A Journey Home - Part 2

We had finally made it to Nigeria. After a long flight from London to Lagos, we then had to take a local flight to Enugu. At that point I had already become tired of planes and had become very irritable.

After the stress of handling our luggage and trying to avoid bumping into other travellers, we made it out of the airport to a vehicle waiting for us. 

A slim man stood by the family sized car; he looked like he had been waiting there for some time. The man saw us and began approaching; he beamed a bright smile and let out a shout of joy. 

"Oga! Madam! Welcome! Welcome ohh!"

My father laughed and the two shook hands and hugged briefly; he came over to my mother and greeted her too. 

"KC?! How are you?" my mother said smiling.

"I dey ooh! I dey! We thank God." KC replied smiling as he turned to me and my sister.

Being the well-trained children that we were, Peace & I greeted KC before he greeted us.

"KC, so you're still this slim...like a chewing stick! Aren't you eating enough?" my mother asked jokingly.

KC didn't reply he just laughed as he and my father began loading our luggage into the boot.

KC was our driver...well; he was actually the driver for my family in Nigeria and he had been their driver for some time. I couldn’t say I remembered KC. I only knew his face from some of the photos we had back home in London.

After my parents and KC were done exchanging pleasantries, we all got in and begun our journey. KC and my parents were chatting away about the usual things: politics, the differences between ‘home’ & UK, how much me and my sister have grown and haven’t become spoilt like those other ‘useless children’ back in London; …that bit was something my mum often pointed out when talking about my sister and I.

I was already starting to sweat from the heat and Peace wasn’t making things easier. She was starting to dose off as she leant on me, and she was starting to sweat also; whatever anti-perspirant she was wearing wasn’t working very well.

“Peace! Lean off me man! You smell.” I said impatiently.

My sister didn’t even budge. She just kissed her teeth at me.

“You shouldn’t even be talking about who stinks; your b.o is just making me dizzy.”

I tried to nudge her off, but she was proving stubborn.

As my camera was packed in my luggage, I decided to take some mental pictures of the sights of the city. Everything seemed so interesting; the cars, the noise, the people even the trees...everything felt new… as if I hadn't seen such things before. 

Back in London I hardly appreciated such things, but here in Nigeria I seemed to be intrigued by them.

A little smile spread across my face as I looked at everything around. I then looked over at my father who was at the front looking out of the window. I could just about see a small smile on the side of his face too. He seemed quite happy to be back.

As child I remember some of the stories he would tell my mum, about where he grew up. Some of the stories were sad, like when he was re-telling the things he could remember from the war; and some amusing like the time he and his brother were in the village and they saw a masquerade being chased by two-dogs.

My father never really spoke to me and Peace about these things. We used to sneak out from our bedrooms and eavesdrop while my mum & dad spoke in the living-room.

As KC was driving, an Okada pulled up in front of us; KC impatiently pressed down on the horn and threw insults at him through the open window. 

"Abeg, comot from de road joh! Non-entity!...anuofia!" 

I began laughing. My father smiled a little and gestured for KC to calm down. KC kissed his at the Okada driver as we over took him. The Okada simply ignored him. My mother however didn't find it funny at all...she was more concerned.

"Biko, Kelechi! Take it easy, you know these Okada men are sometimes irresponsible drivers."

"Madam, I'm sorry, no vex oh; but that na de only way these yeye people go fit understand...everyday they'll be riding stupidly on the roads. If to say de driver get helmet, I for just jam am wit' dis moto." 

Though Peace was half asleep she heard that last comment from KC.

"Hmm. KC, you're a joker." she mumbled.

At that point my father turned to Peace.

"Ada, call him 'Uncle Kelechi', he's not your mate." my father said calmly.

KC didn't seem bothered. 

"No mind ya papa...it's fine. Just call me Uncle KC." he said happily.

As time went on Peace had drifted off fully into sleep, but this time she was leaning on mum, who had also dosed off.

My father and ‘Uncle KC’ had finished their conversation, so he decided then to speak to me.

“Mikel, look around you; these streets are where I grew up, where I sold goods to help support my mother and siblings; where I saw and heard various things. As I look around I see the dramatic changes this city has gone through.” My father’s voice had a solemn tone to it.

As he continued my interest slowly grew. The traffic around us seemed to be getting less and less congested; cars and other vehicles started flowing a bit more freely.

“Obi, this place holds a lot of memories for me…many, many memories. While we’re here I will share some of them with you. You’re growing into a man, so I know you may appreciate what I’ll tell you.” My father stopped talking. He seemed to be lost in thought.

I began to wonder what things he wanted to tell me. Part of me wanted my father to continue talking; to continue and tell me everything he had to say; but he just remained silent, causing me to be swallowed up by curiosity. I reminded myself that this wasn’t going to be easy for my dad. Although he wasn’t saying a lot I knew this was probably the most he had opened to anyone. My heart felt warm with appreciation for my father’s efforts; and of course I knew that I also had to put in effort if me and my dad were going to make any progress together.

I tried to mentally prepare myself for anything that came during our time in Nigeria; whatever happened I would just embrace it.

I prayed a short prayer for me and my father, and then I leaned my head back and enjoyed the rest of car ride home.

BREATHE

“Obiora, welcome back”, says my father as he hugs me. “It’s good to have you home. Nnọ”.

My father’s voice reminds me of James Earl Jones; his voice has a tone of authority and royalty.
As my father speaks, I feel the base in his voice rumble against my body. He releases me from his hold, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.

His pure-white shirt looks immaculate and well ironed; not a single crease. His navy-blue silk tie and trousers match perfectly and his black shoes shine proudly.
As he takes his seat I look at his physical stature. He has a head of jet-black hair with a small grey area above his left temple.

6’3 and built solid, my father has the body of a warrior. Although my father has never set foot in a gym, he is naturally big; and unlike some of my uncles, who have a typical West African diet, he hasn’t got a pot-belly. My father is in pretty good shape for someone in his late 40s.

As I take my seat, my family and I join hand hands, and we close our eyes. My father clears his throat and begins praying. I’m little bit grateful he’s the one praying, if it was mum she’d go on for ages.

After my father ends the prayers we all begin to serve ourselves and eat. My father piles a large serving of rice, stew and meat on his plate.

As I chew my eyes slowly drift up, so do my sister’s eyes. We give cheeky smiles to each other. I giggle quietly.

My mind flashes back to when we were younger and we used to pull faces at each other at the dinning table. Seeing as I was the eldest and the one who’s supposed to set a better example, I received the slaps over the back of my head. Peace only got the stern looks to make her stop giggling.

“Obiora, what is so funny?” my mother asks

“What? Oh, nothing…nothing. I’m just remembering something from when we were kids”

I return my concentration to my food. I then look at my father’s plate. It amazes how he can eat such a large portion. But it makes sense, a man his size eats to his ability.

“A King size-meal for a King” my father says as he catches me staring.

I focus back on my food and continue eating. I’m so grateful to be home. Now I can eat proper food and not the sardines and maggi-cube rice dish I used to make back at uni. I guess I should have listened when mum said I should learn how to cook; and not just my sister.

In the corner of my eye I can see my father. I can sense him working out in his mind what he wants to ask me; and the answers he expects me to tell him. This makes me apprehensive. I feel short of breath.

Through my late secondary school years and most of my college years, my father was always on my case. Every subject I took was decided by him. The college I went to was decided was decided by him; even the car I have was my father decision. 'No' wasn’t even an option. Life before uni was sometimes suffocating.

Time slowly passes and we finish our dinner. My sister heads straight to her room. I and my parents are in
the living room watching a Nigerian film. I sit watching uninterestedly; the over-the-top acting, poor sound quality and melo-dramatic storyline annoys me.

“Obiora, now that you have finished university, have you decided where you want to work?” My father asks without moving his gaze from the screen. Once again I feel short of breath.

The question puts me off totally. I’ve barely been back a day and already he’s on my case. This is exactly why I studied away from home in the first place.

“I don’t know yet, I’m still thinking.” I reply.

“But you’re not a small boy; I didn’t send you to university for fun. You should know what you want to do by now” he says as he turns to looks at me.

“I said I don’t know” I reply nonchalantly, “Probably something to do with accounting, after all that’s what you made me study.”
“That’s what I made you study?” He repeats. "How do you mean? Didn’t we both agree that…"

I cut him off in mid sentence. I decide to give my true opinion now. As he said; I’m no longer a small boy.

“Dad, I didn’t make any agreement. It was you who decided that should study accountancy. It was you who pressured me.” I speak calmly.

I avoid his eyes and twitch my fingers nervously.
“A whole graduate such as yourself and you don’t know what you want? Is that what you will tell people outside? Do you want to shame me?” my father raises his voice.

I take a deep breath

“But it’s not really about you” I reply even quieter than before. I try to control my breathing pattern.

“Not about me?” He says standing up. “Do you hear yourself? Who will they blame if you become a failure tomorrow? Whose name will they call if you achieve nothing?”

“Biko, let us not argue now. It’s too soon. This nice time we’re having, let us enjoy it” my mum says trying to calm things down.

“Gladys please, let me talk to him. Just continue watching the film.” Now my father is standing looking at me.

I stand up to leave the living room; my father’s presence is now choking me. I hold my breath. I then walk out. Surprisingly he doesn’t call me back; but I can feel his eyes on me.
I walk through the hallway into the kitchen and step out into the garden.

The cool night breeze comforts me as I try to clear my mind. How dare he say all those things?
If I become a failure then it’s on me. He still has his status: Barrister Albert Nwadiké.
My own life choices, should not affect him; but then again that’s how my father is; he’ll take things twist them and make them about himself. I’m honestly sick and tired of him. I need to breakaway from him no matter what it takes. It’s MY life.

I look up at the night sky; finally…I can breath.