This is how I think of you. Like the moon, onwa. The first time I heard Mamaukwu call you that, I was five. It was at Papaukwu’s funeral. You’d slaughtered a cow and come with a host of your Alayi relatives to grace the occasion.

Mamaukwu would have sung an ancient eulogy, and twisted her aged waist this way and that for you, in her usual Akwaeze dance, if she wasn’t mourning. It didn’t make sense to me then, how the animated and spirited Mamaukwu, who ate sarcasm like ukwa and humor like abacha, was cooped up at a corner, in a miserable white gown, defeated, nodding at all the “Ndo” and “O ga adicha mma” she received from villagers.

I have always loved and admired Mamaukwu, but she felt like a stranger that day. With her shaved head and ashy face, she looked cadaverous, like death itself. I didn’t know grief had the power to squeeze you from inside out and dry you of all your juices, until you appear bare and drab, like a thoroughly sucked orange.

So Mamaukwu didn’t dance for you. She didn’t wave her hands in the air in her usual gusto, even though you just slaughtered a cow. She only smiled a weak, relieving smile of someone who had finally seen a ray of light in a dark, starless night. And called you Onwa. Onwa n’etiri oha. The moon that shines brightly for everyone.

*

Today, Mamaukwu calls you Onwa again. We are in Mama Nonso’s house. Outside actually, because the power holders have just taken the light, and the heat inside can boil a tuber of yam. In fact, it seems the gate of hell has been flung open by Satan himself, maybe to prove his existence to the doubting Thomases, or maybe to do what he knows best—torturing the children of God. Either way, the heat is dire, and we are all sweating like Christmas goats, fanning ourselves with old newspapers, and cussing out the government under our breaths.

It’s 2pm, and school children will soon start trooping home. Nonso is warming the soup for garri in the kitchen, and their neighbor’s cat is purring at a corner. When the cat glares at me with the most beautiful green pupils, I quickly pull my gaze because it sends shudders up my spine. Mamaukwu laughs a throaty laugh and asks if I’m scared of that little kitten. I nod, and she laughs again.

“Mamaukwu, this your wrapper is fine, omaka,” I say, when she finally stops laughing. Though the wrapper is an old fabric that is torn on some sides, it’s still a beautiful blend of colors and shapes I cannot name.

“Imakwa that it’s your daddy that bought it for me?” she shakes her head and wipes her face with her palm, like she always does when she is sorry about something. “Emeka will always be my favorite In-law, in life and in death.”

I am staring at her  face now. She’s smiling, the corners of her mouth crinkling, her eyes glinting in admiration. If she is bothered by the fact that she is sitting outside the house, topless, she doesn’t show it. Sometimes I wonder how she was, what she looked like when she was young.

Thinking of this makes me chuckle, and I say, “Do you really love my daddy that much?”

“If I were to reincarnate, he would definitely be my son in-law again. Imakwa that he was our moon, onwa anyi?” She lets out a sigh that turns into a wheeze.

I don’t like the way she talks about you in the past tense. There is a kind of finality in her voice that makes me realize that you are truly gone and would forever be in the past; a memory that is only unlocked on special days, but fastened with a padlock on other days. I don’t like that you are not here to hear her sing your praises, so you guys would turn it into a challenge of praise, each person striving so hard to outdo the other in extolment.

I want to say that you are here with us and Mamaukwu doesn’t have to think or talk about you in the past, but I don’t say anything. Not even when Nonso tells us that food is ready. Not even when Mamaukwu says she is going inside to eat, and I should follow suit. Not even when the cat purrs by my right foot.

I am now staring at Mamaukwu as she stands up to walk to the parlor. Do you even know she now uses your brown walking stick for support? Yes, she is that old now. She should be in her mid or late nineties. I’m sure she feels your presence whenever she holds it. After all, you are onwa, her light in darkness. Her support in times of stumble.

*

This is how I think of you: like music. The year is 2006, and the time is 6 o’clock. I know this because Aka Eze Aka from the radio just says that. He is saying something about what Governor Chimaroke is doing, and you are shaking your head in disapproval, as if what he mentions is a taboo.

 “Ndi ara,” you say, standing from your bed and acknowledging my ‘good morning’ with a nod. “Why spend a huge amount of money on an unimportant project like that, when the roads are bad? Nonsense.”

 The word ‘Nonsense’ lingers in the air long after you say it. In your mouth, it sounds like it has another deeper meaning. Like something only intellectuals would be able to understand.

You are in your blue shorts, the one that never fits your waist. The one you bought on a late night shopping in Garriki market. The one you have to fold and fold just so it would fit, but would always look funny, like you are dumped into it.

I always wanted to ask why that pair of shorts is your favorite, why you would go through the hassle of folding and unfolding your shorts. But I never asked you. There are so many other questions that I have always wanted to ask you. Like if you competed for the first position in your primary school, as  I’m doing with Okechukwu now.

He’s the doe-eyed boy in my class, who looks like his father has money, and always answers all the difficult maths questions. He’s a pain in my ass, that one. Always competing with me for the first position, while others trail kilometers behind us. I also wanted to ask you if you were talkative as a kid, just like me. But I don’t. Whenever this question slides up my throat, I just swallow hard and look away. I always thought that adults don’t answer these questions, so I’d ask you annoying ones instead. But I should have, if I knew one day I would be wracking my brain to remember details about you.

You are selecting a cassette from the lot, and even before you slot it inside the player, I already know which it is. The Cardinal Rex Lawson you bought last year, the one you put every Sunday morning while we prepare for church, the one you know the lyrics to all its songs.

You love him so much, Rex Lawson. I know this because of the crease between your eyes when you talk of him. Like you are a proud father whose son is taking over the world and you are all for it. It’s in the way the corner of your mouth curves upward as you laugh.

This morning, you tell me the same things you say every day. In the same rhythm and tone. You tell me the man was a genius, God rest his soul. Have you ever imagined that one day I’d be telling people about you, and chirp in ‘God rest his soul’? Have you ever thought that I would ever talk about you in the past tense, like you are doing your dear Rex Lawson?

You tell me he could speak many languages. He wasn’t even Igbo, but was fluent in the language. ‘Jolly Papa’ is your favorite. You hum to it, you dance to it. You move your hips this way and that, in unrehearsed dance.

I am still lying on the bed; checking you out, with admiration, watching you do your little concert. And if I am worried that it’s time for school, I don’t show it.

 I laugh, because I have never seen anyone as terrible as you and Mummy when it comes to dancing. You both must have put a great show for them on your wedding day. A perfect match.

I laugh and you laugh with me. And we are lost in our own little world. It comes to me easily. This laughter that I share with you. This joy of being able to laugh with you. I don’t overthink it. I just put back my head and laugh. And while we are overfed with laughter, you say, “Ada, this show I’m performing for you free of charge is not entirely free oo, I will bill your future husband so much. You will see.”.

I say, “I will marry a rich man nah, we can pay you.”

“Good for you o, because you are my expensive pounds and dollars.” You bend down and tickle me, and I burst into a fresh bout of laughter.

You also listen to Osadebe and Oliver De Coque. You talk about them as if they were your classmates and you are on a first name basis with them. You shake your head, and kiss your teeth in disappointment when you complain about their bad blood.

“That is the problem with our people,” you say one rainy Saturday evening we spend eating corn and ube while listening to ‘Ana enwe obodo enwe’ by Oliver De Coque. “They are always fighting each other, when they can come together and collaborate as brothers and promoters of Igbo culture.”

You raised us in music. Westlife, Oriental Brothers, Brenda Fassie, Bob Marley, Celine Dion.

Our mornings had particular soundtracks. If you weren’t humming to Jim Reeves’ ‘we thank thee,’ you were whistling to Don Williams’ ‘I believe in you’ as you wrote in your journal and set the tone for your day.

*

This is how I think of you: like perfection. You didn’t need to teach me that cleanliness was next to godliness; you lived it instead, and I learned from your immaculate life.

During CRK studies in primary school when they taught us about the holies of holies, I imagined it would be like your room. The walls would be painted blue and the ceiling, white. And there would be a large cupboard with a big stereo on top, just before the toilet.

Your room was the closest I had been to catching a glimpse of heaven. It was your sanctuary, divine. And you cleaned it yourself till your last breath. Heaven and earth would pass away before anyone sees a speck of dust anywhere in your room.

You polished your shoes with a kind of vigor I wish I possessed; like you had only two choices, going hard or going home. And you preferred the former. You would scrub the brush over your shoes with a careful precision of someone who could save the world by being meticulous.

And your unique obsession with shorts and shirts was to die for. It was a taboo to catch you unfresh. These days I wonder about the most inane things, like if you still preferred shorts over pants on the other side. And if the angels indulge your weird taste, no questions asked.

Nwokeocha. Your fair skin radiated and glistened like a fine chinaware. And I would always look at you and nod in admiration. Yes, this piece of perfection is my father.

*

This is how I think of you: like love. I have never had to wonder what it feels like to be loved. Or what love is. I just think of you.

 Do you remember the day I overdosed on some medications? I was five. Mummy had just received the news of Nonso’s birth and had gone to Emene to visit the newly born and his mother, and had instructed me to take my drugs. I should have known mine was in the black nylon bag on the table in Mummy’s room; the one she kept stuff that was not good enough to be used and not bad enough to be discarded.

 I should have known that Mummy would never keep something as important as my drugs on the high cupboard that was way out of my reach. I should have asked Chidi questions. But I took a stool and climbed the cupboard anyway, and took Uchenna’s medicine. All three of them. And I almost strolled to the other side, if you hadn’t  flown in with your cape to save me, like my superhero you always were.

 I have never seen you that agitated in your entire life. Your eyes were red, redder than all the red crayons I’d ever seen, and they nearly shot out fire like that dragon in Merlin.

The breath whooshed out of you, like your lungs were stifling it and it wanted out. And I could hear the sound of your pulse blaring loudly from your chest like the Angleus bell of Holy Ghost Cathedral.

I had taken drugs five times the regular dosage, made me so nauseous, and I puked, and emptied the contents of my stomach on you. But you didn’t mind. You could always buy new clothes and wash up, but what would you do if I slipped away from your fingers? 

You bought me milk, coconut, palm oil, everything they said would neutralize the drugs and make me feel better. You held my hands and told me I would be fine.

*

 The first time I beat Faith to take the first position in nursery three, you lifted me, whirled me around, and called me Ada Umuirem. Ada e ji eje mba. You bought me my favorite biscuit and Capri-Sonne. You told me you were the luckiest man alive to have me as your daughter. That I was too brilliant.

*

This is how I think of you: like God. Growing up, when I thought of God, I imagined you, in all your glory and majesty. You were my god in human form. I thought you were immortal, but my perception of you has been flawed since you died. You were mortal like every other human, and you were capable of dying.

Since you left I have been struggling with a lot of things. I’m no longer who I used to be. Your baby girl is grown. But some things have never changed and would never change. Things like chewing garri before swallowing. Mummy has always complained that it was a weird way of eating, but you’d always tell her to relax, that the most important thing was that I was eating.

You were my Messiah, my Bob the builder. You solved all my problems. And I had a hard time adjusting to doing stuff by myself, being independent. I am also struggling with addressing you in the past tense. How do I do that? How do I convince myself that you are long gone and I would never see you again? Who will walk me down the aisle? What about all the plans we made?

Now where do I keep all this love that I have garnered over the years for you? This chalice of affection that is filled and overflowing, where do I pour it into? This adoration that I watched grow from a seed to a tree, what do I do with it? Should I cut it off or uproot it? This house that you built in my heart, my life, who do I sell it to? This future that I planned with you which you would never be a part of, should I erase it, even before living it? This admiration that makes my eyes gleam whenever I watch you dance your terrible dance, how do I efface it from my being?

Do you even know there are things that I hate about you?

I hate how I have fully adjusted to a world without you in it. I no longer hesitate when I want to say my thanks after eating. I just say ‘Mummy thank ma,’ because my brain has erased that part that also says, ‘Daddy thank sir.’

I hate that you didn’t warn me of your departure. Our last conversation was on the phone. You’d just undergone surgery and was apologizing for not being there on my matriculation day. Didn’t you promise to make it up to me on my convocation day? Didn’t you cross your fingers like you always did? I hate how abrupt it was, your departure. How ungentle death dragged you to the other side. I hate that you lied to me. You said you would beat that bloody cancer. You broke your promise, Daddy. For the first time in my life, you made a promise you couldn’t keep.

I hate how my memory of you has become a big lie. I thought you were immortal, you would never die. You’d seen a lot and overcome a lot in your lifetime, so what was a measly cancer that you couldn’t beat? I hate that I saw you in that light, but you wouldn’t blame me though. You were my superhero, always coming through to save the day. You defeated every little discomfort I felt, so I thought you would defeat that, too.

I hate how slow I am when it comes to grief’s education. I never graduate, its lessons are infinite. The pangs that tug at my heart and stomach and head and everywhere when a random memory of you pops up in my brain never really ends. It doesn’t ever get better.

I hate that I have no videos of us being goofy, or simply enjoying the bliss of being in the same space and breathing same air.

I hate that I’m still doing this, writing this down, when I’m supposed to numb all the pain and pretend that I have totally moved on from you.

I think about your burial a lot, these days. I wonder if you appeared in your spirit form, just like in Nollywood films, and watched us lay you to the earth. Did you see me lose composure? No. Did you hear Mamaukwu’s dirge? That was my first real life experience of dirge, and not the theoretical definition I learned from Literature-in-English.

She nearly stripped herself naked at the sight of you, laying lifeless in that coffin. You were the first dead person I’ve ever been in close proximity with. I looked into your coffin and searched for you; you, who was a glowing masterpiece of God’s favorite creature. You, who was nicknamed Nwokeocha, because of how your fair skin glistened in the sun. You, who Mamaukwu called Nwoke mara mma ka nwanyi, because you were more beautiful than women. You, who I was proud of, for being your daughter, because you were an embodiment of perfection.

But I couldn’t find you. All I saw was a shriveled and lifeless man who I couldn’t recognize. How dare death treat you this way? How dare he strip you of your majesty?

Did you watch me run to the backyard to wail, because I couldn’t believe the person in that brown coffin was you? I clasped my hands over my mouth and released a muffled scream, Poco Lee doing an intense kind of legwork in my heart.

I couldn’t even mourn you like I wanted to because we were warned not to make a fuss, not to attract the attention of some evil people who would also come to mourn your passing. How dare anyone dictate to me how to grieve?

Were you confused on who to console first; Mummy with her grief-induced silence, staring into air, or rather staring at your spirit self, and just nodding or shaking her head when talked to? Or were you torn between hugging me and telling me, ‘ozugo, ogadimma’ and sweeping Mamaukwu into your arms and calling her oke ogo? Did you even notice your sons trying so hard to stifle their tears because they are men and men don’t cry? Did you watch all this, and yet didn’t do anything?

One man who I couldn’t recognize called me Ada Umuirem because in my tribute to you, I lamented no one would ever call me that special name again. And if eyes were bullets, mine would have shot him down. The audacity of him to think he had what it took to mention that name. I wanted to roll my eyes and warn him to never try that rubbish again, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled a pretentious smile, as if all was well and I adored his humor, when a fire was raging inside me.

Listening to Chike’s “Nothing Less, Nothing More” does something to me. It reminds me that all I will ever have of you is the memory.

I hate how nobody prepares us for grief, for loss. How viciously it attacks and attacks and keeps attacking. I hate how swift the world moved on without you, like you were never here. I hate that I’m still doing this. I thought it would get to a point when it becomes normal. But this abnormality, this perpetual absence of you, will never become normal. I can never wean myself off you, even if I try.

These days, I pick your diary from the eighties and read, just to have a feel of what you used to be. You were meticulous and sweet and loving. I’m sure all the angels love you. I’m sure you’ve made many friends already. I’m sure you are still listening to lots of music and dancing a lot.

I hate that you have never read any of my works. And you will never read them.

I hate that I don’t hate you, even when you left after promising you would stay. I hate that I miss you so much, I fear my mind is going to explode. I hate that I love you a lot, Daddy, and I hate that you don’t know how much.

I hate that you won’t come home tonight or tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. And sadly, I hate that I’m not even expecting you.

About the Author:

Ezioma Kalu is a fast rising Nigerian writer and book blogger. Her works have appeared on some online literary platforms like the Kalahari Review, Writers Space Africa – Nigeria, Terror House Magazine, Libretto Magazine, Salamander Ink Magazine, African Writer Magazine, One Black Boy Like That Blog, Livina Press and elsewhere. She runs a book blog, Bookish Pixie, where she writes amazing reviews on books. Kalu writes from Enugu, Nigeria, and she finished as the first runner up in the May 2022 edition of Challenging the writers writing contest. She is a flash fiction editor and mentor at Writers Space Africa, the assistant coordinator of Writers Space Africa (Nigerian chapter), and a 2022 Best of the net award nominee.  Connect with her on: Facebook – Ezioma Kalu, Twitter:- @EziomaKalu, Instagram – @bookish_ezioma. Website: bookishpixie.wixsite.com

*Feature image by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash