I had always expected his death. Not that I wish anyone to die but his volatile pattern of behaviour was a telling evidence that he would never outlive the next decade. That year, Papa Jumbo couldn't contain the growing unrest and tension in all the districts as the gubernatorial elections heated up in our state, Abam. From the four winds of the earth to every nook and cranny of our clan, Ubakala, there was a heavy stampede for power. New political parties were sprawling up from all sides. Each of them had party slogans as well as taking abstract objects like brooms and umbrellas as symbolic political tags. Despite the obvious selfish intensions of the aspiring candidates, faux manifestorial promises were on heavy rotation through the airwaves. New malicious-minded thugs were being hired by old political juggernauts as shields to guard their lives. And for the first time ever, cash grants, fertilizers and grains were freely given to the widows, orphanages and poor farmers in a bid to draw more thumbs for votes.

Each time Papa Jumbo turns on the radio for the regular news on the hour, strings of neighbours would dash inwards. For countless number of times upon convergence, the endless talks of politics were the fulcrum of discussion. Sometimes, they usually get into arguments about which of the numerous political parties was the best, which had more money to throw around, which was the friend of the poor, which had better promises or prospects, and they would rant on like that, tirelessly, till night fell slowly over the horizons of each day. Many of them especially children were as skinny as cassava stems. A neighbour's son has big scattered teeth like a donkey while another whose father is a carpenter, has kinky hairs that never stays combed for more than five minutes. As usual, we had gotten some ever-ready batteries to keep the radio going. There, we sat together like a farm of mushrooms. With crossed legs, sour faces and hands on our cheeks, we heard that little children and adults are being waylaid at gun points; that the electoral ballot boxes are growing overnight legs; that some group of youths in a tertiary institution were fired up with tear-gases in a political rally, forcing some to loose their sights. The newscaster on radio further reported that one Miss Chioma Umenne of Ubakala in Etem village of Abam state is missing. The journalist reeled out her name as one of the hundreds of schoolgirls abducted by the Islamist extremists from a government-run school. Chioma and more than two hundred of her classmates were blindedly loaded into three long buses, manned by heavily-armed convoys and pickup trucks, only to be spirited away into the pampas of a dense forest without interruption from anyone.

From variant directions among our neighbours, there were cries and shout of surprises. Heavy sighs filled the air. I saw them throwing glances at each other in pity as queasiness settled into my stomach.

"Abomination must follow those who peddle it," one of them said; spitting three times on the ground, each time ending it with Tufiakwa, God forbid.

For Papa Jumbo and us, Chioma was a little girl we knew so well; five feet and seven inches tall, slim, brown eyes, fair in complexion with a gap in between her front teeth. Then, she was just sixteen years old, full of verve and a beautiful face that can hardly hurt an ant.

While listening to the news, Papa Jumbo nearly got choked with smoke swirling from his marijuana pipe; coughing asthmatically in a bid to regain his breath. What bothers him the most are that the exact number of the missing and dead school girls are unclear. And most importantly, how can the incumbent government flounder in variant attempts to find the missing girls; even when global leaders had agreed to share intelligence in efforts to curb the threat.

For several nights, Papa Jumbo cried so deeply in his mud bed over his missing granddaughter. In his room, he was restlessly turning from side to side like a woman in labour. I never knew that old folks could be compelled to cry. I thought that they are too old to accommodate any form shock or sad circumstances; prompting not to let out tears. His eyes were redder than they used to be even after sessions with his marijuana. His conditions worsened when the hunting words of the insurgent leader vowed that "the abducted girls would either be married off to his fighters or be sold as slaves; adding that the girls have been initiated into the sect with water mixed with charms and anyone hoping for their release is daydreaming". Emotionally spent and dispirited, Papa Jumbo whispered her name in the silence of his room, time and again, wishing that her ghost would at least echo a word or make some noise; something that would make him believe that her spirit is safe in the hands of her adaptors. During the evenings in the absence of our clustering threads of neighbours, Papa Jumbo would clutch his portable radio like a northerner listening to Katongori FM; hoping to hear a newscaster reel out her name, Chioma Umenne, giving clues to her return. Yet, all hopes led to sheer futility.

One Tuesday night, I watched Papa Jumbo drench in the rain; despite the ceaseless attempts to pull him out. Next to the stalks of banana trees, he sat there; refusing to eat, as torrents of rain poured on him with increased force and clamour. He was not scared of the loud thunderstorms or streaks of breath-taking lightening. He was ready to die at all cost even when the crafty schemes of men were the cause of his granddaughter’s elusiveness. Afterwards, the rain had receded into drizzles. The thunderstorms were now dying off into sullen echoes yet Papa Jumbo made no effort to enter his room. He sat there still, face down with soggy clothes on, believing that the heavy rains would wash away the stains of his grand daughter's blood, unseen. For several crawling hours, I heard him bitterly grinding his teeth; talking to himself in the deadness of night. His jaw was tensed and worked up. His ignited pipe nursed in between his fingers. His mien radiating disgust for a nation riddled with political falsehood; even when a greater majority of its masses have been fed with elusive hopes of finding the hundreds of girls.

Every day the story kept spreading in our village like drops of oil poured on a sheet of white paper. Several knots of people came to our house to hear for themselves if the sad tale was true. Men and women in contorted faces of pity; even our neighbours who had grudges against us, paid us a visit for the first time and afterwards, departed on tiptoes. Like a dormant volcano, Papa Jumbo would maintain rapt silence, blankly staring at the brutality of our fallen humanity; wondering why his granddaughter would die like a baseless ant in a foreign land to the north. His teeth, stained with the prolonged use of kola nuts and alligator pepper, had visible maps of decay in the front row. In the morning, he would sit on a wicker chair stashed at the veranda. There, he would be served his breakfast which he would sparingly eat. Afterwards, he would be caught in solitude gazing absent-mindedly into the pale blue sky like the cold yellow stare of an owl. His ever-ready pipe, lipped into his mouth, was sending swirls of smoke in the air. Even the veins in his forehead stood out like knotted cords; a telling evidence he was thinking too much.

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