by Chiebuka Ojukwu

I remember it vividly. The day the sun came down and never went up. I was in my third year at the university. It was a gloomy afternoon when I received a phone call from my uncle Desmond telling me that my father had died and that I should tell my mother. He was still speaking when I cut the call and dropped my phone on the bed. I did not cry. I did not have any sudden reaction. I just threw some essentials into my carry-on and left for Asaba.

The journey from Onitsha to Asaba was roughly 45 minutes but it seemed shorter. The image of my mother’s face kept popping in my head. This information would kill her. She was already battling with high blood pressure and had troubles sleeping. I went over so many scenarios in my head as to how I was going to tell her. I realized that no matter how I chose to tell her, A DEATH IS A DEATH, and there was no right way to tell a wife that her husband had died.

My siblings were the first to rush to me as I entered the gate to our compound. Then came mama. She limped as she tried to run. Her arthritis was getting worse. I wore a smile on my face trying incredibly hard to hide my under laid sorrow. My younger brother took my bag as I walked hand in hand with Mama. She asked me of school and studies and pointed out how much weight I’d lost all in one breath. Her next sentence moved past my ears and pierced my spine. She told me that my father would be coming back in two days and how she hadn’t been able to reach him since that morning.

My father was a luxurious bus driver. He transported goods from the north down to the east. His bus collided with another bus and he died on the spot. My uncle who called me was in my father’s line of business and he told me because I was the only one who could handle the news over the phone. My mother wouldn’t and neither would my sister.

We were seated in the living room as Mama and my two younger siblings told me stories about what had been happening all the while I was at school. The curtain opened and my elder sister entered. She lived with her husband in another side of town. I had texted her while I was in the bus. She asked me why I had chosen to pull her out of office. I ignored her with a smile because any sudden explanation would result to my outburst. I was on the edge. On the edge of all things patient.

I pulled out a hundred Naira note from my pocket and gave it to Ikenna and Chisom, my younger siblings, to buy cooked corn with. The time was early for any cooked corn to be ready; I knew they would be a while. Mama turned to me as they left. Her smile turned into concern. It was unusual for me to come home when school was still in session. It was even more unusual for my sister to come home in the middle of a work day. Carol, my sister, turned to me. She didn’t say anything because she didn’t have to. They both wanted to know what had happened.

I paused. One second. Two seconds. Five seconds. I told them that Papa had died in an accident. There was no how else I could say it but to blurt it out. Mama stood up. Tears flooded her eyes. She told us she knew something had happened to him. He called her every day by ten in the morning, everyday, for the past twenty years. When she had not received his phone call that day, she knew deep down in her heart that something had happened to him. My sister went to her office and took a few weeks off.

The next few weeks prior to Papa’s burial was emotionally wrecking. Mama had fallen into deep depression. She spoke but a few words in a day. She barely ate and would only nod to visitors when they came to pay their condolences.

 

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This entry was submitted as part of the Nigerian Voices competition organized by YNaija.com.

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