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THE VELVET TAMARIND 2 (A short story)

In the evening, almost every evening, when Mama returns from her immunization tour in the counties around Ofugo, she would carry me on the motorcycle, and we would take a ride to no place in particular. The motorcycle made a vuum vuuuum sound, that would make me jerk but made Mama laugh at me; a long laughter that made me feel so stupid and too little, of course I was only nine years old.

People would talk in hush tone. " What kind of woman is this? So manly, so stubborn". But it was not true that Mama was stubborn, she may be manly because of the punk perhaps.

Mama was soft-hearted, they all know that in Ofugo. She treated sick people on credit and some may take a long time to pay, others may never pay especially when the money was little. Mallam Sule who had migrated from the north to start a suya business was once sick and never paid for the treatment even after five months. Mama ran out of patience, she rode the motorcycle to his house, carrying me at the back. I thought it was the usual evening ride, until we stopped over at Mallam Sule's suya table at the roundabout, often filled with people selling several needful items for the evening meal.

Mama gently walked up to Mallam Sule and said, " please pay me my money, it is N1,500."
Mallam looked up and said;
"Madam, kei! you no fit greet me first? habamana!, I no get dey money, I know no wen I go get am, market no even dey."

But Sule had a line of suya enthusiasts, waiting to buy, talking and laughing with one another. It became obvious to Mama that he was deliberately not willing to pay. Mama went to him and asked in a more thunderous voice that was uncommon to women. sometimes, Mama has a baritone voice, masculine to a little extent and she often had her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, especially when she rides her Suzuki 100.
"Mallam, pay me my money, before you get it hot."
Mallam didn't respond and his silence angered Mama to a justifiable anger.

Mama grabbed Mallam's shirt by the collar, in a split second, people gathered there, trying to pull them apart. Mallam's trousers were held by Mama by the belt. A kind of way, soldiers will jack you up when you commit a slight offence in their presence. The grip was so tight that they couldn't loose it. Then Mama bent low and in a hurried and angry manner, lifted Mallam Sule and carried him shoulder high. While Mallam's legs were suspended in the air, he was talking and swinging the legs.
" drop me ooo hey! which kind woman be dis? I still dey sick ooo."

Mama's action didn't only terrify me but it gave me a disappointed surprise. I gave a good distance, ran far away from the scene.

Mama still held Mallam so high, taking him to the closest dustbin, as though Mallam was a waste to be disposed of. Upon reaching the dirtiest part of the refuse dump, he dumped Mallam Sule there. It had surprised people, how a woman can deal with a man so effortlessly in that manner. Mama noticed that Mallam was motionless, so she sped away on her motorcycle forgetting me. Mallam got injured so brutally, but he was taken to Mama's clinic again. Although Mama wasn't there, but the nurses attended to him.

Thirty minutes later, Mama was brought home on another motorcycle. Her face was bruised, she had blood stains on her shirts. Mama had fallen off her bike. The closest standard hospital to Ofugo was in Lokoja. The road was not accessible, it was too far a distance for a motorcycle but against all odds. Mama was taken to the specialist hospital and in two weeks she was fully healthy. That evening, she had an accident, a lot of people came to our house with a lot of medication, few useful, but most were useless.

When Mama was hospitalised those two weeks, Moses became yet another nightmare, like he was before Mama started taking me to school on Suzuki 100. Moses had beaten me yesterday again. He was physically stronger, he was nine, I was nine, but he was a boy. But I know what I would do.

In our courtyard at home, we had a tree of velvet tamarind, a tall tropical fruit bearing tree, with a black fruit that has a shell, that is both sweet and sour, yet awesome. I will give Moses some and his anger will melt. They had said, girls are not allowed to climb trees, I don't know where the law came from. But I need to climb it, get some for Moses. Yes! I can now comfortably cane Moses and melt his anger with my velvet tamarind.

Mama's fame had spread beyond the village of Ofugo. She was a good nurse, people believed she was fearless, but they know she has a good heart, treating people on credit, forgiving some minor debts, contributing money for the development of the community.

Then one day, there was an announcement on the radio, in which the governor announced the local government sole administrators for the next two years. Mama was surprised that she was appointed. It was unbelievable to us. We can't tell how she was nominated.

I was happy, I knew a lot of things would change. We would change our location and go to the government house, we would now have a car, I would change my school. There wouldn't be Moses, there wouldn't be Suzuki 100, there wouldn't be need to get velvet tamarind.

I was feeling great, but I would not forget to tell Mama that our public schools have no facilities. That our teachers are never paid, and when paid, it will be too little for them. I will tell Mama to construct the roads, build hospitals, give electricity to the people.

But I will never forget to tell Mama never to steal government money. I'm the only child. She doesn't need to steal and save money for me. I will make my money myself. I want Mama to make our people smile again by being the first female and the best sole administrator ever. Mama would listen. Yes! she has to and when she does and others do, no prime minister of any country would ever say we are fantastic[truncated by WhatsApp]

THE VELVET TAMARIND 1 (A short story)


Mama was not like other women in the neighbourhood. She was different, in several incomprehensible ways. Sometimes, I wonder why Mama was not the Baba. It was not because she never plaited or braided her hair. She carried a kind of punk that was unfeminine, a punk that goes up high only in the front, with a line unmistakably drawn by a teenage barber, whose closeness to Mama was a source of worry to my calm but jealous Baba.

Mama had resigned from Nigeria Army. She claimed they had denied her, her due promotion and other benefits, because she was female. But that was before she married Baba, a local politician, who never rose above a ward councillor in our local government.

Mama was a nurse, while in the army; upon resignation, she started her private clinic, in which the villagers in Ofugo patronized a lot. Few months later, she was luckily saddled with a huge responsibility by W.H.O; Mama became the chief nurse in charge of immunization within and around the villages in Ofugo. Perhaps, she could have enjoyed the job much longer, if she had not been given a motorcycle that came without a helmet.

That evening, when the motorcycle came, Baba was happy, Mama was happier but I was the happiest, because I would no longer walk to school and that means I will escape the awful anger of Moses. Moses was a usually dirty boy in my class, whose uniform short has been patched, repatched and had lost alignment.

My teacher had ordered me every once in a while to cane Moses, because he couldn't read comprehension passages in our Macmillan English text. Moses couldn't have felt very bitter, if I were a boy. But because I was a girl, he felt more humiliated.

I remembered the day he beat me and left my skirt torn; revealing my tiny pitiable buttocks. I had cried home, but Mama and Baba were away, before they returned, my childish anger had died down with child's play. I couldn't report Moses to our teacher, one Mr. Akwu, a lanky man who called me his wife and I came to hate him. He had his fat nose perfectly plastered to his thin face. But that was not why I hated him, I disliked him because he made me felt so shy anytime he called me his wife.

I love the enormous authority I had in flogging Moses in particular. I'm happy he wouldn't see me on my way from school anymore. But I'm scared of how Mama will carry me on a motorcycle made for men without a helmet. By the way, why would the W.H.O give her suzuki 100? Certainly not because of her punk. But Baba had warned about it, but we rode it to and fro every week day anyway. The last straw that could have broken the Carmel's back was when Mama first crashed. (to be continued)

THE VELVET TAMARIND 1 (A short story)


Mama was not like other women in the neighbourhood. She was different, in several incomprehensible ways. Sometimes, I wonder why Mama was not the Baba. It was not because she never plaited or braided her hair. She carried a kind of punk that was unfeminine, a punk that goes up high only in the front, with a line unmistakably drawn by a teenage barber, whose closeness to Mama was a source of worry to my calm but jealous Baba.

Mama had resigned from Nigeria Army. She claimed they had denied her, her due promotion and other benefits, because she was female. But that was before she married Baba, a local politician, who never rose above a ward councillor in our local government.

Mama was a nurse, while in the army; upon resignation, she started her private clinic, in which the villagers in Ofugo patronized a lot. Few months later, she was luckily saddled with a huge responsibility by W.H.O; Mama became the chief nurse in charge of immunization within and around the villages in Ofugo. Perhaps, she could have enjoyed the job much longer, if she had not been given a motorcycle that came without a helmet.

That evening, when the motorcycle came, Baba was happy, Mama was happier but I was the happiest, because I would no longer walk to school and that means I will escape the awful anger of Moses. Moses was a usually dirty boy in my class, whose uniform short has been patched, repatched and had lost alignment.

My teacher had ordered me every once in a while to cane Moses, because he couldn't read comprehension passages in our Macmillan English text. Moses couldn't have felt very bitter, if I were a boy. But because I was a girl, he felt more humiliated.

I remembered the day he beat me and left my skirt torn; revealing my tiny pitiable buttocks. I had cried home, but Mama and Baba were away, before they returned, my childish anger had died down with child's play. I couldn't report Moses to our teacher, one Mr. Akwu, a lanky man who called me his wife and I came to hate him. He had his fat nose perfectly plastered to his thin face. But that was not why I hated him, I disliked him because he made me felt so shy anytime he called me his wife.

I love the enormous authority I had in flogging Moses in particular. I'm happy he wouldn't see me on my way from school anymore. But I'm scared of how Mama will carry me on a motorcycle made for men without a helmet. By the way, why would the W.H.O give her suzuki 100? Certainly not because of her punk. But Baba had warned about it, but we rode it to and fro every week day anyway. The last straw that could have broken the Carmel's back was when Mama first crashed. (to be continued)

Ikonz:
Oh, a copyright...? (smiles)
.
Nevertheless, u tried in acknowledging the original author, and for bringing such a wonderful write up here

Thank u

RETURN MY JEWEL (short story )
( Written by Theophilus Enemali)

It has been an endless dark day for Chidera's mother. She had emaciated so miserably because her present situation, gave her a huge loss of appetite. Most often, she talked to herself and asked a lot of questions. Questions that people preferred not to answer, yet it made her heart bleed.

"If only Chidera were here, my happiness could have been lovely as always". She said and sighed in a rather heavy manner. Then she continued, " My God, how am I going to survive without my only child? Where are you? She would ask no one in particular and then tears would begin to flow.

The year Chidera turned sixteen was the year the seemingly worst thing happened to her. A friendly girl laced with honest beauty, flanked by innocence and unrivalled intelligence that was endearing to all. She has been on scholarship since her senior secondary school one. It was not offered on a platter of gold, it was a reward for her honourable hard work.

Chidera's scholarship came as she was the champion of the Children State Essay Competition. They had written on the topic " My Blueprint for Curbing Insurgency in Nigeria". She had written so nicely that one of the examiners wrote on her script. " A rare writer with an amplitude intelligence that belied her age". The examiner had written that perhaps in an excessive happiness that the future of girl child in northern Nigeria is not blindly bleak.

Chidera was the only girl among the five finalists. She was second to the last to do her presentation, after Suleiman Adebayo displayed a near flaw-filled performance. Suleiman was about the age of Chidera, brilliant but not outspoken. He was a better writer than a speaker. He paused time and time again, seemed stuck for words, and perused his write-up almost aimlessly, with such a wobbly pace that begged the time to fly speedily. However, at the end of his presentation, there was a thunderous applause not really in appreciation of his performance but rather in admiration of his confidence.

When it was Chidera's turn, she walked to the stage with the elegance of a girl, aware of her own self confidence, which made her even more confident. She spoke for some two minutes and she calmed down. Her emotional introduction about the death of many women and children and displaced families in north east Nigeria, let loose a heavy silence, those moments silence became too loud.

This had happened three years ago. Chidera's mother remember those memorable days. But now only the memories live. Her anguish was so heavy. But the sad reality of the situation now is that Chidera has been missing for more than 715 days. Her mother, Ginika has been a trader in Chibok ever since her husband went to be with the lord. A mild expression she often used to refer to her husband's death.

Most days she would forget that she had not eaten. She would cry her eyes out but the situation remains the same. Only yesterday, there was news on the local radio station, assuring news with a glimmer of hope, that the missing girls have been spotted and will soon be rescued, however it ended there as always.

Chidera's mother would go to Chidera's room, watch the wall, as though it would play the record of Chidera's voice. She would go to her box and bring out her dresses, but that made her even more sorrowful.

Then one day, she heard of the frequent use of girls as suicide bombers. She imagined that they were the abducted school girls. She couldn't hold it anymore. She was getting tired of life, no husband, no child, and the meaningless of life without loved ones gave her a strange stare in the face.

She had been alone, downcast and helpless. She decided to do the unthinkable, to kill herself, but the godly part of her discouraged her. Then she prayed always to die in her sleep but she wouldn't. Then one day she wrote a note which read, " My jewel, I'm coming to meet you, I don't know where you are, I have begged and pleaded so that they return my jewel, but every day is like another. I'm coming to be with you, so that we can love and laugh again".

She flung herself to bed and prayed never to wake again.

#bringbackourgirls