Munachi

|Chapter 18|

Later that evening, as the sun is going down, I look outside the window. There is a pinkish glow all over the hospital premises as far as my eyes can see. I love the sight of it. I gaze beyond the wall far into distant horizon. I see the sun resting lazily in the evening sky. It is a big ball of orange silent fire.

I simply love the sight. In spite of my pain, a warm smile crease my lips. I can't seem to take my eyes off the sun for several stretched minutes. I've watched long enough my eyes becomes dim and watery. I shut them momentarily and open them again.

The night slowly taking over; all around the sun is heavier, orange-pinkish glow mix with dull-golden hue. When the sun finally disappeared from the sky, the moon forms a well-carved crescent and the entire sky is heavily dotted with numerous bright twinkling stars.

I'm filled with boundless joy. Moments like this are meant to be captured. Once upon a time Nate had proposed to me on a night like this. Now the night is here, wearing the same face. Now I lay sick and wounded, unable to move, soaking with the sweet sound and silent sympathy of the silent night.

♣♣♣

The call for prayer by the muezzin in a nearby mosque terminates my slumber. It ended my dream. I wake with a start, moaning. The reality of the hospital ward and the pain still wracking my body provoke me. The megaphone from the mosque is cracking like a broken record, result of a bad signal output either from faulty mike or amplifier.

The muezzin croaks and coughs as he make his clarion call to early morning prayers, his commitment to duty unflinching.

My body aches and my head pounds crazily. I could swear something is moving in my brain. I shift uneasily on the small bed; my hands fumble with my heavily bandaged head. The pain doesn't stop. I close my eyes hoping to shut away the pains. But that is fruitless as well.

The muezzin has stopped prayers. That tells me one thing, dawn is drawing closer. Some couple of people are awake now. A woman is assisting and leading a patient to the toilet. Another woman follows at a distance, heading for the same direction.

I've drifted into a dreamless but peaceful sleep. How manage? With the nonstop pain I'm feeling. I must have descended to such amazing depth in slumber that I don't hear the voices and cries coming from the other patients as they're being treated that morning.

“Wake up!” a voice penetrates my depth and rouses me with a start. “Wake up!”

The woman is an auxiliary nurse saddled with the task of assisting the patients without families or relatives or anyone close to them, with their bath and getting them ready for the day.

I look at the woman with disdain. The shouting was rude. It shattered my peace. The sun is again all over the ward.

“Look, I haven't got all day. Get up!”

There's no point going to the bathroom. I would have wanted the curtain cubicle spread, but the woman would have none of it. The bath is quick. There's no splashing of water because of my wounds. Hand towel soaked in soapy water is used to wipe my body. She washes the hand towel and rinses it in clean water. The same towel is used to wipe my body.

All the time the woman is doing this, she is muttering under her breath. And her impatience and impoliteness is reflected in the way she does her task.
I could not wait for it to be over. As soon as she left, I heave a sigh of relief and manage to wear my clothes. I lay back on the bed. My thoughts wanders aimlessly and finally settles on my childhood.

The eight-year-old me stand by the gate and watching all my friends lining up by the school door, in their smart pinafores looking clean and orderly. I'm beautiful, tall and slender with a pair of bright dark eyes. My hair fall in tangled plaits across my shoulders. I'm wearing a big frock with an old scarf twisted round and round my little waist in order to pull up my baggy frock.

The Igbos (the eastern tribe of The West Africa) never joked with school. They realize quickly that one's saviour from poverty and attaining riches was education.
The Igbos saw to it that their children attended school. Well the boys were usually given preference, though. So even though I was eight, there was discussions about whether it was wise to send me to school.

Few hours after the assembly, with my head up in determination, I march down to the building. Walking into a classroom that was demarcated from the rest, I see children with their books.

“Hello?” I turn to face the young African woman whom I suppose is the teacher. She's a black woman, and her blackness shone like a polished black leather. “Can I help you, dear?” she asks.

“My name is Munachi,” I say confidently in my naive tongue. “I came to school since my parents would not send me.”

My first day at school ends too soon for my liking. But we must return home. Pa and Ma, my parents, mustn't discover this. For I'd be punished. Pa would be alright: he'd probably cane me, a few strokes. But Ma, no. She'd smack me and smack me, and then nag at me all day long.

As I'd thought, Pa fish out the cane and administers me a few strokes just for Ma's benefit. But right after, he comes to me to talk, just as if I was a grown up. I explain to him that I wish to attend school just like every other children. And Pa, being a kind and warm-hearted man, accepts. Ma refuses at first, worrying about the money and all, but Pa is able to convince her and she gives into the matter. So I go to school. And years on, I lose both my parents.