Tell My Tale {Grace's Story}

Prologue

29th March, 2009.
Nsukka village, Enugu.
Third person POV
________________________________________

･۝･۝･۝･
________________________________________

Dark clouds started to form in the sky. The dust and fallen leaves were seen spiraling in the air like small tornados. Strong winds shook the tall Iroko trees that surrounded Nsukka village from left to right, their whistling correlating with the sound of the wind and exalting the villagers' praise. Despite the chilling air, the children continued to play. They dashed around, the wind pulling their dresses up. Some exclaimed, 'I can fly,' as they flapped their arms up and down, their imaginary wings flapping. While some villagers gathered their dried clothes, others set out buckets, ready to catch the rain about to fall.

Grateful cheers to the Almighty could be heard all around the village from young and old alike. This was the first rain of the year and the villagers in Nsukka were beyond overjoyed to welcome it. The first rain always brought blessings with it. Blessings on crops. Blessings of children. Blessings of wealth. Blessings of marriage. It was believed that whatever you asked of Chineke on the day of the new year's rain, He would answer speedily. Imagine the joy of the villagers when the clouds started to darken at midday, bringing cold winds with them.

The new weather didn't pique Angela's interest in the least. She couldn't care less if there was mighty thunder; it could even burn down the entire village. She'd inadvertently willed herself away from this naivety that her people were too blind to see after many unanswered prayers. Staking everything on a mere wish to an invincible being seemed downright ridiculous to her. If she wanted to leave Nsukka, she didn't need a miracle; she needed a plan.

"Are you done packing your clothes, Nneka?" Her mother's voice jolted her out of her reverie.

"My name is Angela," she mumbled to herself. Angela was tired of trying to explain herself, her needs, and her desires to her mother, so she adopted a carefree attitude. Even so, she delivered her usual soliloquy, carefully describing her frustrations with her mother and their apparent wretchedness. She didn't understand her mother, and the poor woman was far too preoccupied with herself to even attempt to decipher a code as stout as Angela.

She untied the clothes from the old, rusted barbed wire that her father had erected for them to spread their tattered clothes. She shouted to her, shoving them into the bucket. "I'm on my way, mama." Her mother was fighting with her bucket, futilely attempting to position it so that water could enter. If only the zinc wasn't old, rusted, and scraggly like the rest of their property, her job wouldn't be too much of a hassle. The rain would have a definite path and she wouldn't need to move the bucket continuously.

She groaned in frustration when the zinc bent for the sixth time, cursing the dilapidated house and her husband for subjecting her to such a cruel fate. Her life's trajectory could not have been better expressed by her. Becoming the exact person you despise had to be the cruelest thing ever. Her current state compared to her expectations had to be so far apart on the bar that its calculation would need to be raised to a power to fit on the calculator. Her mind briefly wandered to the life she could have had otherwise. After all, her younger days brimmed with fame, fashion, and flaunt. Her friends had beautiful, hollandaise wrappers in their massive wardrobes, and comfortable, rosy lifestyles. Friends who used to idolize her. Though, She wasn't sure she could refer to them as friends anymore. Friends don't abandon you when you've reached rock bottom.

Smiling, she exclaimed in a soft tone, "Finally".  She watched as the rain drizzled into the bucket, suddenly remembering she had one more task to complete. Achieving this had put a ridiculous smile on her face, but it was gone quite soon because in reality, nothing could keep a smile on Nkechi's face. Well, except he wore khaki shorts everyday or was mint.  " Nneka, what are you still doing there? Let's go inside," she commanded. This knucklehead daughter of hers was prepared to spend the entire week bringing in just a few clothes. Angela stuffed the last few clothes in the bucket, one arm protecting her long, spongy dark hair while the other carried the basin, pressed to her side. "I'm coming ma", she screamed as she heard her mother call out to her yet again.

Angela pushed the rickety door open, jabbing it slightly with her hip, afraid it would fall apart if she used any more force. The door creaked as the rusty hinge moved slowly, revealing her small home. Her father was seated on a ripped couch reading his favorite newspaper, the daily sun. She couldn't understand the man. They barely had enough to eat, and he squandered the little they had on the worthless paper. She knew for a fact that he only glanced at the pictures because her father was certainly illiterate. Why else would he have remained jobless throughout her life?

His legs were crossed on the small wooden table in the center of the parlour. Of course he was relaxed, that was all he ever did.

"What are you doing there?" her father asked, his eyes wide as he peered over the top of his newspaper at his daughter. She sighed as she sauntered against the cold cement floor and began making her way into her room, completely ignoring him. He shook his head as she walked off. Her disrespectful attitude towards him was unbecoming, but he had grown accustomed to it. After all, she was his blood. That was definitely the only thing keeping him from throwing her out of his home. She'd learn to be grateful if she had no roof over her head, and learn to appreciate the little they had. Surely, he was no fool; he understood that his status—or rather, lack of one—was the source of her intrusiveness. "A child cannot bite the hand that feeds him," he muttered to himself, returning his gaze to the newspaper. After all, his favorite section, the sports section, awaited him.

With a loud thud, Angela threw the basin to the floor. She looked down at the torn foam that lay on the cement floor, without even a bed sheet as a cover. Her sister, Grace, was sprawled across it, fast asleep. She could tell the girl was cold from the ball position she had scrunched herself into. Her arms were tucked between her thighs and her back was folded so that her head almost touched her knees. She removed a blanket from the basi and wrapped it around the nine-year-old. The rain had already soaked the wall beneath the broken louvers of the dusty window. She dashed to the window and slammed it shut as tightly as she could with the broken glass. She leaned against the dripping wet wall, trying to catch her breath. Not from asphyxiation, but from the suffocation that everything in her life brought her; even the dirty yellow-coloured walls seemed suffocating at that point and yellow was her favorite.

She'd been in that house for seventeen years and still couldn't bring herself to call it home. There was absolutely nothing homely about it. It lacked even the most basic necessities like food, water, and a roof.

"Fold those clothes quickly and come and help me out here", her mother yelled from the kitchen. What was with her constant yelling? She looked up at the ceiling and was convinced it would collapse in the coming year. The zinc was already visible through the cracked holes. She wasn't sure if He existed, but she had a question: "God, why me, why did you bring me into this family?". She palmed her face as a tear drop fell from her eyes. She couldn't cry on an empty stomach, she reasoned as she wiped her tear and returned to the basin to fold the clothes.

She noticed her travel calendar above her bedside. Her uncle Ike had given her the best gift ever. It featured beautiful Nigerian cities like Port Harcourt, Lagos, Abuja, and others. She'd been to those places countless times in her head that she felt she'd been there in person. Lagos, in particular, captivated her attention. She was enchanted by the incredible stories she'd heard about the city from her friends who had visited. She smiled to herself as she folded the last cloth. 

She'd soon be telling her own tales.

Vocabulary: Non-English words.
Iroko trees-African teak
Chineke- God, the creator/ God.

A/N

Thank you for considering tell my tale worthy of your time.

The journey of life can be a wondrous tale or a waking nightmare. Remember that it is your story and you can choose to portray it however.

This book was and is inspired by a lost girl seeking.

But does seeking really ever end?

Aren't we all just seeking to find only to repeat the pattern?

Please share your thoughts on the story and don't forget to like.