I have come to say that i am super-duperly officially in love with Chimere Shaffer Smith (known to the groupies as Ne-yo). Regardless of his receding hairline, his not-so discreet sowing of wild oats, I his undiscovered wife will remain faithful.
Signed on this day, May 8th 2009 - Adia Smith.
P.S - Don't judge me, I just saw the mad video, plus I had a pina colada....
(lengthy posts are on the way *crossed fingers* and I'm still kinda waiting for feedback on the story..so don't just read over...COMMENT! pls..I'm begging..don't Neyofy me again)
* Neyofy - Neyo's wanton behavior and unabashed disregard for his wife -Adia.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
SEALED GRAVES FINALE
Hey guys, I am sorry I didn't post on Thursday like I promised...I was uber busy with mid-terms..so once again I apologize. I am grinning stupidly as I type this, imagine my surprise when I logged in to post and what did Adia see? Two followers??? what?? I was flabbergasted!! thanks Timi and Estelle. Mwah!! Ok, so here's the finale guys, I haven't gotten any critique so far, so I hoping you guys chip in and critique away...I appreciate constructive criticism, here>>>>>>>> enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sealed Graves IV
Thanks guys for the comments, really appreciate...but I really would appreciate your CRITIQUING more! So, here's the fourth installment, things take a turn and the story unfolds..enjoy!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sealed Graves III
The saga continues...lol!! ( I had to sound like those Nigerian movie annnouncers!!)
Thanks for the comments guys, critiques, and feedback are thoroughly appreciated..so critique away..be it sentence structure, tense, anything... For new readers, the first two installments are below and this is me working on my literary talents. Enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
We had concluded the customary two-week burial rites for Papa, Mama Nkiru had sewn me a black dress for Papa’s funeral and when Mama tried to pay her for it, she shook her head firmly and raised her hand in decline. So Mama nodded her head in understanding knowing it was Mama Nkiru’s own way of showing her sympathy. Three months after they had sealed Papa away, Mama and I collected our mourning garbs and stowed them in a suitcase, then Mama liberally distributed camphor balls in the suitcase before zipping it shut. I left Mama’s room as she hoisted the suitcase atop a stack of more suitcases squeezed into a tight corner of the room; the rains were here and it had been raining all day. I couldn’t wait till evening when the rain subsided and dusk was ushered in by the cool zephyr that was the certain aftermath of the seemingly endless rain. I anticipated turning on the kitchen lights and watching as winged termites descended in a swarm on the electric bulbs.
Ralu had taught me how to catch them last year; he had put his hand over mine as I nervously grasped the wings of a termite with my thumb and forefinger and promptly drowned it in a bowl of water. That night our bowls had been brimming with termites dancing in water, we had sat together in companionable silence as we tore the wings off their soft bodies and when we were done we handed them to Aunty Ezinne who fried them till they were a crunchy golden brown. She gave them back to us wrapped in newspaper, oil seeping through the thin sheets. Ralu had popped one in his mouth immediately the newspaper touched his palm and as he swallowed he made a low guttural sound that Aunty Ezinne nodded to and replied “You are welcome”. He then smiled at me encouragingly, urging me to try one as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. I ended up not trying one but eating the whole of my share and half of Ralu’s. I liked the rich, curious taste of the insects and the characteristic tang the groundnut oil it was fried in gave it.
Thanks for the comments guys, critiques, and feedback are thoroughly appreciated..so critique away..be it sentence structure, tense, anything... For new readers, the first two installments are below and this is me working on my literary talents. Enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
We had concluded the customary two-week burial rites for Papa, Mama Nkiru had sewn me a black dress for Papa’s funeral and when Mama tried to pay her for it, she shook her head firmly and raised her hand in decline. So Mama nodded her head in understanding knowing it was Mama Nkiru’s own way of showing her sympathy. Three months after they had sealed Papa away, Mama and I collected our mourning garbs and stowed them in a suitcase, then Mama liberally distributed camphor balls in the suitcase before zipping it shut. I left Mama’s room as she hoisted the suitcase atop a stack of more suitcases squeezed into a tight corner of the room; the rains were here and it had been raining all day. I couldn’t wait till evening when the rain subsided and dusk was ushered in by the cool zephyr that was the certain aftermath of the seemingly endless rain. I anticipated turning on the kitchen lights and watching as winged termites descended in a swarm on the electric bulbs.
Ralu had taught me how to catch them last year; he had put his hand over mine as I nervously grasped the wings of a termite with my thumb and forefinger and promptly drowned it in a bowl of water. That night our bowls had been brimming with termites dancing in water, we had sat together in companionable silence as we tore the wings off their soft bodies and when we were done we handed them to Aunty Ezinne who fried them till they were a crunchy golden brown. She gave them back to us wrapped in newspaper, oil seeping through the thin sheets. Ralu had popped one in his mouth immediately the newspaper touched his palm and as he swallowed he made a low guttural sound that Aunty Ezinne nodded to and replied “You are welcome”. He then smiled at me encouragingly, urging me to try one as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. I ended up not trying one but eating the whole of my share and half of Ralu’s. I liked the rich, curious taste of the insects and the characteristic tang the groundnut oil it was fried in gave it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
My story contnd'
Hey guys, thanks for all the comments!!! thoroughly appreciate...At the end of the installments, I'll be asking you guys to critique the story, so please make a mental note of your critiques for all the installments..or you could just tell me now..either way works for me. Well, here is installment II enjoy (to my now live audience.lol)!!!
Sealed Graves contnd (COPYRIGHT!!!! cannot be reproduced people, borrowed, and all d ish..)
I watched Mama walk into our house, Aunty Ezinne had her arm around her waist and Mama Caro was holding her hand and leading her to the door. As I lay on my mat that night, I tossed and turned endlessly, unable to sleep I reached for the kerosene lamp and with one strike of the match box I had the wick of the lantern burning brightly. I looked down at my lap, little flesh triangles and lines covered it, Papa called it mat print. He said if I ever stopped sleeping like I was fighting a war then maybe I would not wake up every morning with impressions of the mat’s design temporarily etched in my flesh. I looked across the room, by the window sat my white plastic chair, bare. I stared at it for a while trying to decipher what was so wrong about its austerity, no light bulb illuminated my head, so I lay back on the mat, my knees bunched up, my arms forming a pillow for my head, and my eyes fixed intensely on the ceiling tiles as if there lay the answer to the chair’s mystery.
The light streaming in from the window and the cock’s incessant crowing woke me up, and then it hit me. It was Sunday and my chair was bare, Papa had forgotten to tell me to polish my shoes and iron my clothes with the charcoal iron and that was why my Sunday clothes were not laid out on the white chair. I sprang from my bed, eager to get to the bathroom before Papa caught me and began his speech about preparation and success. I turned the knob of the bathroom door, my towel in hand and realized that my bucket was empty. The empty bucket had just added another thirty minutes to Papa’s lecture, I could already hear him “Golibe, how many times will I tell you ehn? Fetch water for tomorrow the night before, iron your school clothes a week in advance, you can never be over-prepared. “A tuoro omara omara, a tuoro ofeke o fenye isi n’ohia – If you tell a wise one, he understands; tell a dunce, he runs into the bush.” Papa’s proverbs always made me cringe; their delivery was like a blow only more piercing. I snatched the bucket by its handle and made my way quickly to the tap outside the house, there I met Papa only he was not standing, his arms folded across his breasts with that remarkable frown pasted on his face. He lay beneath clay and limestone. It was there I finally broke down, my tears falling like torrential rain. On Papa’s grave were blocks of cement and bricklayers wearing cement bags fashioned into hats were mixing mortar beside it. Their bodies were grey with cement dust and most of them wore only shorts, one with a pot belly and a pen stuck behind his ear was yelling above the dust and the sound of cement bags slapping the ground. I assumed he was their supervisor, I watched as grey dust snaked up his nostrils and engulfed him, wondering how he could breathe with all the dust, and then I heard him “We must finish today o! and put the tombstone” he shouted. It was then an agonizing scream tore itself from my throat, they were sealing Papa in a grave, how would he ever come back now? I stood immobile, my tears blinding me, reality setting in, someone had their arms around me, and I knew instinctively it was Aunty Ezinne she always smelled liked a fusion of Saturday Night powder and pepper soup spices. She held me to her, hugging me tightly “E besina Gogo Don’t cry Gogo” she crooned. My tears fell profusely, continuously, I cried for myself and for Papa and I knew then that he was never coming back.
Sealed Graves contnd (COPYRIGHT!!!! cannot be reproduced people, borrowed, and all d ish..)
I watched Mama walk into our house, Aunty Ezinne had her arm around her waist and Mama Caro was holding her hand and leading her to the door. As I lay on my mat that night, I tossed and turned endlessly, unable to sleep I reached for the kerosene lamp and with one strike of the match box I had the wick of the lantern burning brightly. I looked down at my lap, little flesh triangles and lines covered it, Papa called it mat print. He said if I ever stopped sleeping like I was fighting a war then maybe I would not wake up every morning with impressions of the mat’s design temporarily etched in my flesh. I looked across the room, by the window sat my white plastic chair, bare. I stared at it for a while trying to decipher what was so wrong about its austerity, no light bulb illuminated my head, so I lay back on the mat, my knees bunched up, my arms forming a pillow for my head, and my eyes fixed intensely on the ceiling tiles as if there lay the answer to the chair’s mystery.
The light streaming in from the window and the cock’s incessant crowing woke me up, and then it hit me. It was Sunday and my chair was bare, Papa had forgotten to tell me to polish my shoes and iron my clothes with the charcoal iron and that was why my Sunday clothes were not laid out on the white chair. I sprang from my bed, eager to get to the bathroom before Papa caught me and began his speech about preparation and success. I turned the knob of the bathroom door, my towel in hand and realized that my bucket was empty. The empty bucket had just added another thirty minutes to Papa’s lecture, I could already hear him “Golibe, how many times will I tell you ehn? Fetch water for tomorrow the night before, iron your school clothes a week in advance, you can never be over-prepared. “A tuoro omara omara, a tuoro ofeke o fenye isi n’ohia – If you tell a wise one, he understands; tell a dunce, he runs into the bush.” Papa’s proverbs always made me cringe; their delivery was like a blow only more piercing. I snatched the bucket by its handle and made my way quickly to the tap outside the house, there I met Papa only he was not standing, his arms folded across his breasts with that remarkable frown pasted on his face. He lay beneath clay and limestone. It was there I finally broke down, my tears falling like torrential rain. On Papa’s grave were blocks of cement and bricklayers wearing cement bags fashioned into hats were mixing mortar beside it. Their bodies were grey with cement dust and most of them wore only shorts, one with a pot belly and a pen stuck behind his ear was yelling above the dust and the sound of cement bags slapping the ground. I assumed he was their supervisor, I watched as grey dust snaked up his nostrils and engulfed him, wondering how he could breathe with all the dust, and then I heard him “We must finish today o! and put the tombstone” he shouted. It was then an agonizing scream tore itself from my throat, they were sealing Papa in a grave, how would he ever come back now? I stood immobile, my tears blinding me, reality setting in, someone had their arms around me, and I knew instinctively it was Aunty Ezinne she always smelled liked a fusion of Saturday Night powder and pepper soup spices. She held me to her, hugging me tightly “E besina Gogo Don’t cry Gogo” she crooned. My tears fell profusely, continuously, I cried for myself and for Papa and I knew then that he was never coming back.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My story....
It's official my blog is moribund!! I'm so sad!!!!! no comments??? why???????????
Anyhow..here is a story I wrote..will be posting in sections till the end..enjoy (to my invisible readers) more sobbing!!!
SEALED GRAVES (COPYRIGHT!!!!! cannot be reproduced...and the rest of the ish)
Mama was rolling on the ground and beating her head in despair. “Di m o! My husband!” she screamed again and again, “Chukwu na mo! Ebe ki no? My God! Where are you”. Mama Caro and Aunty Ezinne, our neighbors, struggled to pull her up, each time she was halfway up she would fall back to the earth screaming “hapu m, tata a ga m anwu! Leave me, today I will die!” Her black blouse and wrapper were cloaked in red earth; the wrinkled skin of her feet a dusty red. Behind her Ikenna and Uzo lowered the wooden casket into the grave that had been dug, Father Anthony stood a few feet away from them clutching his missal to his chest his other arm extended over the casket making the sign of the cross. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and rays from the sun bounced off his shiny bald head. As I watched them put Papa in the ground, I remembered Ralu telling me that Father Anthony was not godly at all. He said he had seen the collar of his cassock and it had brown streaks of dirt all around it, and Father Anthony could not possibly be godly because Sister Eusebius who taught him Moral Instruction had said that cleanliness is next to godliness.
So I ran, straight at Father Anthony intent on pushing him to the ground and showing everyone that he was not as chaste as the white cassock led them to believe. Let them see him as his white became mud red, as I lunged at him throwing my weight in the direction of his mid torso, open arms and a warm embrace intercepted my flailing arms. He scooped me up and placed my head on his chest, it was then I saw Mama advancing, a tired frown on her face. “Golibe” she called, the way she did when she was exasperated. Underneath her languorous tone I could hear her screaming in a fit of rage “You will not kill me o! Golibe! Mba nu!” like when I broke her vase from England, but this was different Father Anthony should not be praying over Papa’s body, he was ungodly. I looked up from Father Anthony’s chest and there stood Mama, her weary eyes alive with anger. As she tried to take me from his arms, Father Anthony said softly to her in Igbo “Rapu ya, o bu nwatakili, o maro ihe n’eme Leave her alone, she is a child, she doesn’t know what is happening.” So Mama left me in his arms and later he put me down as he shoved the spade into the earth “dust to dust” he said lifting mounds of red earth and scattering it on the wooden casket. He beckoned to Mama who came near the grave and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, sweat trickled down her brow and mingled with her tears as she too lifted the spade and drove it into the earth and then scattered its contents on the casket. But Father Anthony was wrong; I did know what was happening. I knew that Papa was in the wooden coffin and Mama had just thrown sand on him.
Anyhow..here is a story I wrote..will be posting in sections till the end..enjoy (to my invisible readers) more sobbing!!!
SEALED GRAVES (COPYRIGHT!!!!! cannot be reproduced...and the rest of the ish)
Mama was rolling on the ground and beating her head in despair. “Di m o! My husband!” she screamed again and again, “Chukwu na mo! Ebe ki no? My God! Where are you”. Mama Caro and Aunty Ezinne, our neighbors, struggled to pull her up, each time she was halfway up she would fall back to the earth screaming “hapu m, tata a ga m anwu! Leave me, today I will die!” Her black blouse and wrapper were cloaked in red earth; the wrinkled skin of her feet a dusty red. Behind her Ikenna and Uzo lowered the wooden casket into the grave that had been dug, Father Anthony stood a few feet away from them clutching his missal to his chest his other arm extended over the casket making the sign of the cross. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and rays from the sun bounced off his shiny bald head. As I watched them put Papa in the ground, I remembered Ralu telling me that Father Anthony was not godly at all. He said he had seen the collar of his cassock and it had brown streaks of dirt all around it, and Father Anthony could not possibly be godly because Sister Eusebius who taught him Moral Instruction had said that cleanliness is next to godliness.
So I ran, straight at Father Anthony intent on pushing him to the ground and showing everyone that he was not as chaste as the white cassock led them to believe. Let them see him as his white became mud red, as I lunged at him throwing my weight in the direction of his mid torso, open arms and a warm embrace intercepted my flailing arms. He scooped me up and placed my head on his chest, it was then I saw Mama advancing, a tired frown on her face. “Golibe” she called, the way she did when she was exasperated. Underneath her languorous tone I could hear her screaming in a fit of rage “You will not kill me o! Golibe! Mba nu!” like when I broke her vase from England, but this was different Father Anthony should not be praying over Papa’s body, he was ungodly. I looked up from Father Anthony’s chest and there stood Mama, her weary eyes alive with anger. As she tried to take me from his arms, Father Anthony said softly to her in Igbo “Rapu ya, o bu nwatakili, o maro ihe n’eme Leave her alone, she is a child, she doesn’t know what is happening.” So Mama left me in his arms and later he put me down as he shoved the spade into the earth “dust to dust” he said lifting mounds of red earth and scattering it on the wooden casket. He beckoned to Mama who came near the grave and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, sweat trickled down her brow and mingled with her tears as she too lifted the spade and drove it into the earth and then scattered its contents on the casket. But Father Anthony was wrong; I did know what was happening. I knew that Papa was in the wooden coffin and Mama had just thrown sand on him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)