Unbidden

UNBIDDEN
Tragedy Unbidden
We greeted you with no kola at the door
And stammered at your steely insistence
As you laughed, loud reports of thunder and fire
You engulfed us in blackish vapours of corruption
Ours, a million sorrows forever

She woke from a dream about an old traditional dance of her childhood.
It had been a vivid dream of heart-swelling joy and merriment; how she had
danced with unfettered energy and abandon, the hand-held wooden clappers
smacking together repeatedly in a jaunty and infectious rhythm.
Now her spirit had returned, the dream was puzzling to think of, considering the
Uko dance was only for young children; young children dressed like old women.
She smiled to herself, sitting upright in the semi-darkness of the self-contained
room she shared with her three children, Odinaka, Nnenna and Akanso; the
rasping sound of her movement on the worn raffia mat must have disturbed the
sleep of Akanso, her last and only son who would be three in June; he stirred
briefly beside her with a groan of complaint and then grunted a tiny snore.
Her lips fluttered in a small prayer of gratitude; a particularly stubborn chesty
cough kept him in wide-awake suffering most nights and early mornings, for
several weeks now. Every moment he was asleep was a relief.
Nna Emeka, the clothes dealer who often travelled from Onitsha to Nyanya to
visit his family, was returning with Inyinyi ogwu, a powerful local anti-tussive
concoction for which shed requested and he was due that weekend for the
Easter celebrations.
The cool breeze of dawn sifting through the lone window covered with mosquito
net above the sleeping children was a thing to be grateful for or else the room
would have been unbearably stifling with the absence of electricity. Nnenna

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mentioned the light went off at about four PM the day before (Sunday) and till
then, had not returned; someone had equally mentioned something about the
NEPA people and their ladder then, and there was general speculation that they
had cut the electricity cables again for outstanding bills. Odinaka would have to
go and buy some ice-blocks for the drinks in the shop from Oga Rambo later that
morning.
She was also concerned the Bugu she bought on Saturday for fresh fish peppersoup on Good Friday wouldnt last another day without refrigeration; if the NEPA
failure persisted she would be forced to cook the fish earlier than she wanted to
at the risk of Odinaka pilfering a considerable portion of the soup before the
festive day itself.
That girl, her head wagged in disapproval. The first-born who was meant to be an
example to the younger ones was at times irresponsible, especially when it came
to food.
The girl wearied the rest of the house hold with her villainous penchants but sins
were hastily forgiven when she saved tardy Sundays with her delicious ofe akwu,
palm oil stew.
She treaded cautiously over the motionless bodies on the ground towards the
hurricane lamp glowing dully in one corner of the room, and shielded the sudden
flare of the lamp with her body when the wick of the yellow flame was extended
half an inch.
The wall clock besides the wooden wall hangar showed the hour hand on five
and the other on eight; it was a good thing there was some leftover yam porridge
the children could eat for breakfast; with the business of their breakfast taken
care of, she could simply prepare her eggrolls briskly and leave the house on
time.
She was almost done vigorously kneading clumps of dough in a wide plastic bowl
when the door creaked open.
Nne, how are you doing? She said, turned to see Nnenna approaching, tiny
fingers partly plastered over her eyes, for the light. Mummy, good morning.
Nne, kedu? How are you?
Fine.

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You slept well?
Yes.
Her hands resumed kneading, lips parting in a small smile. It was now the childs
daily ritual, to wake up shortly after she had gone outside to prepare the eggrolls
and join her on the veranda, unobtrusive company. Her quiet solidarity was rare
in children her age, howbeit reassuring.
She shook the kerosene stove shortly and nodded satisfactorily at its content. In
a moment, yellow capped blue flames danced on the burner.
Mummy I dreamt.
Ezi okwu? Really? She was concealing boiled eggs in mounds of dough now,
occasionally tossing small bits of onion into the large frying pan to test how hot
the groundnut oil had become.
I saw masquerades with very white faces.
Momentarily distracted from shock, she lingered a second too long with a handful
of dough poised over the seething groundnut oil, and oily steam scalded the
back of her hand.
She hissed in pain, wagging her hand furiously in the air.
Mummy, sorry.
Go inside, Nne. Her voice was tight with more asperity than she felt or was
necessary. She was suddenly terrified, pissed at the burn and lonely.
Masquerades with very white faces such as the Agbogho Mmuo were spirits of
the dead.
Tufiakwa! God forbid.
No one will die. My enemies will die!
She fumbled mentally for some memorised prayers from the Daily Manna
devotional she had gotten from Alice about two months ago, but everything in
her head felt befuddled and incomplete at the moment. She would ask Alice for
another copy of the devotional again today.

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Shed not dreamt when Gab died from food poisoning in 2011; why would it
matter now if her dreams reeked of unsavoury premonitions?
His dying had crushed her dreams. It saddled her with much more responsibility
than a tautly pregnant twenty-four year old with two children could bear on the
proceeds from a small job that is if selling fermented clumps of ground corn in
moin moin leaves was worthy of the name.
But Im not complaining. My children. I cannot die.
The words coursing through her distraught mind were more of a plea, a prayer
than a resolve.
Tears blurred her vision and the moment was briefly as the miracle of five loaves
and two fishes, the eggrolls doubling, tripling falteringly before her gaze.
And Jesus blessed her business; he broke the rolls, his fingertips shiny with a
patina of groundnut oil.
So she and her faithful ones sold the hungry crowds coke, bread, eggrolls,
biscuits, sweets and maybe well start selling fried egg with indomie because
they keep asking for food in the morning.
I cannot die. You see, business keeps growing and growing
She slid one hand into a black polyethylene bag and began to fill her pastry
bucket with eggrolls from the sieve.
Soon Odinaka will be able to go back to that Government Secondary School in
Garki. Soon we will be talking about University
She returned to the room for a hurried bath.
We will move into a one-bedroom apartment and use one room as a day care
centre. Shei Mama Irabor said shell hook me up to plenty people that need day
care for their children when Im ready?
Nnenna was curled up on the ground with one hand under her head for a pillow,
tears drying in white lines on her sleeping face and in one second of sheer
impulse, she almost stripped her work clothes just there to announce she would
not be going out that morning anymore, that one day at the stall with Odinaka
wouldnt hurt anything.

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But the temptation passed swiftly. She had long learned reality didnt dance
comfortably to the tune of whims. To miss any day at the bustling Nyanya Motor
Park was to forfeit some good profit. The earlier she got there, the better. Then
she could return home soon enough to join Odinaka at the stall.
Nnenna sniffed pitifully when she gathered her from the floor briefly in a hug,
and whispered: Im sorry, Obiomam My beautiful heart.
Her throat tightened with emotion as the little girls hands wrapped securely
around her neck.
She gazed with satisfaction at Akansos steady breathing and decided not to toe
Odinaka awake for last minute instructions at the risk of waking the infant into a
fit of crying and wretched coughing.
The time was fifteen minutes past six; she would be at the park in about four
minutes if she found an Okada immediately, as she normally did.
She hoisted the bucket of pastries onto her head and left.