their stories were too fantastic to be true, but at the same time I was very curious. The closest thing I’d had to a sexual relationship was the molestation I suffered at the hands of my uncle’s wife’s sister, Charity, and I wanted so much to experiment like other boys. When it came to girls, I was always very shy and was never able to have any close contact with them at my previous schools. All my friends in the village would laugh at me back then, especially when we had our masturbation competitions and everyone was able to ejaculate except me. There was a boy called Sebastian, a servant of my grandmother Nwanyi Burunnu, who could jerk himself off in a second, and he did so at every opportunity he had.
Once, before coming to Aba, I had visited a small city called Orlu in order to practice with a prostitute. I was very nervous when I entered the brothel. A girl immediately grabbed me and pulled me into her room. My hands shook as I followed the instructions from my Lagos friends and gave her the one naira fee. She took off my pants and examined my groin area for infection. Satisfied, she took off her underwear, leaving her blouse on. I later realized that if I wanted her blouse off, I would have to pay extra. She motioned to me to lie on top of her, and thus began my first real sexual experience. I jumped on her like an angry lion, and as I moved up and down, something powerful exploded from my body, traveling all the way through my lungs and eventually exiting through my penis. Since I had never experienced ejaculation before, I didn’t realize what was happening to me. I was shaking and confused, thinking I was going to die. I jumped off the lady, pulled up my pants, and ran as fast as I could.
In Aba, I tried it again—and it became a hobby. The city had many brothels, and once in a while I would pay a visit. By this time I was sleeping with prostitutes not because I couldn’t find a girlfriend, but because it had become an ugly obsession. It was so easy—there were no feelings involved, no emotional attachments, no strings attached. All I had to do was walk in and pick the girl I wanted. She wouldn’t care about my age; she was simply after the money. I would have sex, wash up, and leave. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one doing this—all the guys my age at school did the same thing. Most of the criminal gangs were involved with the prostitutes, acting as their pimps.
Most brothels had a huge bar where alcohol flowed and music played all night. There were slot machines and mini casinos for those interested in gambling. The brothels also served as a meeting point for the wayward and misguided of every big city in Nigeria. What made this habit hard for me to break was that I had two female prostitute friends whom I did not have to pay for sex because they liked me so much. One of them, a Cameroonian, was also a businesswoman who frequently visited Aba to buy her products. Whenever she was in town, I would spend time with her, after her regular schedule for paying clients. She would occasionally buy me gifts.
My other prostitute friend was an older lady who lived in a brothel called Hollywood Hotel in Aba. I didn’t know her name. She knew mine as “John.” She liked me a lot—or at least that’s what I thought at the time. She eventually became pregnant and I was too naïve to ask her who was responsible for it. It hadn’t occurred to me that the child was mine. It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized she was sleeping with me because she wanted a child—that she had merely exploited my youth. I swore to make every attempt to find her so I could locate this possible child of mine. I promised myself I’d put a missing person announcement in the newspaper, and maybe even go on television someday, with a picture of myself when I was young, hoping that this child, when he or she saw the resemblance, might come to the same conclusion I had and would come looking for me.
Going to the brothels was not without its dramas. One weekend, so bored that even looking at my map and indulging in my daydream of going to Europe couldn’t satisfy me, I decided to try a new brothel in a different part of town. I spotted a very beautiful woman, and after we haggled for a while, we proceeded to her room. The normal examination for infection followed, and then we took off our clothes. Her vagina was unusually tight, and in the process of forcing myself in, I lacerated my penis. Blood gushed as I pulled out, and the prostitute started yelling that I had given her an infection. This had never happened to me before, and I was really terrified—not because of the wound, but because she wouldn’t shut up. I was afraid that people would gather…and the police would get involved, and my family would know about my escapades, which would be highly embarrassing and shameful for everyone. I took out all the money from my pockets and offered it to the woman, begging her to stop shouting. Her room was on the second floor, and she ran out, flying down the stairs to get the manager. I had only two options: flee or stay and face the manager, whatever the consequences. However, the only way out was through the door, down the stairs, and into the street, and at that point it seemed absolutely impossible to get out that way without being noticed by the crowd that had started to gather downstairs. I decided to flee, yet I wasn’t willing to let go of the money I had paid the woman. I looked around her room and saw a brand-new stereo plugged into the wall. I grabbed it, went straight to the window, opened it, and looked two floors down. On the ground there was a mattress lying on top of a septic tank. Without thinking twice, I jumped out the window with the stereo.
I landed on the mattress, but the septic tank caved in and I fell through into a pile of feces. When I realized I was still conscious, I knew there was no time to wait. Not caring if I was hurt, I pulled myself out of the tank, heart was pumping and adrenaline running high, and did my best to wipe myself with clothes that were drying on a nearby clothesline. I zigzagged at lightning speed through the narrow streets, still clutching the stereo, constantly looking behind me. When it was clear I wasn’t being followed, I started to walk again. I had taken a huge risk by escaping, and it was critical to stay calm and act normal because jungle justice was very common in Aba during this period. Criminals, and sometimes even innocent people, had been lynched and burned alive on suspicion of robbery. If anyone had seen me running with a stereo, clothes full of feces, they would have concluded that I was a thief and immediately burn me. I walked down the road and stopped a taxi, giving the driver directions to Okey De Boy’s house.
It was a miracle that the taxi driver took me in his cab the way I smelled. He drove me directly to Okey’s house, no questions asked. I asked him to wait while I went inside. Luckily, when I got there, no one was home except Okey. I told him what had happened, and asked him to keep the stereo for me and lend me some money. I paid the taxi driver and had him drop me two streets away from Aunt Comfort’s house. I snuck in through the backyard, avoiding stepping close to people because of my smell. I ran into the house, tore off my clothes, and dropped them in the trash. I spent two hours scrubbing myself down with two bars of soap to get rid of the stink.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I ran into my cousin Ike. “You smell like shit,” he said.
I managed a weak smile and nodded.


Chapter Six
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Please readers don't forget to opine (positive and negative welcome) after each read.

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You mean that this is your own Memoir?

chinedumo: You mean that this is your own Memoir?

That's affirmative my brother.

I have been so disoriented of late and can't keep up with my reading but I'm earmarking this thread for the nearest future. I swear on chocolate fudge cookies!

ijebabe: I have been so disoriented of late and can't keep up with my reading but I'm earmarking this thread for the nearest future. I swear on chocolate fudge cookies!

.

ijebabe: I'm laughing my head off, cuz I just had something similar to your fudge at outback restaurant; it's called "sinful sundae". you should try it.

Anyways, I'm glad you found my story worthy of a chocolate fudge cookies. to show my appreciation-- even though, I'm exhausted from car racing all day--, I will post chapt six right away.

thx,

Jakemond