₦airaland Forum

chinedumo: Chie locked in toilet, pepper in your eyes... You have really suffered!

chinedumo: that was just a tip of the iceberg...it gets worse when the story move on to Liberia, Mali Ghana, Las Palmas, and Spain...hang tight a enjoy the ups and downs..

thx

Jakemond

#15

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Chapter Six

By the end of the first term, I had become very popular at Eziama High School. Everybody in school knew me as “Jah Rasta.” My popularity came because I spent a lot of money at school, and would occasionally rent a car with a chauffeur to drive me and my friend Ikojeh to school just to show off. All the senior boys and everyone who mattered in the school respected me. I also had musclemen who went out with me and were always ready to beat up anyone who crossed me. No one dared mess with Ikojeh and me. In my little group, Ikojeh’s contribution was his father’s status as police commissioner, and I provided all the money. Though my uncle John was one of the richest people in Aba, I never benefited from his wealth—all my family ever got from my uncle was misery. No one knew how I worked to get the money I spent. The truth was that I had my ways. I also had some funds from selling the soap I scammed from Aunt Comfort’s suppliers. Sometimes my grandmother Nwanyi Burunnu would send me a little savings from her business, and my mother would give me some money occasionally.

I lavished every penny I received just to be popular at school. Sometimes I felt sad about how I wasted my money, especially the savings from my grandmother, who was also trying to finish construction on a four-bedroom house in Owerri Nkworji that Uncle Francis had begun building prior to his death. The house was far enough away from the cursed land where our old house was located—the land that had brought so much death to our family—and once the new house was completed, our family could finally return to our village.

Immediately after my first term at Eziama High School ended, I went back to my Aunt Comfort’s house and continued to help her with the soap business, taking even more boxes of soap from the manufacturers. I made a lot of money this way, and bought myself a motorcycle—my ticket to freedom. Within a short time, the motorcycle started to take its toll on me. I drove around carelessly, had a few accidents, and was almost run over by a truck while I was on an adventure ride with my cousin Brigadier on the back seat. It was nothing short of a miracle that we weren’t crushed. Brigadier told Aunt Comfort and Ike about the accident, insisting that if nothing were done quickly about my motorcycle, I’d end up getting myself killed. From that day on, everyone pressured me to sell it. Ike found a buyer, and though I wasn’t sure I wanted to sell, I finally gave in when he told me what the buyer was willing to pay.

Ike arranged for the exchange to take place at a brothel that also had a casino. There in the brothel, I sold my motorcycle to the buyer, and he handed the money to Ike. I turned to leave, but Ike wanted to gamble with my money, rationalizing that we could double it at the slot machines. Like an idiot, I gave in and we gambled with my money. He even used some of it to sneak into one of the rooms for a quick encounter with a prostitute. I was dumbfounded—I had no idea that my beloved cousin patronized prostitutes. I took advantage of his absence to escape into the bosom of another willing harlot. We both came out of the girls’ rooms at the same time and were shocked when we ran into each other. We stared at each other in silence for a moment. Afterward, we never talked about it, and nothing was ever said about my money.

This awkward incident at the brothel with my cousin was not the first of its kind. On two occasions I had run into two seemingly happily married men who lived in the same building as Aunt Comfort. On both occasions, the men and I stared at each other. They never said a word to me or my aunt, and I said nothing to their wives and children.

With my motorcycle gone, there was nothing much to distract me. I still helped my aunt with the soap business, but I spent most of my time indoors, reading or daydreaming about how I would travel abroad. I did this every day.

Occasionally, my cousin Lois would interrupt my fantasies. She and her beautiful friends would pile into the bedroom that we all shared, and would spend all day talking about girl stuff. Sometimes we’d put on music and dance; other times the girls would ask me to sing country songs for them, and I would delightfully sing away. Most times it was difficult to be around these girls because they often forgot that I was a guy. They would try on my cousin’s clothes in front of me, and whenever this happened, I would struggle to contain my erection.

Though I mostly enjoyed living at Aunt Comfort’s house, I sometimes construed my aunt’s actions toward me as a little discriminatory. A number of times when Aunt Comfort served food, for example, I noticed that she gave Ike a larger portion than she gave me. Since I considered myself her son, too, I wanted her to divide things equally. I became manipulative. Habitually, I would find faults in her good intentions and threaten to leave her house, only for her to beg me not to leave. Sometimes she would even bribe me with money in order to encourage me to stay, which my cousins, especially Lois, saw as unfair. I knew Aunt Comfort loved me and could not bear to see me leave, and I took advantage of her. Though I threatened to leave my aunt’s house many times, in reality I never had any intention of following through.
However, this particular holiday Lois provoked me so much that I couldn’t bear to stay with them anymore. Fortunately, my relationship with Uncle John had improved substantially enough that I reckoned if he accidentally found me living in his house, his wrath wouldn’t be that great. I left my aunt’s house, despite her pleas for me to stay, and moved into my uncle’s house in the exclusive neighborhood. The house had many rooms as well as servants, making it difficult for my uncle to tell if I was in his house on a permanent basis or just visiting. Due to his busy schedule, he hardly saw me, and I tried as much as possible to avoid running into him.

Living with my uncle was perfect for me since my best friend lived next door. Ikojeh and I would get together every day and plan what we would do the next term. Some days we would listen to Ikojeh’s brother, who had studied in Brazil and would tell us stories about the country. Opposite my uncle’s house was a brand-new library, and we would sometimes go there—not to study, but to meet girls.

I met my first real girlfriend near the library. She happened to live on the same street as my uncle. Her father had two wives and was the richest man in Aba. As her father’s favorite daughter, she was overprotected and hardly ever allowed out of the house except to attend boarding school or church; she was a born-again Christian. We spent so much time talking on the phone that I eventually ran up my uncle’s phone bills. But during this period, telephone bills in Nigeria were not itemized, so it was hard for anyone to trace the high cost of the bills to me.

One evening, on one of the rare occasions that my girlfriend was able to get out of her house, she came to visit me. We talked for a long time under a tree and even kissed. She was the sweetest girl I had ever known. After a splendid evening, I walked her home, and as I walking back to my uncle’s house, I saw a man running fast toward me. Chasing him was a group of people shouting, “Thief! Thief!” Without thinking, I immediately rushed to stop the guy. I froze as he pulled out a pistol and fired two shots at me. It was a miracle I wasn’t hit. I stood still while he ran past. I was still shaking as I entered my uncle’s compound. When I recounted the experience to my uncle’s family, everyone agreed that I acted foolishly and was very lucky to be alive. Of cause, I was also admonished not to do such a thing ever again. A dead man could not be a hero, they said.

The second term of high school started, with a greater number of female teachers. Whenever a beautiful female teacher came to my class, the air was full of the wild excitement of young men with unrequited sexual desire for their teacher. It was extremely difficult for us to concentrate in this kind of environment.

The second week at school, school prefects were chosen and I was assigned dorm prefect for my dormitory. My job consisted of accounting for everyone in my dormitory, as well as making sure that lanterns were turned off at the assigned time when both seniors and juniors went to bed at “lights out.” It was also my duty to call for reveille in the mornings and ensure that everyone woke up to prepare for classes the next morning. It was indeed a very good position to hold, but I did not take my responsibilities as seriously as I should have. I rarely slept in the dormitory, since most secondary schools in Aba, as well as in other cities in the eastern region, had their inter-house sports scheduled during the second term, and I wanted to attend as many as possible.

Throughout the second term, Ikojeh and I would rent a car with a driver and travel from one school to another to attend inter-house sports. On one occasion, we ventured outside Imo State to Eziama-Obiato Secondary School. My twin cousins, Uzochi and Chinwe, were in school there, so it was imperative that I attend their inter-house sports. Back in my village, I used to spend a lot of time with the twins, and their mother was always nice to me, feeding me occasionally. Fortunately for Ikojeh and me, the inter-house sport was scheduled on a Friday, meaning we could show our faces in class during the morning hours and then head out for Eziama-Obiato.

When we arrived at Eziama-Obiato, the event was just getting started. Uzochi and Chinwe showed us around. Their school had no dormitory, so they lived in a rented one-bedroom apartment in town. We dropped off our things at their place and went back for the sports competition. By this time, the field was buzzing with spectators and the competition was in full motion—but Ikojeh and I were more interested in hooking up with girls. At the end of the event, we both met some beautiful girls and we all went back to Uzochi’s place, where we partied all night. We ended up spending the weekend there. Our rented car had left us and returned to Aba because we couldn’t afford to pay for it throughout the weekend.
On Monday we were supposed to head back to Aba, but by then we were broke and couldn’t afford our transportation home. We wound up spending the whole week at Eziama-Obiato, having many adventures and misadventures. One fateful day, one of our new acquaintances lent me some money to buy food from a store. I paid for the food, unaware that the money was counterfeit, and when the store owner realized it, he called the police. Fortunately, the officer seemed nice, and when my friend and I pleaded with him and the owner, they were reasonable enough not to rush to judgment and mete out the proverbial jungle justice usually reserved for such occasions. Incredibly, a stranger intervened on my behalf, paid my bill, and convinced the store owner and the policeman to let me go.

During that same week, I had my first fight with a girl. I was going to the river with the boys to fetch some water. It had become a routine to go to the river every day to swim and jump off the bridge into the river. There were other side attractions: beautiful girls from other villages who did laundry at the bank of the river. As we walked to the river that day, we ran into a group of girls returning from the river. There was something that seemed out of place about one of the girls. Like the others, she was carrying a calabash filled with water on her head and had her laundry tied around her waist. But while the others wore regular clothes and no shoes, she wore what looked like church clothes and very high heels. I found this ridiculous and told her so. Before I knew it, she dropped her calabash and rushed toward me like a wounded lion. She pounced on me and I jumped back, trying to practice on her what I had learned from watching karate movies. As I did my moves, she pulled back, grabbed her shoe, and struck me on the forehead. She walked away, leaving me with blood gushing from my head. From that day on, I swore never to fight with a girl.

The next weekend Ikojeh and I were able to raise some money and travel back to Aba. Before we left, I promised my female companion, whom I had met during the inter-house sports, that I would come back to visit her from time to time. We later arrived at Aba late at night, exhausted. Ikojeh went to spend the weekend at his parents’ house, but I decided I would rather stay at the dormitory.

When I arrived in my dormitory, the students were at sleep, except for the few who were up studying with kerosene lanterns; the school had no electricity and students had to use these lanterns at night. I went into my corner and found my mattress gone. I searched for it and was later told that a junior student took it. I got really upset. I went to the junior and woke him, shouting. As I scolded him, his school father, Christian Chukwu, showed up and, without knowing the details, ignored me, telling the junior to return to his bed and pay me no attention. By this time, the rest of the dormitory was awake and a crowd had gathered. Christian was one of the prize athletes at our school. He was also sports prefect and was very arrogant. Neither of us was willing to back down, as both our reputations were at stake. Suddenly, he slapped me and I responded with a punch. We continued to hit each other while no one made any attempt to separate us. The fight continued for about half an hour, until we were both exhausted. I had never been in a fight for that length of time before. We finally stumbled out of the dormitory, still throwing insults at each other. He tried to get me to leave the hostel, but I reminded him that, as dormitory prefect, if anyone had the right to kick somebody out of the dormitory, it was me.

I turned to walk back into the dormitory and he hit me at the back of my neck. At that point, I lost my mind. I walked straight into my corner, searching for something to hit him back with, and found a six-inch kitchen knife that I used to cut bread. I had never used a knife in a fight before and had no idea how to stab a human being without causing severe damage, but that didn’t matter to me at that point. I rushed at Christian with the knife. Not realizing that I had a weapon, he came toward me arrogantly and I stabbed him repeatedly. He tried to run away from me, stumbling to the ground, but I kept stabbing. I was too blinded with rage to realize how much blood he was losing, and didn’t even realize I was attacking everyone else who tried to stop me. The entire dormitory thought that I had gone crazy, and everyone started running away as I continued waving my knife at anyone in sight. Some of the students ran to the principal’s house and I followed them, hiding behind a small bush. I overheard the students telling the principal what had happened. He immediately ordered some of the students to go with him in his car to transport Christian to the hospital. He also ordered the school security to shoot me on sight if they found me anywhere around the school.
As soon as I heard that, my senses came flooding back and I realized what I had done. I snuck out of the bush and ran as fast as I could to my uncle’s house.

Everyone was asleep when I arrived, so I climbed over the fence of the compound, still clutching my knife. I tapped on a guest room window, hoping that whoever was sleeping there would hear me and let me in. Unbeknownst to me, it was one of those weekends that my mother spent at my uncle’s house. She opened the door to the guest room and was stunned to see me there, panting, bloodstains on my clothes. I told her what had happened, and showed her the knife with its bloody blade. As soon as my mother saw it, she fell to the floor and was motionless for several minutes. In the morning, everyone in the house, including my uncle, learned what had happened. At daybreak, I snuck out of the house and returned to school to evaluate the situation.

I truly regretted what had happened. Even though I didn’t think it was completely my fault, I didn’t want to be a murderer, and hoped Christian wouldn’t die. I hadn’t slept the night before, and my mother had prayed and fasted all through the night, asking God to spare Christian’s life.

By the time I arrived at school, word had gotten out about the fight. Ironically, I become more popular for what I had done. Everyone saw me as a hero. The students felt it was about time someone taught Christian a lesson.

I learned that Christian’s condition was serious, but he would survive. The matter had been reported to the police and I had become a wanted man. I returned to my uncle’s house to lie low.

My mother pleaded with my uncle to go and work things out with the police and the school. The next day, my uncle told my mother that everything was fine, but I had to report to the school and see the principal. He asked his manager to accompany me. We went directly into the principal’s office and I apologized sincerely, expressing my remorse and promising never to do something like that again. My uncle’s manager also pleaded on my behalf, but after listening to his pleadings and accepting our apologies, the principal said he would have to expel me anyway to demonstrate that he would not condone similar actions from other students.

After that, the principal called for an impromptu assembly. The whole school, including the staff, was in attendance. I was paraded in front of everyone–the object of shame—but as soon as the crowd saw me, they started shouting, “Jah Rasta!” and yelling their praise. The principal was confused and getting angrier with every chant. How could he make an example of me when the students were hailing me as a hero? It took more than ten minutes for him to get the students to be quiet. My head swelled with pride; I didn’t care that I was about to be thrown out of school. All I could think of was how I needed to enjoy this moment of fame while it lasted. I raised my fists high in the air and shook them in victory. The crowd got wilder the more I shook them. It was the most fantastic moment of my life. Eventually the crowd kept quiet enough for the principal to announce that I was no longer a student of the school and had been suspended indefinitely. It didn’t matter—the crowd continued to scream. The police arrived to take me off to the station. I could hear the crowd shouting as we drove off the premises.

I didn’t realize I would be detained at the police station. I had thought my uncle had smoothed things over, but that was not the case. My uncle’s manager went in to speak with the district police commander. When he came out, he explained that the commander had insisted I be detained because Christian’s family wanted to take the case to court.

I was stripped naked and thrown into a 9-by-9-foot cell with twenty hard-core criminals. The police station had about nine of these cells, with twenty to forty men packed into each one. By Nigerian law, the police are allowed to detain people for no more than twenty-four hours before they are charged to court, but the law is often ignored. Ninety percent of the people in jail had been there for more than a year awaiting trial—some longer, forgotten by the system. Many hardened criminals were in these jails.

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

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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

chinedumo: You mean that this is your own Memoir?

That's affirmative my brother.

#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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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.

#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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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.

#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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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.

#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

#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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#9
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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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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

I am afraid…
I am so afraid…
Even the shadow of mine that follows me around like a robot frightens me..
I am afraid …I am afraid.
Why is my life a mirage?
Full of illusions and false hopes…. illusions borne out of frustration
Frustration meted willing by those who protects..
Hopes that disappear whenever I get close…I am afraid.
Hopes which only exist to appease their blood thirst and allow them to bash in their vain glory...I am afraid
Glory glory, the dreaded word..the word which eludes the poor..the poor who is doomed by fate..
Fate the phantom companion of the poor..fate the false consolation of the poor.. I am afread





Your constructive criticism is highly appreciated, so please do leave me a comment.

Larry: I'm truly humbled by you guys effort in creating this wonderful medium by which aspiring authors can express themselves literately... it's both honorable and patriotic. Thanks to you all from the bottom of my heart..

Jakemond.

#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.

*******

Ishi: outstanding piece! very rich dialogue.

Keep up the good work.

Jake.

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.

#7
......

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.......

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.

Great idea! Endorsed.

Ishilove: Jake, is this story fiction, fact or 'faction'?

Ishilove: good observation..indeed, its based on real life events. All characters and places were really.
It's actualy a memoir and will be avilable in book stores(in the US) and Amazone in July 2013.

repogirl: This is quite deep stuff... What genre is this? Motivational or just random thoughts? ...anyway I'm not like a pro-critic or anything so I don't think I can do justice to it.
It does make one sit back and think for a while though, most of us aren't self aware, we don't have the time to waste being self aware, not when we are too busy with running through life's daily routine. Money first and all other things later, that's the mentality most of us have (not I, although money wouldn't be bad to have in abundance either).
In some cases, wisdom does translate into wealth but very few and usually by accident, I think.
Anyhoo, its seriously deep stuff, not for the fickle or flimsy minded.
Let's see some more.
Thanks.

P.S u could correct this sentence: Consciousnesses (is) attended through continue (continued/ continuous) self realization and desire to understand self and improve self.

repogirl: thanks for taking the time to check this out. "call me simple minded" is more like a motivational writing meant only for those aspiring to attend a certain level of awareness and consciousness. as for corrections, unfortunately, i'm locked out of my jakemond profile and could not correct any of my writings posted under that id.however, i have noted the correction in my manuscript.

Regards,

Jakemond

#6
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My father traveled from Owerri Nkworji to other towns, searching for a church that practiced what it preached. He couldn’t find what he was looking for, claiming that in virtually all the churches he had visited, the pastors’ and members’ attitudes did not reflect what they preached. Rather, their doctrines seemed to suggest a “do as I say and not as I do” approach.

While he searched for a church, he took various jobs and saved more money. The secret society started to torment him. Somehow they knew that he was about to abandon them, and they were determined not to let him go. On several occasions they would invade his dreams, and many nights he was attacked by roaches, snakes, dogs, and all kinds of animals.

Sometimes he would be beaten in his dreams and wake up with bruises on his body. At other times the members of his secret society would magically transport him to their secret house to kill him, but my father always managed to escape by muttering some powerful words that he had picked up on his quest for a true church: “The Blood of Jesus.”

After a while, my father thought it wise to start his trading business again. Though he still smoked and people were still afraid of him, he was making a tremendous effort to turn his life around for good, and his behavior and attitude got better every day. He began making trips to a town in the northeastern part of Nigeria called Abakeleke (Abakaliki), where he purchased food products to sell. He stored his goods in a room at his mother’s house, and began selling them at all the local markets. He would walk for many hours from village to village, town to town, selling his products. Though his trade was moving quite well, he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, getting rich.

As he continued in his quest to find a true Christian church, he also made a promise to himself that if he ever found one, he would definitely pick his bride from there as well. His determination to become a Christian was reinforced by a serious accident he was involved in while riding back from market on a bus. The journey was progressing smoothly until an unusual human-like figure suddenly appeared in the center of the road. The driver, who was speeding, had no time to think. He immediately swerved right, lost control of the vehicle, and crashed into a stream. Some of the bus passengers were injured, and five died on the spot, but my father didn’t sustain even a scratch. But he felt responsible because he believed the accident was orchestrated by the secret society. They were hell-bent on torturing, tormenting, and possibly killing him.

One day after selling his products, he decided to take a long walk to a village called Amaegbu, where he met a gentleman called Emmanuel. Emmanuel talked about Christianity and religious beliefs, and gave my father a Bible as he was leaving. My father read it from Genesis to Revelation trying to find meaning and, perhaps, salvation. Though he failed to understand the true importance of Jesus Christ, he found great value in the Bible. He concluded that the Catholic and Protestant churches he had visited were hypocrites, and did not teach the Bible correctly. However, he remained hopeful that one day he would find a true church with a sound doctrine.

My father continued to visit Amaegbu, and he and Emmanuel became good friends. Realizing that my father was deeply interested in religion, Emmanuel compiled a number of sermons he had received from Faith Tabernacle Congregation, an American church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. During one visit, he handed a sermon to my father, who noticed the Philadelphia address. Suddenly, my father remembered that in the Revelation, chapter three, verses seven to thirteen of the Bible, John the Apostle had a positive assessment of a church of Philadelphia. He concluded that these churches were one and the same.

Early the next morning, my father told Emmanuel that he would like them to establish a branch of the Faith Tabernacle Congregation in Owerri Nkworji. Emmanuel replied that he already started the church in Amaegbu, with services being held at his house and the congregation mostly consisting of Emmanuel’s family. My father immediately requested to become a member.

After my father joined the Faith Tabernacle church, his behavior began to improve dramatically. People noticed the change and were amazed. Many who knew of my father’s reputation decided that if he could change, so could they, inspiring many to join the church. The doctrine of Faith Tabernacle forbade smoking, drinking, worshipping false gods (idolatry), adultery, fornication, disrespect, and so on. Members were not allowed to associate with nonbelievers, and all non-Faith Tabernacle members were considered nonbelievers. Faith Tabernacle members could not marry from other denominations, were strictly monogamous, and believed in divine healing. They did not use medication to cure diseases and did not go to the hospital when they were sick.

My father and some of the new converts were baptized, and my father became one of the founding members of Faith Tabernacle Congregation in Owerri Nkworji. He worked hard to get more converts from his family. He had more than ten people from his extended family join the church, and was eventually appointed a deacon.

Gradually, the congregation of the church increased, and the issue of marriage became more important to my father. His search for a suitable wife eventually took him to Orji Uratta Town, where he met my mother, Grace Ewurum, born September 29, 1948. She was the last daughter of Eunice Ewurum, daughter of Igwe Ewurum, traditional ruler of Orji Uratta Kingdom.
King Ewurum was a wise and great man of his time. He had fought and won many inter-tribal battles, confiscating and annexing the territories of his enemies, and taking prisoners of war as his slaves. He was also very prosperous. He had many wives and concubines, and a lot of cattle, goats, pigs, and other animals. My grandmother, Eunice, was the second daughter of the king’s first wife. When Eunice got married, she moved with her husband to Uzoagbo Village. Much later, the king converted to Christianity after reading a pamphlet from Faith Tabernacle of Philadelphia, meeting with a local Faith Tabernacle pastor, and being baptized. To show his generosity and gratitude, the king built a church in his compound for the benefit of his family and subjects, and a station pastor was appointed by Faith Tabernacle headquarters to head the new church. The king, along with his wives, children, and grandchildren, worshipped at the new church. The name of the church became Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Orji Uratta, and it still bears this name to this day. As a result of his newfound faith, the king turned over the crown to his younger brother and dedicated his life to the church.

Eunice was converted after the birth of her third child. She started attending the same church at Uzoagba upon hearing that her father and family had converted. After observing how well behaved the members were, she became convinced that the church was indeed exceptional and later became a full member of the Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Uzoagbo. Her husband, Nzeh, followed in her footsteps and became a member of the church as well. As time went on, Eunice and Nzeh had two more daughters, who were born in accordance with rules and practices of the church. Upon the birth of my mother, Grace, Nzeh became very ill. His relatives recommended that he seek healing from local witch doctors. However, Eunice and Nzeh refused because the suggestion ran contrary to the doctrine of their church, which believed only in divine healing. Nzeh died after the protracted illness, leaving Eunice with their young children.

When Nzeh’s death was announced in the village, those who went to sympathize with the bereaved family started rumors that Eunice had killed her husband. She was accused of being a witch. At the time, Nzeh’s relatives did not know the doctrine of their church and could not understand why Eunice had not sought medical attention for her husband. According to the custom of the village, Eunice had to sleep in a room with the body of the deceased for three nights.

During the burial ceremony, gloom and doom prevailed as the sky turned dark and thunderstorms followed, with powerful winds that razed many houses. A powerful whirlwind followed a path through the village, circling it twice and stopping at Nzeh’s compound. Lightning touched ground several times, killing many animals. Rain continued unabated. The villagers believed that this destructive weather implied that the gods were furious and that Nzeh’s death was not natural. Nzeh’s kindred ordered the grieving Eunice to vacate her husband’s premises with her children. She pleaded with them, but they were determined not to show her any mercy. While she was still packing her things, her husband’s relatives entered the house and threw her belongings out into the heavy rain. She was not allowed to take anything that belonged to her husband, not even his traditional wedding ring.

Eunice clung to her younger daughter, Grace, while the other children surrounded her, confused and tormented. They sat in the rain and cried for hours, and no one in the village came to their aid. As they left the village, some of the women started singing, calling Eunice a witch. Some people stoned her and ridiculed the departing family. With pain in her heart, Eunice left with her children for the outskirts of Uzoagbo Village.

For a year, Eunice engaged in subsistence farming to sustain her family. One day all her children became seriously ill. She prayed and did her best to care for them, but their condition worsened. She eventually took them to the Faith Tabernacle pastor of the Uzoagbo branch, who, after praying for them, received a divine revelation that they needed to return to Orji Uratta.

They were given a warm welcome by the king, a one-room house located by the famous Nkwo-Orji market, and given some land so Eunice could farm and take care of her children. Days after returning to Orji, Eunice’s children got well and were enrolled in primary school. Eunice made sure that her children were brought up to be God-fearing. She taught them the values and beliefs of the Faith Tabernacle Congregation. Eunice bought a sewing machine and started teaching herself to sew. She decided to change the last names of her children to that of her father.

As years went by, the membership of Faith Tabernacle Congregation of Orji Uratta increased tremendously. A large number of Orji inhabitants, and the surrounding villages and towns, were attending the church. Eunice never wavered in her dedication to the church and her faith. She and her children continued to play a prominent role in the church, cleaning and maintaining the church building.

When my father’s search for a suitable wife took him to Orji Uratta, he attended the Sunday service there. He was pleased with the sermon and how the church members had seemed to respond positively to the preaching. He thought that this congregation could possibly be where he would find his wife. However, he had to follow the Faith Tabernacle marriage procedures. Typically, when a man wanted to marry from the church, he would reveal his intention to the pastor. The pastor and the prospective suitor would take the matter to God, after which the pastor would find a suitable time to address the issue to the unmarried females in the church. The pastor wouldn’t tell them that a man was looking to marry one of them; instead, he would make an announcement requesting that all single females wait behind after the service. Everyone knew what such announcements meant. This “meeting” would give the suitor the opportunity to observe the ladies from a distance, and after he had made up his mind on one, the ladies would be asked to leave, at which point the suitor would have a second opportunity to get a closer look at the ladies as they filed out.

The following Sunday, my father returned to Orji and made his intentions known to the station pastor, and the single young women, including Grace—and Mercy, her sister—were asked to stay after the service. After the regular process, my father identified Grace as the one that he would like to marry. The pastor informed her that my father wanted her hand in marriage, and my father and Grace were left alone to talk in private. Grace told him that she had already fallen in love with him when she had noticed him at the church the previous Sunday. My father was very relieved to have things turn out this way. The two agreed on a day that my father and his family would go to Eunice and King Ewurum to officially request Grace’s hand in marriage.

The morning after my father’s successful meeting with his future wife, he returned to his village to inform his kindred of the news. He could not contain his excitement. Nwanyi Burunnu immediately invited the elders of the clan, as tradition demanded, to let them know that her son had found someone he wanted to marry. My father recounted the news to the elders and requested that they, with other members of his family, accompany him to Orji Uratta so he could officially ask for Grace’s hand in marriage. Everyone was pleased and a date was set for their journey to Orji.

Nwanyi Burunnu was even more delighted about her son getting married than he was himself; she had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Finally, her son would give her some grandchildren. By this time her daughter, Comfort, had already married Godwin, younger brother of the reigning world Welterweight boxing champion, Dick Tiger, but she still wanted more grandchildren, especially from my father.

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As always your constructive criticism is required and follow up is dependent on popular demand.


larry and ishilove: when you get a chance can you critic "call me simple minded" and fourth generation warfare"..I value your opinions.

Ishilove: Jakemond, you are very talented writer. This is by far one of the best pieces I have ever read on this site. I want to be like you when I grow up!!

I noticed a few things. Nwanyi Burunnu was twelve years old when she got married. Nine months later, she had a child, Monday. Subsequently, she had a child every year after that. A twelve year old having children in such quick succession is harmful to a full grown woman, talk less of an adolescent. By your account, it means that by the time she was 18 or 19, she already had 12 children. Even the midwives of that era would have known how dangerous this is, and she definitely would have experienced severe complications. An adolescent achieving these birthing feats is highly bizzarre and very unlikely.

Let's say the gods blessed her with strength to turn to into a baby making factory, you should point it out in your narration.

Another thing. So far so good, you have not included any dialogue, save for old man Ikuku's pronouncement. This will not do at all. It is unclear if you have are still writing the prologue. If all you have posted so far is the prologue, then it is a VERY long prologue. If you have passed the prologue stage, then it is imperative you include some dialogue, no matter how little.

Your narration is a bit too fast paced for my taste (this is purely my personal opinion). You need to apply some brakes then and now. Again, this is where dialogue comes in. This will sustain the tension required to hold the reader spellbound (though you have been doing a remarkable job of that already).

The subject matter in each paragraph should be separated. I noticed some parts that where you mixed them up and the paragraph became too fleshy.

Aside these, dude, YOU ROCK!!! Mehn, you gat to give me some tutorials. I am following your story like a shadow. (Benefits of following Larry Sun)

Ishilove: Indeed larry is the man, you are in good company.

Anyways, thanks for your very thoughtful critic and please keep it coming..

As for the pace, we're still on the prologue. though it might seem too long but it is by design, hence full understanding of the prologue is required to follow the main story...please indulge me for now and hit me back when we get to chapt 1,2,3. Also, I feel you about the absence of dialogue; once again, patience is a virtue and I urge you to indulge me just for a little while longer.
As for the paragraphs, I will try my best to remedy it..each time I transfer from my manuscript to the post box, things got jumbled up.

Thanks much,

Jakemond

Larry-Sun:
Truly publishable. You and Ishilove have something in common; you both know literature. But you seem to swerve more to the American English usage rather that the British ('traveling' for 'travelling').

And, I'd prefer you use the term 'teleport' to 'transport', using the latter spells the use of vehicular machines like cars, bicycles or motorcycles...which, I believe, would be germane to the theme behind that part of the tale.

Thanks Larry..Your observations are dully noted. I made a conscious decision to write in American diction because of the underlying intent of the book as well as my level of comfort.

As usual, your great insight and depth is greatly appreciated.

Respectfully,

Jakemond

benjames: Outstanding piece of work jake!! by far the most brilliant writing in this site.. have u thought about publishing ur work? please don't ever stop as I can't get enough this story...

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Thanks benjames but you give me too much credit than I deserve..please let me know what you think I should improve on.

#5

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Nwanyi Burunnu’s first child—my father, Monday Amadi Onyechere—grew up to be a very bright boy. He could read and write even before he started school. He was a very respectful and determined boy. Many people in the town admired and adored him, and believed that one day he would become a very successful man. Unfortunately, when my father reached school age, his mother could not afford to send him to school. Although she still made her cakes, the proceeds weren’t adequate enough to take care of her children’s needs and pay my father’s school fees. According to Nwanyi Burunnu, Onyechere remained committed to her, but could not help her due to the enormous responsibility of raising dozens of children, as well as meeting the needs of half a dozen wives. Therefore, at a very tender age, my father decided to leave Owerri Nkworji in search of better prospects. He told his mother that he wanted to live with his half-brother, the first son of his father’s first wife, who was a teacher in Owerri-Nta Town, so he could attend school there. His mother had no choice but to let him go.

Owerri-Nta was a lot more developed than Owerri Nkworji. It had somewhat more modern facilities like palm processing plants and a modern market. It also had good roads, primary schools, clinics, and so on. When he arrived in town, my father located his half-brother, Godfrey, and explained the difficulties the family was facing at home, and his desire to be educated and perhaps be in a position to help his mother and siblings. Godfrey sympathized with him and agreed to enroll him in school.

My father happily started primary school the next academic year. He was smart, outspoken, yet respectful to all. He quickly became very popular and was adored and admired by students and teachers alike. He always came first in his class and was exceptionally good at mathematics. He did so well that he was given double promotions (allowed to skip grades), advancing to primary six (sixth grade) within a short period of time. The school authorities asked him to teach mathematics to the lower classes, but he politely declined because he did not want to offend his half-brother, who might interpret this as competition.

My father never stopped thinking about his mother and siblings. He was eager to finish school and get a better paying job so he could begin sending money back home. As he became more desperate to earn money, my father started tutoring classes for struggling students, accepting small fees. When Godfrey got wind of this, he became jealous and started treating my father badly. With time Godfrey’s relationship with my father deteriorated. Godfrey humiliated him at every opportunity until my father could no longer take it. It became clear to my father that things were never going to get better, and he was no longer willing to tolerate the continuous, unwarranted assault and abuse.

My father decided to quit school, leave Godfrey’s house, and try to fend for himself. Luckily for him, it was already the end of semester of his final year in primary school. He traveled to Enugu, where he joined up with other “hustlers”—young boys who usually help transit drivers load their vehicles for a fee.

Enugu was a densely populated city. My father established a rapport with some boys and gradually learned how to survive on his own. His friends told him of a motor park where he could find work as a bus conductor and, luckily, my father was given a job. He carried out his duties with zeal and enthusiasm, knowing what was at stake for him and his family. Sadly, he was not able to make enough money in his new job to make ends meet. He worried about his future and what would become of his family if he could not support them financially. ***Dad, left (bus Conductor).jpg*** (Dad (left) as bus Conductor)

As he struggled with this problem, my father began to lose focus and took a bad turn. He began to associate with hoodlums and people of questionable character who got him into smoking marijuana and other less than honorable activities. Despite his new lifestyle, he managed to cling to his job, and worked as a conductor for several years.
Eventually, fortune smiled on my father, or so he thought. He met another bus owner, Moses, who owned a mechanic shop on the main street. Moses took a keen interest in my father and promised to help him.

A few days later, Moses purchased a bus and was looking for a reliable person to drive it. Coincidentally, he ran into my father again and asked him if he knew how to drive a bus. My father had secretly learned to drive by practicing with his current driver’s bus at night without the driver’s knowledge, and had obtained a driver’s license a few months earlier. My father enthusiastically exclaimed that he could drive, and was given the job. He could hardly suppress the tears of joy running down his face as he went to pick up the new bus the next morning. He was convinced that things would change for the better, and he would now be able to support his mother and siblings with the money he would be making as a driver.

However, things did not improve as my father had anticipated. The bad economic situation besieging the country at the time was also felt heavily in Enugu. Prices of commodities rose dramatically and the cost of living was unbearably high. Even though, as a driver, my father was earning more than double what he had been making as a conductor, he still slept in his bus, as he could not afford to rent a place. He became discouraged and dejected, and would often cry himself to sleep at night.

One day, while driving through one of his routes, a passenger on board his bus—whom he would come to know as Ibu—narrated an incredible story. The story was almost too good to be true. Some of the passengers seemed to believe him, while others discounted it as crazy talk, but my father listened keenly. Ibu noticed my father’s interest, and waited until everyone got off the bus before he approached my father. Ibu then went deep into the philosophy of existentiality, karma, destiny, and secret societies, as well as magic powers that could bring wealth and prosperity. My father was intrigued and wanted to know more. The fantasy of having the power to change his fortunes was intensely alluring. Ibu concluded by telling him that he could become rich if he joined their secret society. He gave my father his address and encouraged him to come see him when he was ready to join.

As time went by and the city’s economic situation did not get better, my father started to imagine all the good things he could do and get for himself and his family if he became rich and prosperous. He decided to look for Ibu.

He located him in a remote part of Enugu, a very sparsely populated neighborhood with beautifully fenced compounds. When my father arrived, Ibu was sitting in a lotus position under a tree in front of his house. He welcomed my father and asked him to come into the house and join him for lunch. Afterward they went back to sit under the tree and had some local wine to wash down the meal. My father told Ibu that he was ready to join the secret society so he could become rich and powerful. He was told to go home and return in a week.

Seven days passed, and my father returned to Ibu’s house. Ibu asked him to follow him into what appeared to be a secret room in the house. Inside the room, Ibu chanted some incantations for a while and, all of a sudden, both men were transported to a completely different location. My father found himself flying across a big river and then breezing through what looked like an evil forest, but his determination to get wealth and power robbed him of whatever fear he might otherwise have felt. Finally, they landed in a big auditorium-type house. Seated in that auditorium, to my father’s surprise, were mostly prominent and well-respected men and women, including businessmen, Igwes, ministers, and witch doctors. My father was introduced to all the members and then the initiation began.

My father was ordered to drink a cup of human blood, after which he was taken to a cemetery to sleep with the spirits of the dead for a night. While at the cemetery, at about 3 a.m., he saw flame-like figures hovering around him and heard hoarse voices from the figures muttering some gibberish. After a while, a dragon-like figure appeared, carrying a human skull with blood in it, and a fresh human heart. The figure ordered him to bathe with the blood from the skull and eat the heart. My father obeyed. The dragon figure disappeared and my father found himself at the feet of the chief priest of the society. He was asked to reveal his desires; what he wanted out of life. He told the chief priest and the members, without fear or hesitation, that all he wanted was to become wealthy and powerful. He was instantly granted special spiritual powers. My father would later say that he knew he had gotten the powers because of the overpowering cloud of smoke that descended upon him after the chief priest’s proclamation. He was happy and felt that he had, indeed, become a new person.

Yet things did not turn out as my father had expected. Two weeks after his initiation into the secret society, he became aggressive and abusive. His marijuana habit worsened and his physical appearance changed as he let his hair and beard grow wild. His close friends did not understand why he had changed, and tried to help him, but he humiliated some of them and they kept away from him.

After more than a year, my father still did not become rich, but he continued to attend the secret society meetings. He did have some measure of spiritual power that enabled him to predict certain future events, but he could not make himself rich. Starting to feel homesick and miss his family, he decided to return home to Owerri Nkworji.
He arrived in the evening. His brothers and sisters did not recognize him until he asked about their mother. They were surprised at his appearance—the overgrown beard and hair, and his all-around unkempt look. When his mother returned home that night, she was taken aback, too, but she welcomed him wholeheartedly.

The next morning Nwanyi Burunnu asked my father where he had been living all the years he’d been away and what he had been doing. He gave vague, snappy responses to her—and to everyone else who asked—and eventually, no one dared ask anymore. He no longer respected elders and was aggressive and abusive toward everyone. He openly smoked marijuana and would beat up anyone who tried to talk to him about his smoking and his behavior. Everyone became increasingly afraid of him.

With his mystical powers, my father was able to do amazing things. He had a room to himself in his father’s compound, and his door was always left open, but he could tell when someone had gone into his room, even in his absence. He told people exactly when they were going to die. He could tell pregnant women the gender of their children, and whether or not the child would be stillborn. He could predict the future of newborn babies. But one of the most amazing things he did was to sleep for several days, without waking up, in his open room. While asleep, my father attended the meetings of his secret society. People marveled at this and became even more afraid of him.

According to my father, the god of the secret society was a gigantic monster with eyes that could pierce through any object. He could see things happening anywhere in the world, and when he spoke, sparks of fire emanated from his mouth and nose. The monster carried a rod in his hand that looked like a cobra, sat on a throne made of gold, and was guarded by two fierce lions on his right and a dragon with seven heads on his left. His servants were positioned all around him and did whatever he commanded. Whenever there was an impromptu meeting, the monster would dispatch his servants to go and inform all society members. During meetings all members wore black gowns, red hats, and no shoes. In the center of the meeting hall there was always a human skull filled with human blood, and all members would dip a special cup into it and drink from it, symbolizing their commitment to the society. Each member was also required to sacrifice a beloved relative at a designated time during their membership in the society. This had to be done even if a member were to abandon the society at some point. It was a sworn oath that each member had taken and was bound by.

Months later, my father, having fully accepted that although he had some spiritual powers, his financial situation had not improved as he had been promised—which was his primary reason for joining the secret society—decided he wanted to become a trader. Completely broke, without prospects, and still unable to cater to his family, he felt it was time to take matters into his own hands. He asked his mother for a piece of land that Onyechere had given her, saying that he wanted to plant crops and sell them to raise funds to start his trade. She agreed to let him use the land. My father was able to till and plant vast areas of land in a few hours all by himself. Despite his unkempt appearance, he was a very strong man, tall and muscular. He was built like a warrior, just like his father, and he had also inherited his bravery. My father worked hard on his farm, and when it was harvest time, he harvested the crops, sold them, and made a lot of money.

He also decided it was time to get married, even though he had pledged at the secret society that he would not get married or have children. If he broke the oath and went ahead to have children, they would all die before reaching adult age.

My father concluded that he would escape this by becoming a Christian, and thus began his quest for true Christian religion.

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As usual continuation is base on popular demand and constructive criticism

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repogirl: Intriguing, I was reading so fast hoping it would never end but alas ...it did . I like the fast pace(or was it me reading too fast?) and its getting really interesting. More more more please!

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repogirl: your power of persuasion can not be matched..your wish is my command. Meanwhile, I truly value your opinion a lot and would like you to critic "Call me Simple Minded" and Fourth Generation Warfare"

#5 coming your way in second.

Thanks much.

Jakemond.

Unlike wars of the past in which the vast majority of belligerents were mostly Nation-States, the belligerents in today’s wars -– a phenomenon known as fourth generation warfare -– consist of criminal enterprises, fanatical opportunists, and terrorists with gang-like networks that transcend boundaries. Sadly the impact of this phenomenon has eluded most of the military strategists, who seem bent on using and applying conventional methods/TTPs against an asymmetric non-conventional threat. In fact, the only weapon in the conventional warfare arena that has the potential to counter the belligerents effectively in this fourth generation warfare has not been given adequate consideration. Civil affairs (CA)/Civil military operation (CMO) is the “only” war fighting functional area that possesses the capabilities which could effectively be used to defeat belligerents in fourth generation warfare. Specifically, the U.S. should give adequate consideration on winning the hearts and minds by using CA/CMO to foster and support credible governance and targeted economic developments (part of CA/CMO area of expertise).
According to G.I.Wilson, “fourth generation warfare” is not entirely new, but rather a creative and adaptive application of the past wars in which the “moral” dimension of war outweighs technology. He argued that “fourth generation warfare” represents warfare in transition; traditional strength is bypassed or redefined, focus is shifted away from high technology to ideas, and conflicts are shifted from simply destroying military targets and regular conventional to destroying of socio-economic or political-cultural “center.”1

Because insurgency flourishes in corrupt/unstable environments, the U.S. needs to build and support credible leadership in order to win hearts and minds. In fourth generation warfare, a friendly force deals with three predominant groups: the pro friendly forces, the undecided/on-the-fence, and the active insurgents (including their constituencies and supporters/financiers. Iraq and Afghanistan shows this characteristic, the insurgents are sending one message to their supporters, another to the undecided population, and a third to the coalition decision makers. Supporters are told that they are defending their faith and country against outside invaders who will eventually leave. The coalition, particularly the Americans, is advised to withdraw or be engaged in an endless costly fight.2
Hence, in this kind of warfare whoever wins or influences the hearts and minds of the two groups in contention (1st and 2nd group) has a greater advantage and is most likely to win the campaign in the long run. Therefore, most fourth generation warfare engagements involve tactical maneuvers targeted to win the support of these two groups. Decisive victory in these kinds of engagements is rarely achieved due to dynamic and fluid nature of events. Situation dependent is the operative word in this environment; the two groups are prone to be swayed to one side or the other depending on how persuasive an action or inaction of each opposing force appeals to them. Xxxxxxxxxxx Will expand on CA roles in governance/leadership.

Wining the hearts and minds: Socio-Economic development. The saying “ An idle mind is the devils workshop” is very true in most areas where insurgency is prevalent. For example, in Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq and Afghanistan, unemployment abounds and there are no jobs to occupy the restive minds of youths. The lack of socio-economic infrastructure eventually created a disconnection within the society, and the population became alienated from the international community. In the case of Lebanon and Palestine, the insurgence took the initiative by creating jobs; building schools, and started numerous socio-economic programs. A case in point was the Hezboallah’s actions after the recent thirty-four days battle with Israel. As soon as the battle was over, Hezboallah immediately mounted a vigorous “ hearts and minds” campaign by organizing humanitarian relief to displaced citizens of Lebanon. They also established a reconstruction fund, which provided $200,000.00 to each family whose house was destroyed during the battle. A perfect example of how CA/CMO effectively used socio-economic development to combat belligerents was in Haqlaniya city in the Al Anbar province of Iraq. The city was practically run by a notorious insurgent group (Ansa Sunni) who paid up to $200 to unemployed locals to carry out suicide attacks against the coalition forces. However, the CA team assigned to Haqlaniya was able to counter this threat and turn things around by embarking on civil projects that created employments that did not include martyrdom. Among other economic projects, the CA team renovated and refurbished 13 schools, created a trash removal project that employed 40 locals, built a community Internet café and super clinic. As a result these developments, a permissive environment was created in a previously hostile community. The CA method in Haqlaniya was so successful that not only were they able to win over the two groups, their activities in the community also encouraged some of the insurgents to take actions that are favorable to the coalition forces .4
However, the big powers have largely remained unchanged in their approach to the fourth generation warfare; they have continued to place greater emphasis on direct-action action missions. The natures of direct-action missions are usually fast, violent, and can show effects almost immediately; however, in an insurgency, direct-action might sometimes be detrimental to civil-military operations. In Iraq, the insurgency uses Information Operation (IO) to counter direct-action of the coalition forces. It is an undisputed fact that the survival of the insurgency in Iraq totally depends on the appeal to emotional issues such as ethnicity and religion. The insurgents understand this reality, so they tailor their messages to focus on those emotional issues that make their constituents’ blood boil. Every action or inaction of the coalition forces is portrayed/twisted into a threat to Iraqi culture and religion. Insurgency by its nature lasts a long time, and direct action is not a silver bullet to defeat it. In fact, such actions sometime can be counter productive and can create more insurgents.
This enemy cannot be overcome by simply killing them. Their death means martyrdom. Where they fall, dozens or hundreds spring up to take their places. They cannot be overcome solely through firepower attrition, because all death caused by the West accrue to this enemy’s benefit, proving their thesis that annihilation is still king in all struggles for power. Waging conflict with massive firepower and high technology are hallmarks of great Satan to them….However, we still have a window of opportunity to make a dramatic difference if we work hard at creating Iraqi jobs, establish venues of free press, provide extensive Internet and media access to Iraqi people and enhance the infrastructure.