January, 1997
I sat gazing at our old fashioned wall clock placed carefully above Papa's favourite spot in the room - the study. I noticed that the clock had stopped ticking at about five months ago; maybe, also tired of our ordeal. Mama had told me it was a commendation gift given to Papa by a man she called 'General' who was Papa's 'Oga' during the riot. Injected mercilessly by the cold harmattan breeze that ran furiously across earth that fateful morning, I had entertained the wild thought of Papa's timely demise and how gradually the weight of taking care of my mother and two sister is tilting my way. Amara, my immediate younger sister is growing rapidly like a yam tendril in the raining season, tall and more beautiful too. "How old is she?" I pondered, "Seventeen or maybe eighteen." Her budding breast had gone bigger and with the way things are done in our culture she is considered 'ripe' for marriage. Then, Chidera, the last born of the house still clinged to Mama's slacking breast at age three " yes, three"
Out of my reverie, rejecting further ruminations on matters that suppresses our home. I stood up from my rafia bed that had rags as beddings with signs of numerous mosquito bites decorating my moderately fare skin that has adopted the dark colour of hardship and walked out of home to anywhere.
Stepping outside my house I noticed....
To be continued