A BLEEDING HEART

The funeral procession began from the very compound that was once noted for her air of exuberance. I thought I was a strong man indoctrinated in the traditional ideology that ‘Men don’t cry’. I gave in and the manliness in me was demystified. Her burial drew a mammoth crowd that one of the mourners who came to pay their last respect remarked, ‘In all the twelve clans of Ukpa community and for the past 60 years of my life, a burial like this had never before been witnessed’. What surprised them most was the fact that the deceased was neither a traditional Chief nor titled man to have been accorded such historic interment. Yes, just like a dream that vital part of me was gone. Among scores of mourners at her grave site was Akala, the village drunk. For the first time he had no companion as he would often refer to a bottle of gin and there was no trace of alcohol in his eyes. In the midst of the silence that greeted our confused community, his words rang out, ‘Madam Papaya is incomparable. I wish other women in the community could emulate her .I knew no hunger because of that woman lying there. She brought succour and joy to many people in this community. There had never been a dull moment in her restaurant. She was the person behind this attire I am putting on today. Look around, even all the birds are silent’. A thousand eyes gawked at him trying to establish if indeed he was the same drunk they used to make mockery of, but now dressed in cream coloured suit with a neck tie to match. His words tore the hearts of many and attracted fresh wailings most especially from the women group she was leaving behind. Defeated by fate I watched the love of my life being laid to rest.

Justina and I had come a long way. She was not a nagging type. Her fidelity was never questioned. She and I had always walked the path of trust. Cheating on each other was not in our dictionary of conjugal expedition. I recall vividly with a sense of pride the day we were traditionally betrothed. A piece of white cloth was presented to me by her mother to signify her virginity. I vouched for her judging from the ordeal I was subjected to. The first attempt I made to woo her spoke volumes. Twice, I was beaten by her brothers in a fight I could ordinarily have won were the enemies from another planet. I was never a weakling but if I had to assume that form to get the woman of my dream, it was done in good faith. Thanks to the youths of their community who rescued me from those cruel hands when they sensed that my intentions were real. She was very precious and priceless to her family and their community. Not until the traditional marriage rites were concluded, taking their daughter away was like plugging a man’s scrotum while he is still awake. She exuded great confidence, very industrious and above all kind-hearted. Being the most lettered, honest and courageous character in the Opiatoha Women Association, her second mandate as their Chairlady was extended. She never had adulterous bone in her body. A month prior to the fifteenth anniversary of our wedding, a man was rushed to our community hospital following a fight with her in my absence. It took the intervention of seven hefty men to remove my wife from a man she wrestled to the ground. She pounded his face beyond recognition. I was later told by an eye witness that her victim was fortunate to have escaped with a missing tooth. She did that because the man poked some dirty jokes on her and even attempted to touch her natural endowment. Her victim forgot that Justina combined the strength of a man and woman to right the wrongs especially in delicate matters. I neither questioned her action nor challenged her integrity. She did what she considered appropriate and it was worth it. If I had been around, I wouldn’t have done better.

Our happiness was occasionally punctuated. No thanks to our son whose incessant suspension from school had become a real source of concern in recent months. My wife and I had been summoned a few times on account of his behaviour and made to sign an undertaking. If anything we wouldn’t have loved to succumb to public shame by putting up an appearance before the school board to address our son’s truancy. During the long vacation, Kelvin returned home in a pair of hole- ridden sagging shorts that were three times the size of a ten kilogram sack of imported rice. As if that was not enough, he pierced his ears and decorated them with some ear rings. I thought ear rings were meant for ladies. That was not all. He had a cap facing backward with an inscription “I DON KIA WAT U FINK, JUST MA OWN WAY”.A long chain dangled around his neck swaying from left to right in a rhythmic style to complement some strange steps he was rehearsing. Our suspicion was confirmed when we found some tattoos all over his body. Earlier in the week he confided in one of his friends about his ambition to be a rapper and was even seen miming two of his favourite’s artists. Media had it that one of those musicians was known for gun running, drugs and had occasionally been in Police custody for crime. Kelvin’s decision to choose a lunatic as his role model beat my heart. As if it was a dream, Kelvin had been expelled from his school. He was brought home hand-cuffed and escorted by two rough looking policemen. Evidence before us were glaring. He and some miscreants sneaked to a night club where he distributed hemp. Unknown to us, he was a celebrated pimp in the club house. On hearing this, my wife passed out. At hospital, scores of sympathizers gathered to offer some prayers for her. Doctors and Nurses did what they knew best to revive her but it seemed like a forlorn hope. Conclusions were made and caesarean operation was carried out to save our premature baby at the expense of my wife. If only I could stand in for her, if only Kelvin had not gone this far. There I was, lost for words, perplexed, disconsolate, looking like a deflated tyre with my hands clutched to her body. I watched my beloved wife die like a vegetable leaf. The woman I vowed to protect was snatched from our midst by the cold hands of death. My world had crumbled.

Kelvin killed the very dream we had for him. Needless to say, my better half and I pulled our hard earned resources together with the hope of giving him the best education that was envisaged. The initial, though erroneous idea we had was to guarantee him a befitting future and being the surviving son from our nineteen years of marriage, it couldn’t have been better if he was sent to the best school. We never wanted him to experience the nature of hardships I went through in my childhood. My parents met their untimely death in the hands of a care free son of a bitch who called himself a truck driver. I was only five when it happened and had to live with one of my Uncles. The joy of being pampered in my childhood eluded me. We were proved wrong by the strange life style Kelvin had embraced in the first semester of his second year undergraduate studies. Kelvin exhibited some strange behaviour barely a year before and for few times, he was confronted by his mother. His grades were nothing to write home about and he was deteriorating. One of such incidents came to limelight when he returned late at night in company of 5 scallywags. They hailed our son and called him ’KEVO AKA AREA SCATTER’. Area scatter denotes a hardened kingpin and law breaker who controls a gang of thugs within certain vicinity. He directs operations and gives orders to goons in their nefarious activities. I could no longer stomach the staccato of noise that emanated from his uninvited group. My thunderous voice vibrated and they fled unceremoniously. Kelvin began to throw up leaving a rancid atmosphere in our common room. The stench from him was unbearable. His mother seized him by the throat and demanded immediate answers to a barrage of questions in a bid to chastise her son. As much as she pressed on, Kelvin took a vow of silence. To the consternation of everyone, my wife made for Kelvin’s school bag that was carelessly kept under his bed and emptied the contents on the floor. Items found were knives, packs of weeds, a dozen sachets of assorted gin and whisky, dark goggles, bandana, hand gloves and bunch of keys. With mouth agape and hands akimbo, I was lost for words. My wife went into the bedroom and emerged with a woven dried cow tail we had not used for months. She unleashed several lashes on Kevin determined to peel off his skin but the latter felt nothing. It was at that moment I concluded that Kelvin had been possessed by some forces and was probably on his way to self destruction. Felicia, our next door neighbour and my wife’s best friend who probably must have heard the pandemonium, rushed in and collected the whip from my wife reminding her that Kelvin was her son. My wife leaned on the dining hall table and began to weep profusely. The night was longer than usual and I could hear her groaning at every hour. It became so horrifying that I had to sit on a chair adjacent to her bed to keep watch over her till daybreak lest she did something strange to herself. In between her blood shot eyes that knew no sleep, she asked where she had gone wrong and what she did to deserve utmost humiliation from our son. The agony of a loving mother could only be explained by mothers who, time without number, have to put up with similar or worse experiences. Mothers carry crosses that are often too heavy for their husbands to bear. Society feeds us with the idea that Man is the head of a family, but I will add that woman is the heart of a family. Her heart is the melting point of the good and ugly things she has to accommodate on daily basis. In domestic chores and affairs, she is a manager par excellence. The definition of a good home is incomplete without a good woman.

Perhaps if Kelvin were an irresponsible son of irresponsible parent, it would be logical but his life style bears no semblance in the family. That is completely intolerable. His late mother and I played our part. We had been through inescapable dramatic and cultural pressures that torment our financial and parental obligations. In all things, bearing children is not a crime, raising them though an arduous task, adds flavour to family vitality.

In addition to the traditional three months of mourning after the funeral, I spent couple of months trying to cope with the loneliness that surrounded me. I was much more confused and everything around me appeared gloomy. Every item I touched in the home gave an aura of my late angel. I knew no sleep for months and my life was just a   mere shadow gradually fading away. It was in the midst of the trauma that our shop and restaurant were auctioned out. I quickly opened an account in our daughter’s name. I insisted that our baby be christened Justina Junior to keep the mother’s name alive. Justina and I allowed some years intervals after a miscarriage she had based on medical advice before she conceived. Thanks to my elder brother’s wife who willingly offered to champion my daughter’s upbringing. According to her, my late wife stood by her through those turbulent days of her life, gave meaning to what and who she is today. She maintained that there could be no better way of showing her gratitude to Justina. Meanwhile I had earlier called at the Juvenile Remand home to sign some documents in respect of Kelvin who would spend the next ten years of his life trying to undergo reform. Despite the fact that I never expressed it verbally, it was good riddance. When my daughter grows up and as I had instructed our lawyer, our family house remains her inheritance, not Kelvin’s. Society occasionally places importance on male child but in our case, my daughter will grow to prove a point just like her mother. I confided in few neighbours about the need to change an environment at least to calm the raging storm in me, the storm of losing my precious jewel. To avoid unnecessary bon voyage or perhaps some persuasion to postpone my plan, I got up before the early morning cock crow and set out on foot. Deep within me, I was going on exile, a self imposed type, to an unknown destination. The trip may be perilous subjecting me to life and death. If it does, it is only a page in the chapter of a book intended to reminisce my wife. She deserves nothing less. Taking another wife is out of question. I swore an oath at her grave and that I would honour.

It is said that marriage is like a parcel, when you open it whatever you find, take it. But for Kelvin, we almost had it all. Justina demonstrated the role of a father, a mother, a sister and most importantly a faithful wife. Undeniably she was, has been and will remain my queen, my super star, my breathe, my blood, my veins, my compass, my heroine, my Udu, my all in all. Do you often wonder why some tears never dry? For this and many other blessings she brought into my life, I owe her much. She is inimitable and nothing would expunge her memories from my heart. This is part of my tribute to her exclusive love. In the time being, I am a walking corpse, a fugitive completely detached from the very environment I was once proud of to deal with this bleeding heart. I wear these shoes and know where they pinch most. Her death leaves a hole in my heart. No price is too much for Justina, my Udu.

*Udu is an Igede word for treasure/wealth.