Uncategorized – Emmanuella Ntaobeten

Mmuka.

My grandmother’s room could have passed for a museum. A museum of memories stored in basins, gbanban. Basins filled with things once lost and later found. Basins of dried tears and blood clots. Basins crowded with the clothes of her past: outfits from the years when she was the best-dressed woman in her age group; clothes of children she held for only a few weeks, and of one she held for sixteen years; clothes for the woman she was until her last breath. There were clothes from her first marriage, from the day she returned to her father’s house, and from the night she suspected she had lost her first seed.

The Gbanban 40

Gbanban 40 was the white basin that held forty litres of water. A yellow fish, its eyes permanently sad, was painted on its side.Inside lay the ring from her first marriage. Beside it sat the wrapper that had covered her face until her groom unveiled her. My grandmother said marrying her first husband had been easy. He was a childhood friend. They had grown up together, and somehow she always knew they would marry. When life finally became fair to Okoi, he took her hand in marriage and her first real pain began.Three years into their marriage, she woke to find blood clots in her underwear. She bled, cried, and mourned a child she had never known. Then it happened again. And again.After years of miscarriages, her husband sent her away.Four years later, my grandmother sat once more in her father’s house. She thought it was the end. Yet the blood clots followed her there, carrying fresh grief with them. She mourned terribly.She learned a song and sang it for her babies in heaven. She prayed they would never return, believing they would not stay long enough to live, only long enough to leave and cause another woman pain.

Usen

Usen was the joyous little basin. It could hold ten litres of water and served as Mma’s jewellery box.Six months after returning home from Okoi, my grandmother turned her mind back to her trade. Her market table was beginning to outgrow its space, so she started saving and added farming to her work. Slowly, her smiles returned. She laughed a little too loudly when customers teased her.She pretended not to care that Okoi had remarried and that his new wife was pregnant. She pretended to be carefree, talkative, untouched. She attended parties and adorned herself with bracelets and earrings from Usen.She catwalked and sashayed the night Obeten approached her. It had been a little over a year since any man had said hello. She told me she was considered second-hand. Mothers steered their sons away whenever their eyes lingered on her. But Obeten defied the norm. He asked for her hand in marriage.He knew about the miscarriages. He knew about the failed marriage, her hard-won independence, the jewellery she wore, and the red lipstick she spread across her lips.People said Mma had not mourned her losses long enough. They said she had rushed into another marriage.But Obeten became her greatest testimony, and Usen kept the records.A wealthy trader who did business with the Igbos, a man who had never married and had never fathered a child, asked for her hand.Her joy was full. It filled a ten-litre basin.

Fifty

Fifty good men lived inside one Obeten. It would have taken fifty men to stand as firmly behind a woman like my grandmother, a woman society considered second-hand, a woman marked by failure.Grandfather Obeten loved Mma completely.When the first blow came, a year after the birth of their first child, Obeten stayed by her side. The baby developed a fever, convulsed, and died suddenly.The grief drove Mma to the edge of madness. She refused to eat. She refused to sleep. For three days she stayed awake, her eyes fixed open.Stories said she spoke to her dead children. The weight in her chest was thick with pain. Their second child died at three. She complained of severe joint pains and fever, and one day they were told their child’s blood had run dry. At this time, Basin Fifty, which could hold fifty litres of tears, held the pulsating pain in her breath and the tears that were not blood. She cried and folded her children’s clothes into Basin Fifty.Then the son who lived past three came, and he lived till ten. They had three more children who stayed, and when Mma and Grandfather Obeten thought to make them five, the fifth died when he turned sixteen.She washed her hands off childbirth and thanked her body for sustaining her. She thanked her husband too, a man who answered sorrow with tenderness, who brought her wrappers, jewellery, and tubers of yam in appreciation of all she had endured.Fifty good men lived inside one Obeten. Basin Fifty kept the record.

There were memories Mma hid between the basins, memories I experienced with her.Times she talked about her lover and her eyes lit up with pure joy, eyes covered by the darkness of cataracts, yet too afraid to have them operated on. She would often say she had seen it all and, most importantly, she had lived and seen her Obeten until he died peacefully in her arms following a protracted illness. She said she saw him behind the darkness in her eyes and that her breaths on earth were inspired by him. She had no need for new pair of eyes. Another memory she snuck up on me one time was when Grandfather Obeten had travelled to Enugu for business. He bought akwaete and George materials from Enugu and Lagos and sold them in the village. He did not return at the time he had promised her he would.Mma said she woke her neighbours, and they followed her to the bus park. It was 02:00 in the morning.She smiled when she told this story and added that she was nearly crying when she saw her husband’s figure walking towards her. It was a happy memory.

An hour before my grandmother left the world, her hands stayed raised, her head moving from side to side with shivering lips.Was she singing?Or speaking to Obeten?Her face was smiling, and when her hands dropped, my grandmother had left behind the pain and the basins of memories.

Omor’mo!

Long before I ever understood the culture, I learned to be proud of my heritage and to cherish the blessedness of my existence as an Omor’mor.

Umor wo den!

And before school taught me, the streets of Ugep knew our place on the map of the world. They told us Ugep was the biggest village in West Africa. That we built our community long before government involvement. That our women took the front seats and spearheaded civilisation and development.So, I grew up knowing that I was an Omormor, a walking success from a rich culture that honours and preserves the sacrifices of women in its development.

History tells that Ugep was the name plastered on us by the British, who struggled with pronouncing Umor or Umor Otutu. They arrived in the 20th century with the introduction of the church, and till date, the town is known by its mispronounced version. But the indigene still calls the town by its original name.

I call the town Umor Omon! Our Umor.Because the spirit of oneness is strong, held together like a bunch of broomsticks.I like to think this deep love shared among us is because a mother welcomed us to the land.

Maesakpa.

When a woman loves, she does so with the tenderness of her breast and the warm wrapping of her heart.When our early settlers arrived on the land in the 17th century from Akpa, the central part of present-day Cross River State, it was following a conflict related to a violation of funeral rituals between two clans.

Maesakpa inhabited Umor and lived in a small hut by herself. She was a mystical being who welcomed us. She held her clay pot in one hand and palm fronts in the other, and sprang water through the paths as she showed our people the boundaries of the land and the most fertile areas before disappearing into thin air.Till date, we honour her help and presence in Ugep.

Banen Umor, the women of Ugep, have always occupied a particularly important place in the making of Umor. The Obin Women Association, established in 1962, is such a testament. My grandmother was a part of it, and one of my aunties is still a member to this day.My grandmother sang their songs on her sickbed, with hand movements like a boat overcoming the tides. She had smiles on her face as she hummed and sang. I imagine it came from a reflective state of, “I did a thing in my lifetime.”

These women built a school from scratch, with their sweat, money, and time. At a time when girls’ education was considered unimportant, these women established a girls’ school for the sole purpose of empowering the girl child.

Whatever “woman king” is, it is the Obin women I see.

They contributed towards the establishment of hospitals, established small-scale businesses, and emboldened themselves. They also composed songs and made melodies only your heart could understand.

They are also the spiritual force of cleansing. They perform the Ebonfawa, the cleansing of the land after the August Leboku festival.The Obin women reflect the strong autonomous position women hold within our matrilineal framework.Perhaps this is why, in my personal pursuit in life, I aim for the top and the best. Every day, I see Obol Lopon Obia Obal, the 7th traditional ruler of Umor.

A woman ascended that height.She ruled Umor Otutu and left a mark.She was strong, and I like to imagine that she had the guiding spirit of Maesakpa with her. I am a proud Omor’mor, and every day there is a reason to thank the heavens for where I come from.

Sources

https://yakurr.crossriverstate.gov.ng/our-history

https://ipobontario.ca/history-of-ugep/

https://www.kupi.com/en/explore/nigeria/ugep/history

Amakohia

The Women that raised my imagination

In Nigeria, there is Amakohia, a growing neighbourhood of people who loved life and lived it fully. It was a place I once called home. Amakohia was known for housing the only federal government-owned hospital in the area and a federal university. It was a meeting point of traders, civil servants, students, and dreamers; of women who fried akara by the roadside and boys who sold recharge cards and rented out their mobile phones for a fee.
It was in Amakohia that I met Ade. It was also there that I first encountered the many-sided lives of women: women who dared to dream and women who did not, women who chose convention and women who chose themselves, women who lived their truths despite what the world had to say.

Ade became my best friend, though our friendship came with its share of fighting, tears, and dramatic reconciliations. We were both five when we met and grew up together until I left for boarding school. Ade taught me how to enjoy my own company. He had a remarkable ability to shut out the noise of the world and disappear into his imagination. Watching him was like watching an entire cast of actors. Within seconds, he could become the mummy, the daddy, and the child, switching roles effortlessly as he played alone.
In our neighbourhood lived three women who shared a four-bedroom apartment. The arrangement existed because the government could not build enough barracks for women police officers who had children and husbands and still needed accommodation. There was my mother, Ade’s mother, and Aunty Maureen. Elsewhere in the barracks lived Aunty Chi and Aunty Sandra, sharing apartments with other women officers.

One day, Ade told me that Aunty Maureen liked men too much. He had overheard adult conversations where our mothers and their friends gossiped about the different cars that drove in and out of the barracks to pick her up and drop her off.
Aunty Maureen was beautiful and determined to outrun her melanin. She bathed with hot water even though the Nigerian sun already scorched the earth. She claimed it softened her skin for the expensive lotions she used. Her soap was transparent, her creams were imported, and she often boasted that they cost an arm and a bag of rice. It was a steep price to pay for the flawless “oyibo pepper” complexion she desired.
Sometimes her skin rebelled. It turned red and irritated; her knuckles darkened. Yet she always found a way to even out her complexion and continue her pursuit of lightness. Aunty Maureen smiled often. She dreamed of working on television one day and was studying Mass Communication at the university while serving as a police officer. Whenever her boyfriends visited, she spoke like the women who read the evening news and laughed like Liz Benson, not wide-mouthed, but just enough to reveal her perfect teeth.

I liked Aunty Maureen. Beyond the rumours and gossip, she had ambition. She graduated from university, got a job at a television station, and eventually married the love of her life.

Aunty Chi was different.
She did not smile much. She was the sort of adult who sent children back indoors to read whenever she found them loitering outside. No men came around to make her laugh like Liz Benson, but she enjoyed her morning jogs and often shared her fried eggs with Ade and me. When she laughed, it came from deep in her chest, usually after watching an episode of “I Go Dye.”

She was studying Nursing at the university while serving in the police force. She wore her hair cropped short and was constantly at war with her weight. She talked about fibre, exercise, obesity, and metabolism long before I understood what any of those words meant. It was from Aunty Chi that I learned that bodies changed, that health required effort, and that discipline was its own kind of beauty. She was also the first woman who made me aware of my own complexion. She called me “chocolate” and taught me to care for my skin, reminding me to use oils and stay moisturised. At the time, I did not understand the significance of those words; I only knew that she made caring for myself feel like an ordinary act of love.
Years later, I heard she became a nurse and remained in the force as a police nurse.
Then there was Aunty Sandra, my favourite.
Aunty Sandra was just a girl in a woman’s body. She loved makeup, fashion, and gadgets. She was the first person in the entire barracks to own a mobile phone. The women whispered that a man must have bought it for her.
“How much be her salary sef?”

Then one evening she returned with a flip Motorola. She wore it around her neck like jewellery and catwalked through the neighbourhood, her slender frame swaying from side to side. The women said she looked like an ogbanje and that beauty like hers could not possibly be ordinary.
I adored Aunty Sandra.
She played hide-and-seek with us. She listened to our stories. One holiday, she brought her younger brother, Chibuike, who was later caught kissing Silva, Ade’s older sister, behind the building. For weeks, that scandal fed the entire barracks.
To me, Aunty Sandra was the original IT girl. She smelled of perfume, possibility, and adventure. Her fridge was always full. She seemed to own the latest everything. Life appeared to unfold for her like a good story.
A few years later, we heard she had travelled to obodo oyibo.

Time carried all of us away from Amakohia.
Ade grew up and became a lawyer. Our mothers retired from the police force. The women who once filled those barracks with laughter, gossip, ambition, heartbreak, and resilience scattered into different cities and different lives.
Yet when I think of Amakohia today, I do not first remember the federal hospital or the university that made it famous. I remember those women.
I remember Aunty Maureen, who taught me that ambition could survive gossip. I remember Aunty Chi, who showed me that discipline was a form of self-respect. I remember Aunty Sandra, who carried herself as though life was meant to be enjoyed, not merely endured.

As a child, I thought they were simply women living in the barracks. Looking back, I realise they were teaching me different ways to be a woman. They were imperfect, complicated, talked about, admired, envied, and misunderstood. They were dreaming in the middle of ordinary lives.
And perhaps that is what Amakohia gave me most: not a place, but a gallery of women who taught me that there is no single script for womanhood, and that every woman, in her own way, is trying to write her own story.

The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi

Akwaeke Emezi writes from a place I can only describe as home. Her prose is soulful and immersive; it pulls you into the pages until you find yourself living alongside the characters, inhabiting their bodies, their fears, their desires.

In The Death of Vivek Oji, I saw a boy. I saw a girl. I saw a human being trying to exist in a world that allowed no room for difference. I witnessed how friendship became a shield, how friends protected a child who only wanted the freedom to express himself honestly. They held his truth and allowed him the peace to live. The peace he never found elsewhere.

Nnemdi was Vivek, and Vivek was Nnemdi. She was Nnemdi when she needed to be, and Vivek when he needed to be. Through her, I saw the power and mystery of reincarnation. Growing up, I was told my grandmother was the daughter of a relative who had promised to return. As a child, she reportedly went to that relative and introduced herself, bearing the same birthmark as the deceased. Seeing Ahunna reappear in Vivek stirred similar questions for me. Was she unfinished with life, or was she drawn back by her longing to be with her sons again? What compelled her return? And when she spoke through Vivek, asking about her yam barns, what exactly was she searching for?

The emotional weight of the book rests heavily on Osita. How does one person carry so much grief and guilt, yet remain steadfastly devoted to Vivek in such dual, complex ways? His lover and his cousin. I saw Elizabeth. I saw the quiet intimacy of a shared life. Vivek’s deepest friend. I saw love. And in Kavita, I witnessed raw vulnerability, she was just a girl, how could life be so cruel as to take away the one person who brought her true joy? I love the Nigerwives and the allegiance they have for one another.

Vivek Nnemdi Oji.

For Chiamaka in Dream Count.

You found love in a human who chronically despises you. He is jealous of you, hates your guts, your beauty, your background, your influence, and how easily you settle into your “job” as a travel writer.

“Is it still travel writing when you travel in luxury?” he asked one time.

What you feel for him is not love, it is the desire for shege banza—the kind that is a shrinking of yourself to allow him to glow; a fearful retreat of your spoken words to avoid offending him; a forgetting of yourself.

It is walking on eggshells. You are not allowed to touch his phone, and you’re too fearful to confront him about the texts he receives, the ones that make him storm out of the house even after making serious plans to be together.

His name is Darnell. And you, Chiamaka.

The same Chiamaka whose mother is a peacock. Beautiful, proud, and gutsy. She holds her shoulders high and forgets to be the Nigerian kind of humble.

Who did you take after? Not your papa, who built wealth from the sales of palm oil, bold, rich, and daring. And obviously not your cousin, Omelogor, who, after dinner with you and Darnell, says, “You hide your worth with him.”

Because you really do. You forget to stand up for yourself or even respect yourself.

Why should you be afraid to look eye-to-eye with the man who sleeps with you? A man who makes you feel beneath him, undeserving of even a compliment from a stranger.

When the airport official said something miraculous about your eyes and you blushed too much, because you’ve been starved of attention, he said, “It’s common.” That you should already know your eyes are beautiful.

You try to express your feelings, and he hushes you with, “You’re hormonal,” as if your body were a mistake. As if it fails to function the way he wants.

He says, “Get a grip of yourself. We’re outside.”

But you sit there and smile through the embarrassment, the belittling of yourself. You laugh the disgrace off and wish you could change him. That he would make you feel better. That he would appreciate your writing and the you who is rich, has a house-help, and can book expensive flights.

For a man who went ballistic because you ordered a mimosa in a French restaurant?

Ọ na-apụ ara?

How do you forget to be a woman, even when the example of one sits in your mother?

Affymma

I have become the people

I once saw at the top—
Those with crisp loins, buttered tongues, and pride sharp as blades,
They, who made it seem like my first-generation self would stretch too long to get here.

Hah!

Me? Emmanuella. My name, so long, surprises you I stuck around?
I stayed, pushed hard until my knowledge became so palpable,
You couldn’t turn a blind eye.

I stuck around for a day like today,
Where I wear my grandmother’s name with pride—Affymma, Affiong ete!
Affymma, from generations rooted in life and immortality,
Sprouting breaths of beauty and vitality.

Me? Affymma, who danced kokoma on bare feet,
Swung her waist to the dim dim drums made of leopard skin.

Now, I sit at tables once reserved for those I admired—
Bold. Rich. Audacious. Intelligent.
I occupy spaces once unwelcoming,
And I crush the tables of restriction.

Remember I came home with emotions flagged red from your microaggressions,
Questioning myself, doubting if how you treated me was right.
I beat myself up for not standing firm,
Never see it coming when you pour out your maltreatment.
But see me now—
Triumphing, one day at a time.

I am the woman who now sits beside you in Ankara dress,
Capped in a black bob wig, draped in the richness of my skin.
I am Affymma, the risen star.
And just like you, I am now at the top.

Becoming Black…

I became “black” the day I stepped foot in Ala bekee~ UK. It was the winter of 2021. The clouds formed light-grey, thick fluorescent sheets that descended onto the roads, engulfing cars as they drove through. I would soon come to know this phenomenon as fog.

Away from home and everything that had been familiar, I decided to pretend my body was at Obudu Cattle Ranch, a small village in Cross River state-Nigeria where the cold isn’t as freezing as the insides of the beecheve women’s freezers, where their ice fishes lived in deep cold, and their fingers would go numb from sorting through mackerel to sell.

Two weeks after my arrival, I was referred to as “black.” I had met Margaret, a middle-aged British woman who thought leaving home and coming to the UK was the bravest thing anyone could do. I smiled a lot during our conversation because I didn’t know if my presence in the country was truly an intelligent move. I had left home, left my job as a nurse, and abandoned everything familiar. Here I was, starting all over again, alone and feigning bravery.

I cried often, battling to understand my patients, figuring out that sachet was pronounced “sa-shay”, saying “you are alright “ as “U’right?” and learning that when a health assistant said a patient was feeling sick, they meant nauseous. It took a while to understand that “going to spend a penny” meant going to the toilet. Have I ever been bold enough to tell anyone about my struggles with understanding those humans on the other end of a telephone call? Updating patients relative about their loved one on the telephone and I going “could you say that again “ multiple times. Why would someone say I spoke too fast and needed to slow down? In my country, my English was plain—no big words, just simple and clear. But they didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand them either. But I have spoken English since I started primary school in Nigeria.

Margaret’s email to me sealed the identity shift. It was a friendly message, suggesting how the neighborhood would like to support “the black immigrants like yourself…”. In my country, I am Efik, but I speak Igbo with the same fluidity as my mother tongue. I was not black; I was either Igbo, Hausa, or Yoruba. The consciousness of my skin color was simply about keeping it smooth and layering palettes of Mary Kay on my face.

Now, I found myself far from the large clan of people who shared my skin color and in a land filled with people from all walks of life. It was here I learned that October is Black History Month, where attention is paid to the accomplishments of Black people. Their contributions in various industries are celebrated, and it is an opportunity to foster community, promote diversity and inclusion, and encourage allyship to fight against discrimination and racism.

It was here I learned about the Windrush generation and the Windrush scandal of 2018, more about slavery, a bit more about colonialism, and my roots. A patient once referred to me by a racist slur. Did I cry that night? Yes. I walked home in the cold, sobbing uncontrollably, regretting my choice to migrate for the first time.

But it wasn’t just strangers. I also learned that sometimes, your kind can lead you to the path of sacrifice. I met a fellow nurse with the same skin as mine, but her joy seemed to be in watching me fail. She consistently talked down on me in front of other colleagues. I had heard of the divide-and-rule tactic, where one Black person is used as a tool against others. Do I call her behavior racist? The pain was the same.

The NHS Workforce Race Equality Standard (WRES) reports that Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic (BAME) staff make up about 24% of the NHS workforce. Yet, we are underrepresented in senior leadership roles. As of recent reports, only about 6.5% of NHS board members come from BAME backgrounds, even though the workforce is much more diverse. As a person of color, I approach job interviews with a fight mentality. I prepare thoroughly—studying broadly, rehearsing every necessary experience relevant to the role, and repeating corporate English in my head multiple times before voicing it out loud. I do informal visits to units, declare a harmless interest in roles, then commit everything to God.

Still, sometimes, just like an interviewer once told me, “You were absolutely amazing. Everyone loved you, but we were hand-tied. We had to give the role to someone already on the team.” That day, I stood in front of the mirror, stared into my own eyes, and wondered how a job was reserved for someone, yet a full panel of interviewers wasted my time. Chineke nna’m!

But I am Black. I am a woman. I am a nurse. And I have a place here.

Who would relate best to that Black patient whose catheter isn’t draining? Who would understand the woman in labor, whose pain is overlooked because she’s seen as strong? Cultural competence is everyone’s responsibility especially in health care but Where you cannot stand, I might be able to.

Black History Month serves as a reminder of both the progress that has been made and the work that remains. It is a time to celebrate the achievements of Black people, not only in the UK but globally, and to recognize the invaluable contributions we make in every industry. Yet, we must also use this time to advocate for systemic changes—more Black nurses in leadership, pay equity, and the eradication of discrimination in healthcare.

Book Review: The middle daughter by Chika Unigwe.

The first time I saw grief drive a person mad was in Amakohia, a small vicinity in Owerri. I had just gone from bathing in front of our house to putting Vaseline on my tiny lips as makeup. The person was Mama Uche. Some people had brought the news that her husband, a police officer who returned home every weekend with a gun strapped against his back, had been killed by kidnappers who invaded the house he guarded.

Mama Uche went from laughing loudly to stripping off her clothes, almost running into the street. Even months after her husband’s burial, you would still find her wandering around the Maami market. Grief.

It was the same grief that exposed Nani to Ephraim in Chika Unigwe’s The Middle Daughter. First, it was Udodi, her elder sister, who died, then Doda, her father. The once beautiful family of three girls and loving parents withered like the flowers in front of the house did when Nani wouldn’t return from Ephraim’s.

Grief sucks you into a place of darkness and breathlessness, making you blind to imminent danger—a danger like Ephraim, who is patriarchal, a religious fanatic, and a woman beater. He deceived Nani into marrying him, and her life spiraled into a world of gloom and doom. Number 47 in Enugu, where she once dreamed of going to America, becoming a doctor, opening a private hospital, and marrying the love of her life, became Obiagu a place where she merely fulfilled Ephraim’s demands and nearly lost everything.

I love how Chika Unigwe infused Igbo poetry and proverbs into her book. Udodi’s choruses were beautiful to read, and I appreciated how the characters told the story themselves. It was engaging. However, it was written in both first and third person, and if you’re not careful, you might not notice when the voices switch. I read the book in three days but almost abandoned it on the second day when I began to grow angry at Nani, and perhaps at the author.

Why would a girl who grew up in middle-class wealth in Enugu endure such maltreatment, all because her mother made money in a way she didn’t like? Her busy schedule? The day Ephraim branded her face with a hot iron after a brother looked lustfully at her in church should have been enough for her to return home. Ephraim raped her, got her pregnant, and all she could do was not run to Aunty Enuka but her abuser? Teenagers will be teenagers, but what about the adults? Her mother didn’t want to be associated with her, never looked for her, and no relatives questioned Ugo for information? How could an entire family let go of a young woman like Nani?

I finished the book because, despite my anger, my heart still ached for Nani. Three children later, her life took a different direction.

Grief sometimes breaks us into pieces we don’t recognize, makes us vulnerable, and clouds our vision. I’ve learned to anchor myself with loved ones. I may be in pieces in their sight during my grief, but no one will break any piece of me in such times. And when healing comes, they will help sculpt me back into shape.

Anulika

Dear Anuli,

When you introduced Okosisi to me, you didn’t call him a mortician; you said he was one of the men with an office behind our health centre. You didn’t say that this udara ocha with irises the color of the sun had his hands in a business I fear?

There are two offices behind the Umuora health centre. One is the one Mma calls “officili,” where we send our breathless relatives to find soothing until the monies we task ourselves are complete for a funeral. The other one is Dr. Odumu’s office, a mini private clinic. I hear he is sent youth corpers every year from Enugu—corper doctors. So when you said Okosisi works behind the health centre, my mind didn’t run beyond what you told me. I held firm to my thought that he was probably one of those doctors they sent from Enugu.

Nwanne, Okosisi has dug my insides with his fingers. The same fingers have made me water recklessly, and with those same fingers, he spread my labia open and drank from my juice. I forgot my home training the night he had me trapped under his masculinity. I behaved like an Akunakuna; I licked the very fingers he dipped inside me, and rolled my tongue across his broad chest. The night was a good shield, who would have believed I would satisfy a man that tall?

Anuli, the same fingered that filled me are the same ones that have laddered the bodies of those we will no longer see?

Chai Chineke nnam ooo!

I hear they never wear gloves, that they tear up femoral arteries with bare hands and feed the bodies with formaldehyde.

Anulika, idi very wicked.

How do I move on with life knowing that I have shared my insides with a man who cares for our long-gone relatives without even a pair of gloves?

Read this letter with your legs in my shoes. Don’t you dare roll your eyes because you tricked me.

Anuli, idi wicked.

Brows and Life

I wasn’t fortunate enough to have my fingers master the art of brow drawing when girls clustered in circles, having their brows carved and learning the tricks of perfecting angles and curves.

Try as I try, e no gree me learn.

That morning, two hours before the start of an eight-hour shift, I sat in front of my mirror, ready to wear a near-perfect brow. They say it is best to start drawing from below, that the arch is easily formed that way. So, I plunged, holding my breath and rolling my face to the drive of the eye pencil.

With every draw came a wipe. I saw my mistakes, and my mind said: “No too draw am fast, take am sofrisofri.” Time was ticking, just as it was ticking for Mama Bomboy. What she didn’t know was that, for every minute she wiped her vagina, I wiped my brows too. While it was ignorance for her, it was just a mistake for me.

I sharpened my eye pencil more, peeling height from it and wishing the tip would do the magic. Mama Bomboy was home, dripping wet from the flow of amniotic fluid and wishing it would stop. She poked her hand into her vagina and noticed green stains.

“Na shit be this?” she wondered.

The baby was in distress, just like the skin around my brows.

With 20 minutes to work time, I dumped my eye pencil. I no gree die. Wetin street no tish you, YouTube dey. Brows unfresh, I walked into the labor unit. On the couch was Mama Bomboy pushing an already blue baby.

She spent time. She wasted time. I spent time. I wasted time.

It cost me redness around the skin that holds my brows. It cost her Bomboy.

Time!