“This is my eighty seventh PM to you. I know you would not reply. It is not my fault and I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault that you left, there’s simply nothing anyone could do to stop you. It is sad that you would not reply but who else can I entrust with the burdens of my heart?
John, things have changed. It changed since the day Aunty Ifeoma took you from us. I wanted so much to tell you not to go, but you were so happy at the news of leaving; to see a new place and explore new opportunities. I knew you felt bad at leaving me behind when you asked Aunty if I could also come but she said she could only afford to take care of one person. From the tightness of your hug I knew you would miss me so much and I too; all our petty games, all the affections you showered, how you beat Nnamdi up the day he called me his wife, how you defied the doctor’s advice and stayed at my bed side for several weeks until I got better. It’s funny you know; the bond between us is so unnatural. I cried without eating for three days after you were taken away that our parents thought I would die. I still do sometimes now.
Mother was right. We should have left Gwoza when the insurgents started their invasion. But you know how father and his spirituality are; “No evil will come near our dwelling” that would always be his prayer at the morning devotion. The day they attacked our village it was very early in the morning; I and some other girls in the area had gone to the local council borehole to get some water for our daily use. From the council borehole we could hear loud screams and running feets, like a stampede. In a feat of fear, the other girls ran into nearby bushes for safety.
On impulse, I ran straight towards the village. When I got to the village, I ran towards the big tree you made hollow for hiding; I hope you still remember that tree we played as children. From the hole on the tree I could see masked men with blood dripping machetes. I saw a lot of dismembered bodies lying in a pool of their own blood; some even had their guts spilling out. I bit into my right palm to stifle a scream.
I saw them drag father by the collar; “kneel!” one of the masked men yelled. Father obeyed. In a quick flash, I saw father’s lifeless body on the floor. I bit harder into my palm in tears and I felt the taste of blood on my tongue. How hard it was for me to watch papa die in such a manner. I prayed and hoped at the same time that mother had hid herself in the house. Unfortunately, my prayer was not answered, mother, too was baptized, by those heartless fanatics.
The image of papa and mama’s death kept replaying in my head so I quit school and left the North for Ibadan. The journey to Aunty Ifeanyi’s place in Ibadan took forever; with my girlish body sandwiched between the filthy piles of beans bags and rotten tomatoes. What choice did I have, that was the best Mai-raba – papa’s longtime friend – could do to save my head.
Living with Aunty Ifeanyi would not have been one of the worst moments of my life without her husband – or rather boyfriend – Gbenga. The night when Aunty Ifeoma travelled, I laid down to sleep, Uncle Gbenga came unto me. I was very afraid. He told me how beautiful, curvy and innocent I looked and that he was sure I was older than the age – sixteen – I gave him. I yelled and told him no but he wouldn’t listen. He tugged at my wrapper and ordered me to lay flat on my back and spread my legs. I refused. He slapped me thoroughly and pinned me to the ground, holding me firmly with his hands and legs. He had his way with me that night and subsequent nights afterwards and threatened to kill me if I ever told Aunty. Anyway, even when I had the courage to tell Aunty, she never believed me.
I know you would not be able to read these Facebook messages because the news of your accident has reached me; although I still find it very hard to believe. I will keep messaging you because I need someone to talk to.
And I wonder what would happen to your Facebook account now that you are dead”.
