₦airaland Forum

iyeyemi: Come on, you don't use something as painful as this to seek a referendum on your creativity. It's wrong on all levels

Pardon me. I would still be needing your corrections.

Dearest Iyeyemi, I understand your plight; I am very sorry If I am wrong on this please forgive me. It's so unfortunate that it was this ugly inccident that motivated me. Atleast stories must be told. I never saw it as a crime to write on it. Thanks for calling my attention to it. Still life goes on. Daalu.

Izuudokwu: Very pathetic,but all the same, a breathtaking write up. Thumbs up best

Daalu my dear...But I dont need these kind of comments!!!!!!!!!! I need a constructive CRITICISM

hot n cold: One word!CREATIVE!

Thanks dear

iyeyemi: Are you for real with this? You want comments on this? You really need to get your mind checked.

Please dear, don't insult me.

Dear Iyeyemi,please how do I need to get my mind? I posted it for you to give your constructive criticism and not insult. Anyways thanks.

I Paid to Watch my Only Son Die
By Okereke N Best


It was already getting dark when I packed the tractor behind the overhead tank and walked wearily across the backyard towards our old two-story house that had been my home since birth. It was built by my grandfather. I, my wife Sophia and our only surviving child Chizitere were the third generation to live there. I was already tired and the thought of Sophia’s hot biscuits and a long, soaking bath made me want to hurry up and get inside. Tiredly, I climbed the stairs to the little porch on the back side of the kitchen, stamped my feet on the mat to knock out the dirt on my shoes, and pulled the remaining straw of my wet shirt. “Nnaa how was your day?” Sophia called from the stove as she wiped her brow with her apron. “Ehh, Odi ka ogadi, we have done it for today, we thank God. Biko mee nyem nri kam rie, I am hungry. I did not give myself break today so I did not eat anything. Nyem Nyem Nyem biko” “Kenneth,” she said with her laughing brogue, “remember you are not as young as you used to be. You will be sixty next birthday.” “Ummm, don’t remind me,” I said as I walked through the kitchen to wash up before supper.
I glanced at the old house. You are almost a hundred years old, old girl, I mused to myself. You have been doctored up, but after so many years, I guess, a thing just naturally wears out. Maybe that’s what is happening to me too. Maybe I am just wearing out. I put my left hand under my right arm and gingerly felt the big lump that was developing in my armpit. It reminded me of my encounter with death, I saw something similar during that period. I wonder if this is the beginning of the end, I thought. I walked back through the house, to the kitchen. Supper was almost ready and I stood gazing out the window- at the last streaks of the sunlight. Next door, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was an old cemetery. It separated us from the small Methodist church that stood alongside the road leading to Ndi Aniche Obina-etiti. A taught of death befell me. Despite the warm weather, I felt a cold chill and shuddered involuntarily.
I had been close to death once. Back in 1988 on my way to Lagos with my first son Emeka, I wondered what would have been the faith of my family if I had died in the gastric motor accident that took the life of my son and all the passengers but saved mine. I was a nobody though, I was not the most righteous. In that vehicle we had a pastor who preached and prayed while we travelled, he had just concluded prayers shortly before the accident happened. Also sitting behind me was a woman; like those women who care less about fashion- whom tie head scarf round their head covering their ears, she had no Jewry too, she shouted the loudest “AMEN” and clapped the most. I quickly remembered my only son Chizitere was in final year in the University of Portharcort, he studies pharmacy. And I wept silently while I wondered why I wept. “Nnaa bia rie nri o, our food is on the dinning” Sophia called from the dining table. I quickly wiped my face with the faded pink hand towel hanging loose near the kitchen window before I went to join Sophia. My pocket radio which was old enough to be replaced accompanied me; it always did. That was how I heard over the news through a local station that some students were set ablaze for theft in the small community of Aluu in Rivers state. My wife looked me in the eyes in a hurry, so did I. “Chimoo!”, her mouth turned into corners in disgust as she pushed her head a bit closer to the radio to garner the information clearer. Her eyes were wet but she wasn’t crying. “Why won’t children appreciate the suffering of their parents and stay one place to read? Ehh, ha ana agahare”She sighed and continued eating. I did not say a word because there were more to listen from the news. So I listened while I eat. The names of the victims were mentioned over the radio, the names included Chizitere but we weren’t sure he was the one in person. So many people could have borne the name. The news further specified that foolish Nigerians recorded the ugly event and posted it over the internet instead of contacting the police. I quickly got up, washed my hand and got ready to visit a cyber café. Sophia’s curiosity made her join me to the cyber café located a hundred miles away from Umuagba market square, the nearest market to Ndi-anichie Obinaetiti. The café was filled with youths, men and women who were not smiling. The men talked with newspaper in their hands while the women murmured and some of them folded their arms tight and occasionally unfolded it to click their fingers while frowning as they said “aru” which was the only word we could hear clearly. Sophia was really restless, she untied her wrapper and tied it again; breathe so hard that I could hear her heart beat. I met the attendant and explained that I wanted to watch the video of the UNIPORT incident. “Oga, na two hundred and fifty naira for that video” the dark skinny lady said. “Ok no problems” “Oga, madam please make una come sidone here abeg”. I and Sophia sat down. Sophia laid her back against the seat, placed her two hands on her head and watched the attendant carefully as she operated the computer. It did not take time before pictures came up; the picture read “Four UNIPORT student-cultists set ablaze by Aluu community”. Sophia and I concentrated. As the video played, behold it was our son Chizitere. He had been stripped naked before the public, injured and beaten by the angry mob who accused him and his friends of theft. Sophia fell on her back from the chair, attracting the attention on everybody in the café. I cried as I saw the movie, not like a man but like a baby. I could not hold myself talk more of ensuring the safety of my wife. I torched the lump in my ambit and screamed. So this is how my world ends, I told myself. Sophia had been rushed to community clinic at Ndi-Uche after buckets of water were wasted in her. I saw Chizitere plead innocent, I saw him cry for fair hearing but the angry mob slapped and kicked him. My only son lay on the floor weak after being hit with sticks and stones. He torched his friend only to notice that he was dead; he shouted “God where are you?” I heard it, the video was clear enough. I knew he prayed for a good Samaritan to intervene, maybe amongst the wicked mob members whom majority were active Christians. As I saw my only son hit to unconsciousness, I imagined him scream and plead innocent, in his closing eyes I knew he had wished they knew the family he was coming from-how poor they were and how all hopes lay on him to graduate and lead the family to happiness as the only child. But all were mere wishes. My only son Chizitere was set ablaze, recorded and placed on the internet; then I paid to watch it.

Note: The above story is fiction with an inspiration from the UNIPORT incident.
Please your comments are needed. Call 08037214678 or E-mail bestochambers@gmail.com. You can also write for JUMPERS CHAPT

Anambra State University,
Igbariam Campus.
Faculty of Law.

22nd August, 2012.

Dear Precious,

I would have asked you how things were but I won’t, because I would not want you to bite your lips the way you normally did, and stifle tears. I know how things are. Things are no more like it used be. Things have clumsily shed our past like molted snakeskin. Well, maybe not absolutely. I guess Ghana is treating you fine? The weather and everything.

I still wake up every morning to greet Mama, GOOD MORNING MA, like Mama said we should. It showed that we were trained at home; that we did not grow up like those good-for-nothing boys that snatched her bag at the park. Those boys that she said smelt like Nkakwu- squirrel. I had pictured Mama at the park, bewildered; fright glistening in her eyes. I had imagined what I knew she would never do. I knew she had not screamed. She had not chased after those boys like a mad market woman. She had just gaped; speechless, perhaps trying to make a good impression; standing, possibly as erect as Papa. Papa always stood so erect that you would imagine his back would snap. There were many things like that about him, many of which Mama disliked. She did not like that papa was bald. She did not like that papa was another man’s secretary in the U.K even as a graduate- a job as she had described was meant for women. She did not also like that Papa’s belly was threatening to bulge. It was one of the things she always told Papa about. When she talked to him about his pot-belly, she did not talk with that familiar ideal-housewife tone she used while eliciting money from Papa in those days, she told him point blank over the webcam that he had better stop drinking; that the drunks outside were watching; waiting for him to finally fit in. Then Papa would grin from ear to ear, and tell Mama to stop being funny. You know, Papa found a lot of things funny about Mama. He had once said that was why he married her; not because Mama was the slimmest girl around with buttocks shaking like ishaka, but because he could not stay a minute with Mama without laughing at her jokes. You see, Papa and Mama were childhood rivals. Papa said Mama was so strong she could beat a good number of boys. They had grown up together in Okporo, a small village; miles and miles from Asaba. Mama looked very big as a kid, and always led fights between the boys and the girls at Etavo, a secret clearing were feuding kids hid to exchange blows until they smelt of fight. Mama could beat many of the boys and stuff sand into their mouths, until the boys started crying and running to their mammies. I wonder how this same Papa that hated Mama so much before, now thinks she was funny. He always told Mama this, much to Mama’s irritation. Once, she had explained to Papa that she hated it; that men were meant to be funny and women were meant to be the ones laughing at their jokes, and not the other way round. Only irresponsible women were funny, she said.

As for my writing, I am not getting any support from Papa, he finds it difficult to understand why I cannot face my law studies and back off writing. He always said his visit to the white mans land for a greener pasture is damaging a lot of things in the home. Just last week he emailed me instructing me to halt all ‘THE VOICE PROJECT’; a program I designed for upcoming poets like me, creating an avenue for writers to exchange ideas.
I hated to think of those days I hurt him; the days I failed to show example like he always wished; Mama would always report me on the grounds of disobedience. How I wished I never contributed to a single frown on his face. How do I let him understand that my disobedience were innocent and a bold step to better my future and that of all of us. But it’s well. When I told him that I would be attending ‘Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop’ a workshop I am currently gate crashing; he stood out on it saying it’s irrelevant. I am not finding things easy at all. The transport fairs to ‘Lagos Resource Centre’ the venue of the workshop use to be my major problem. Coming everyday from aunty Ogoo’s house at Ogun state is a hail lot of money, spending close to 2000 naira on daily basis. God has been good to me through one Mr. Senan



To be continued

Please comment