Source
I have lived here, in this developing town, for more than two decades. And even though my place of residence is barely a kilometre from my paternal home, I have not had a single urge to visit it for over a decade.
The last time I visited, I went to watch a casket carrying the remains of dad's immediate elder brother, Uncle Patrick, being lowered into the soil and covered to be forever hidden from the occupants of the earth. Two years earlier, I was there for the same reason, just that this time it wasn't an uncle that was being fed to the earth but my own dad.
Before then, especially when I was yet to disentangle myself from my parents, I used to be a regular visitor, a kind who lost all the benefits of a proper visitor because he was barely one. It still baffles me how I'm now only seeing Ndikpo as my paternal home, when it's in fact more than that. It's my paternal, ancestral, and natal home. It's my root and my village.
You see, I wasn't always a visitor there. It was my first proper home. That was where I had my first everything. Memories lingers. I still relish the taste of the sweet, sour, and bad fruits I tasted while I was there.
I remember Uduak, the first girl who made me believe that I was handsome. I remember my early primary school days in the village. I looked tender, but my sister Edy, who, despite being only a year older than me, protected me to the point of being called my mum.
I remember how I was on the verge of being drowned in our village's stream, but Edy jumped in and pulled me out, risking her own safety in the process. I can still see the faces of everyone, including that of Tutyt. They were all flailing and howling while I was flapping my hands and legs and gulping down a handful of water.
I remember Tutyt, Uncle Patrick's son. The most mischievous of them all, but my closest cousin. Sometimes, I'll smile when I remember the prank we pulled and the troubles we often get into. I actually pranked no one or got into trouble, but I lack evidence to prove my innocence, since I was usually with Tutyt.
All I have left in Ndikpo are memories, and they would have remained buried in my cerebral cortex, just like how the people who connected me to the place are buried, both in sand and in my memory, but for Peace. I knew Peace through a mutual friend, Uby.
"That girl I was with is from Ndikpo," Uby had said after Peace left her.
"Really?" "I will speak with her next time I see her."
The next day, I was sitting beside Uby on an aesthetically appealing wooden bench in his business centre when Peace walked in. I allowed her to settle beside Uby. They exchange pleasantries, followed by rounds of banter. I waited for the right time to act.
"I heard you're from Ndikpo."
"Yes." She answered, shifting her attention from Uby to me. Uby ceased the chance to attend to other business.
"Who's your dad?" I asked.
She gave me a name. I wasn't familiar with it. Nevertheless, I closed my eyes, as though I were trying to recall her father. She added some more information to help my recollection process. "Okay," I said, nodding as though I just remembered his dad.
Upon further inquisition, she revealed that she grew up in a big city outside of the state, living happily with her parents and siblings, until a year ago, when her father decided to sell all his properties and businesses and move them back to the village—his father's hometown—to begin a new life. She lamented how she's now forced to live a life she isn't in any way familiar with.
She mentioned how she, her mother, and all her siblings resisted her father's proposed move to no avail.
"We had no choice but to follow him when he finally sold our house." She said.
I also learned from her that life in the village wasn't what her father imagined. And that it has really been really difficult for them.
Peace is a chatty person. We readily built connections and started talking often. She was attending an ICT vocational school close to where I lived. The same village I haven't visited for many years is where Peace comes to classes every working day.
One day, she popped the question—the one that unearthed the memories I had long buried with no plan of retrieval.
"Why don't you like visiting home?" she asked, her face drowning in disbelief. Her eyes popped out of their socket and focused on my face, inspecting its surface and perimeters as though the answers she's seeking were inked somewhere on my eyeballs, forehead, lips, or cheeks.
Not wanting to cloud the bright atmosphere with sober tales, I smiled, revealing my near-perfect dentition, before saying,
"If not for anything, I will visit this Christmas just to see you."
"It's your hometown; you have to come," she pressed on.
I couldn't tell her that all the connection I have with Ndikpo is buried in its soil—my placenta, dad, and uncle—and that's why everything about the place is nothing to me but a memory buried somewhere I never wished to retrieve. Instead, I said, "Okay."
Christmas day came and met me double-minded. The truth is, I have always known that I would someday visit Ndikpo, but I didn't know the occasion that would warrant it. I procrastinated going there almost all through the day.
Just as the earth began to move away from the sun, I set out on the journey. It took me about thirty minutes to arrive there. My first stop was my extended family compound. I saw people. The older ones knew me. Some of them are people I do meet in town; I didn't have to come to the village to see them. The younger ones didn't really know, so they just stared from a distance.
I inspected the compound, and it was clear that its beauty has been covered with dust and ashes.
I went to Peace's. She looked excited to see me. We sat on the veranda of their bungalow building, saying little but smiling much, until we were interrupted by an authoritative voice from inside the living room.
It was her dad calling for her. She excused herself and dashed inside. Shortly after, she came out again and invited me into her dad's living room. She introduced me to her father as a brother she found in a strange land. Her father seemed to have known my dad anyway. But he gave me a familiar look. One that is common among fathers of pretty young adult daughters.
"Be careful with what you do with my daughter," was written all over his face. I could've fidgeted, if I were younger. But I'm too old to worry about how a fellow adult male looks at me. I met some kids there, I acted as the big brother I was tagged, and I left them tips.
I bid Peace goodbye. I went to my family compound again. The children I met earlier have been told about me. So, they came close to greet me with smiles, which also cost me some naira.
Darkness had swallowed the last drop of sunlight, and I knew that it was high time I left. Walking down the street to where I'll find a motorcycle, the only means of public transportation that ferries people out of the village, I met many people I didn't know who also didn't know me in return.
I eventually mounted a bike. The bike charges against the darkness. The wind ferociously chased us, causing my eyes to be teary. The whole world became hazy. But what I really wanted was clear to me. I just wanted to treat myself to a sumptuous dinner and a cold bath before retiring to my cozy bed, the only place I now call home.
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Leaving home and your comfort zone to a space with nostalgic, happy, sad and fun memories was a journey you threaded on so beautifully. I was carried along till the very end which bustled with hope.
Thanks for kind words.
Beautifully written piece. However, you need to watch your pronouns:
Should read :
If you are using a translator please add a note to tell us which one you’re using. Also, you should post the original in your language underneath the English version.
You have boundless talent, you should nurture it carefully! One of the best ways to do so is to use the right tools to write— Google Docs and and an editor such as Grammarly.
@theinkwell We live in a society where people are free to switch from one gender to another and also decide the pronoun they go by at any given time. So I thought my literary freedom included that. Lol
That's a dry joke.
I don't have much trouble with English grammar. I hardly use grammar checkers. It was just a careless mistake; the kind haven't for centuries.
I just have to be more careful in the future.
Thank you.
Your talent astounds! Seriously beautiful writing. You paint such detailed images with your words that the reader can literally visualise the scene. It’s a pleasure to read such lyrical, almost poetic prose. Lovely!
This means so much to me. Thank you.
An utterly gorgeous piece of writing, Mfoniso. It blew me away. It is strange the way life tends to take us on this journey away from our beginnings, but no matter how far we relocate, either physically, mentally or in the heart, the tug to return is always there. And when we do, years later, it is often only for closure. We realise that the place we once called home, with all its memories and familiarities, no longer looks or feels like the place we once knew so intimately. Because it is the people that make it home, and when they have moved on, the place becomes an empty shell for us. We realise that home is now situated someplace else. !LUV !PIMP
#dreemerforlife
Friend, you have such an impeccable ability to understand and interpret literary works. I love that about you.
@samsmith1971, it's always a pleasure to have you around.
I can relate to this, most people no longer visit their homes because they have no one their again or because of the sad memories they had. It was a good thing you visited home again, no matter what, it is still your home remember. I so sorry about your dad.
You're now beginning to sound like Peace. Lol. Truth is, I hardly see it as my home now. Stories don't tell everything.
I will keep going though, because I have political interest. Lol