Preordained #ProjectNigeria

43- Maduka?

The road is a bit bumpy, a ribbon of red sand dotted with watery potholes and flanked on both sides by little houses, which used bushes and trees as fences.

Umuaku has changed since my childhood: there are more houses than before, more cars on the red road, and more shops on the landscape. I see the path to the stream I had played in as a child, and I find myself smiling at the memories.

Running naked with my mother's angry screams fading behind me, running to the stream and splashing in the water only to have her come a few minutes later and drag me out by my ear for being disobedient.

Beside me, Nwanyieze is silent, taking in the surroundings. Her hand rests on my thigh, offering courage, but I can tell she is also anxious. I briefly glance at her and it feels like my chest is swelling, swelling with gratitude that I have her in my life.

Her face is turned towards the window beside her. Her hair has been made into neat cornrows with some extensions, the ends flowing down her back. One spaghetti strap of her black top hangs off her shoulder, but she doesnt seem to notice. Hope sparks in my heart, that things will be straightened out and I can finally tell her the story of how we first met.

"It's so serene," she finally speaks. "I can imagine you growing up here."

"It was a no-hassle life. I climbed trees, swam in the stream, listened to tales by moonlight. But my father ensured I went to school. He took me to school everyday on his motorcycle."

My chest constricts at the memory of holding tight onto my father's torso during those rides. I had insisted on sitting behind and not in front, because I was a big boy, and some of my classmates had teased me for sitting "like a girl" on the motorcycle. Nwanyieze senses my distress and rubs my thigh.

"Take deep breaths, Madi."

I park the car close to the bushes and nod. It feels like I'm falling into a deep hole, or walking into a dark cave without the knowledge of what is inside. A small voice in my head tells me to reverse, take a U-turn, and drive away from this village, take Nwanyieze away from here because I don't want to take any chances. But am I sure, really? Am I sure about what happened way back, to my parents?

Once again I feel grateful that she had insisted on coming with me. After I'd made the announcement to her, I'd began making plans. Flight tickets, car arrangements, accommodation. It had taken me three days, during which I had taken off my cast. The night before my departure, Nwanyieze had showed up at my door with a bag.

"Did you think I would let you go alone?" She'd asked, amused.

I didn't want her to come, because I was scared for her.

"Don't you have school?"

"I just finished my exams."

"It won't be interesting."

But she had already dropped her bag on the couch, was already pulling me into her arms and rubbing her lips against mine. And her eyes had that look in them, the one that told me that she was not going to change her mind.

"I want to be there for you, too," she'd whispered, her eyes locked on mine. And then I'd kissed her, and embraced her.

"Why are you so good to me?"

"Jesus said we should be good to everyone," she'd replied with a laugh.

I was surprised to see that she had booked her flight ticket already, for the next day. And when I asked her, she recalled one of our phone call conversations during which I had told her about the airline I was using.

"Wow, you're something else," I had said, amazed.

"You'd be surprised," was her reply with a smile on her face.

The flight had been a smooth, cosy one with her beside me as thankfully, the passenger who was meant to sit by my side had cancelled at the last minute.

I haven't told my family about what I'm doing, because I'm not sure of their reaction at the moment. Only this woman beside me knows, and it makes everything all the more intimate.

"You'll be fine," she tells me now.

"What if they don't recognise me?"

"And what if they do? You'll gain a family. Your origins will be confirmed. You'll finally reconnect yourself with your past."

This makes me feel sad for her, that she is very likely to never know where she comes from. Her life, to her, had begun in the garbage, and would have ended if a hungry orphan had never decided to search for food in the discarded heap.

I take her hand and squeeze it before planting a kiss in the middle of her palm. "I can't thank you enough, baby girl."

She says nothing, but I can see it there in her eyes, the truth she knows and her hopes that I can find redemption for myself.

My father's compound is still the same, with the wide expanse of red sand preceding his small bungalow. Trees on both sides, under which sat wooden benches with leaves dancing lazily around them in the breeze. The front yard is so big, and I remember him discussing plans to build a bigger house with my mother. Three hens and two goats roam around in the compound, clucking and bleating respectively. Some children are playing around, their happy sounds reaching my ears.

My eyes fall on two large tiled rectangles on the ground, white and conspicuous between two mango trees. I suddenly have this suffocating feeling, and it's like everything else disappears except for those two graves. I feel Nwanyieze's hand grip my thigh and then slide away; she knows what is about to happen and has given me the space.

It takes me all of ten seconds to leave the car and stride towards the final resting place of my parents. Twenty years since I last saw them alive, twenty years since the last night I had told them goodnight, and all I see are two monuments bearing testament to their bones six feet below.

Grief can't be described properly, even by those who feel it. Helplessness crushes me like an iron fist, and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, why it had to be me. I don't know how long I stand there, but I feel Nwanyieze's presence beside me and grip her hand when she slides it into mine. She says nothing, but her head leaning on my arm tells me that she shares my grief, that she's going to be by my side but will still give me whatever allowance I need to handle this on my own.

"Good afternoon oh!"

We both turn towards the voice.

A woman is approaching from the bungalow, dressed in a bright yellow blouse and a black maxi skirt. I recognise her even before she is within a good distance to see her features clearly. A cheerful face with small eyes partly hidden by round cheeks, her body now burdened by weight gained over the years. Hair perpetually in a low cut, skin light in complexion and dotted by skin tags. I had loved this woman after my mother.

Daa Ndidi.

She freezes when our eyes lock. We stare at each other, with her tilting her head in confusion at the possibility that I could be here, alive, after twenty years. I know she recognises me, I know she can't believe her eyes. Her hand rises to her chest, her small eyes go as wide as they can, her jaw drops. I wait patiently for her to find her voice while replaying her cries in my ears: Maduka, nwa m, lota biko!

"Maduka?" she states at last.

"Daa Ndidi."

She starts to scream.

We rush towards each other and I let her embrace me. She smells faintly of firewood and ofe Owerre; nostalgia comes flooding in. My throat, already constricted, tightens further.

"Maduka. Maduka nwa m," she sobs uncontrollably.

Because I am bent to allow her to hug me, I feel her warm tears on the side of my neck. I know, that whatever might have happened to my family, Daa Ndidi had no hand in it. The love I feel pouring out of her at the sight of me is pure, like a mother who has seen her long-lost child.

"Daa Ndidi, a lotala m. Maduka a lotala."

I'm back. Maduka is back.

A/N: Been a minute. Btw I've never taken the cover change seriously! Please if you can help, epp me na! Thanks forever.