Friendship Lost and Lessons Learned Too Late

Friendship Lost and Lessons Learned Too Late

Clutching my bouquet of roses with trembling fingers, I stood at the edge of Ozoemena’s grave, hemmed in by a sea of mourners. Familiar faces of coursemates blurred with strangers, all united in grief for a man whose friendship I had carelessly overlooked. The weight of the flowers in my hands felt like a mockery of the connection I had failed to nurture in life, now painfully clear in death’s unforgiving light. Ozoemena. A guy I disliked because of hair. He had too much hair. Boy would cut his hair and have it growing the next minute; on his head, face, hands and legs. I saw it as an insult to my non-growing hair, how could a guy be so graced? Something a woman should have and right there my dislike for him found a base so I nicknamed him in Igbo Ozo ntutu — chief of hair, removing the last part of his name. But here I am now with flowers, one I didn’t give when he was alive but one I could afford to give at his death. I thought about the many times he had been nice, the many times he had gone out of his way to help people and the many times he had smiled. “You better be nice to me,” he would always say to me, “now that you can still see me.” He wanted to leave for Canada after our degree exams so he would run his master’s program and whenever he said that to me, I would frown and reply, “They won’t give you a visa!” I also wish I never told him in Year 1 that he was a lab experiment, “I bet you were created in a Petri dish!” I said out of anger when he pulled my cap in public revealing my short scattered hair. It was supposed to be a playful stunt but it got me annoyed. I should not have said those words to him. I should have been a little kind towards him. I should not have left him behind, sleeping that night we all went to read in school. I should have woken him up as I left at dawn but I did not and he told me it was the students who came later by 9 am for their lecture that woke him up. He was so embarrassed. I had simply replied, “What kind of sleep is that?” Without any form of pity. Ozoemena was a good man, a great class representative to us, and he ensured that we were happy. He saved us countless times from the hands of our lecturers and would sometimes take the blame. We became quite close in our final year, I don’t know but we seemed to sit together more often, were in the same group for assignments and ultimately had the same project supervisor. There he started his joke, “Mary, the mother of Jesus, pray for me so I won’t fail my degree exams.” “This Mary lives in Nigeria and she’s Igbo and not Jewish,” I would reply. “It’s the same thing, just pray!” He would tell me. On the last day of the exams, he was not present in my hall and I assumed he was in the second hall. Others in the second half assumed he was in our hall until we finished the paper and discovered he did not come to school at all. The HOD called us together and after giving a one-week ultimatum to submit four copies of our finished project, he told us about Ozoemena and that he was dying at the hospital. Dying? What? I could have sworn he was okay, I mean, he comes to class every day, makes me laugh and buys me food on several occasions, how could he be battling with his liver all this while? His last days were spent in the hospital. Dying yet laughing and trying to make a joke out of everything. “How much does this wheelchair cost? I’d take it home and sell it, they gave it to me but we have to pay for it, you know,” He told one day. I blamed the numerous drugs they were giving him, it seemed to weaken him and make him say all manner of things like a little child. I wanted to tell him to rest and stop talking but he preferred I listened to him and so he went on and on. “Promise me, you won’t die,” I asked him on his last night in the hospital. He smirked and closed his eyes. I trusted that smile and I trusted even the way he closed his eyes. That was a sign. A yes that he would survive. I had left reasoning behind and became a seeker of signs. “What will you do for me if I do not die?” He asked. “I’ll join you to sell this wheelchair to the highest bidder.” He laughed now, a weak laugh. We stood up to sing yet another hymn in church and that was when I noticed I had been crying. It didn’t feel like it though, it felt like I wasn’t there and I was caught in between the two emotions, weeping and being dry-eyed. Ozoemena died in the early hours of the next day. I was at the business centre binding my project work when I received the text from the assistant class rep – “He has gone to be with the Lord.” Rage and hate suddenly filled my spirit for everyone: for the girl at the business centre for not having my complete change, making me stand to wait for her to go and look for it; for the bike man who drove me to the teaching hospital and for driving so slowly, for even the nurse I met on duty with her pink lipstick. I also hated the colour pink at that moment. I hated the fact that I was wailing loudly when I saw his parents and that … Read more

A monument of an unbelievable sacrifice

A monument of an unbelievable sacrifice

As I stood in front of the old, dilapidated house that seemed like a house of monument, I was overcome with a sense of unease. It was clear that this place had seen better days, the peeling paint, broken windows and crumbling walls were proof of that. But something did not seem right here, as if there was a deeper story behind the decay. I turned to my friend Ndubuisi, who had brought me here. “What happened here?” I asked curiously. He paused for a while as his expression became serious. “If I had asked you this question a few months ago, you would probably have said that the house was being renovated”, he began, “but that was far from the truth”. As he spoke, I noticed a sadness in his eyes that I had never seen before. He took a deep breath before continuing. “This house was once a haven for many, a place where families lived and loved. But then the world stood still for hours, and the fate of the people was decided”. My heart began to race as I listened to his words, for I did not know where this story would lead. “Lives were changed forever in this house”, Ndubuisi said quietly, his voice full of emotion. “Fathers lost their sons, mothers became widows and children were left without fathers. The breadwinners of the families said goodbye to life and willingly sacrificed themselves for a greater cause”. I felt a lump forming in my throat as I tried to process what Ndubuisi was telling me. “What cause?” I asked with my voice barely in muted tones. Ndubuisi’s eyes met mine, full of determination and sadness. the cause of freedom,’ he said with a certain pride. These men have paid the exorbitant price for us to enjoy our lives in freedom. That we can visit places like Aguorie, Nkutume Guest House and Eke utali Joint without fear of oppression. I remembered the carefree nights I had spent with friends in these places. How could I be so blind to the sacrifices made for my freedom? But then the words of Ndubuisi hit me even harder. “Even the prodigal sons were not left out,” he said with a slight tremor in his voice. “Men who had strayed from the path of righteousness found redemption in their last moments. They fought alongside their brothers because they knew they were fighting for a cause greater than themselves”. Tears stung my eyes as I looked at the house in front of me with a new understanding. This place was not just a dilapidated building, but a monument to sacrifice, a reminder of the price of freedom. It is the desire of everyone of us to free and liberated from every indirect form of slavery. For the love of our dear fatherland, people who have never been to the military fought with every breathe in them. “These men will never be forgotten”, Ndubuisi said with conviction. “Their struggle and sacrifice will never be in vain”. Read also: We Can Make the World Better With Love As we stood in front of the old house that seemed to be a house monument, I could not help but feel a sense of gratitude and awe for the brave people who had laid down their lives. I vowed never to take my freedom for granted and to always remember the sacrifices that were made for it. And when we left the house, I knew that I would carry this story with me and share it with others so that the memory of these heroes would live on.

Resilience and Healing

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I’m the mistake of my father, The naivety of my mother, The exuberance of teen age that yielded fruit; A seed planted in a soil not ready to hold a root. I need healing, I need to dive in resilience   I’m not the mistake of my father, The willingness of my mother, From a matrimonial bed, I am the fruit; A seed that sprouted from good soil to hold its root. I need healing, I need to dive in resilience   I’m the victim of abandonment; at birth, they left, Tales like Cain and Abel, my world melted. Death was a thief; my father died, my father became a wanderer, Two worlds in the same scene; in its shadow, I became a sojourner. I need healing, I need to dive in resilience.   Starting from the constant reprimand of my father’s mistakes, A bond from the connection of ruthlessness breaks. I’m depressed from his demise without goodbye, Watching the glitter of the sparse stars, hoping he comes by. I need healing, I need to dive in resilience   I’m searching for healing, Resilient in my quest to be saved. Hold me closer, my soul in quest of peace. Daddy, Mummy, when will it seize.