When Mercy Runs Dry

My name is Adaeze Williams and I have not stepped into Amaka Village for 4 years. My husband in Abuja told me, "If you go back to that wretched village, don't come back to my house." But at 2am, my phone rang. Loud, in dark room. Mama was crying. Crying like someone died. "Adaeze! Your father has had stroke! He cannot talk! He cannot walk! Chief Okafor wants to sell his land! If you don't come now, we will lose everything! He has removed our gate!" I looked at my marriage ring on my finger, silver fading. I looked at my father picture on wall, him laughing with wrapper. My husband was snoring beside me, back turned. And I booked night bus to Owerri that same night, 18,000 ticket, with my last 20,000. I did not know that when I arrive, I would meet a barefooted houseboy sitting beside my father wheelchair. And a land worth 12 million naira already sold behind my back. My father was Chief Williams Uche. The most cheerful man in Amaka, Imo State. He did not need to be cheerful to be rich. He had small money from transport business, two buses Owerri to Amaka. He had land, three plots behind community school. He had chieftaincy title, small title. But what people knew him for was not money. It was his hand. Open hand. If your child could not pay school fees in Amaka Community School, they said "Go to Chief Williams." If your shop burnt at Nkwo Market, they said "Go to Chief Williams." If police carried your brother at checkpoint, they said "Go to Chief Williams." He helped everyone. My mother, Mama Nkechi, always warned him inside small bungalow with blue gate then. "Williams, you dey help too much. These people go chop you finish and forget you. You get enemies for Amaka because of kindness. Stop!" He would laugh, big laugh that shook belly and made wrapper shift. "Let them have enemies. My mind don make up. If I see person for need and I fit help, I go help. God no go forget me." He meant it. He built small free lesson center behind house with zinc roof, no school fees. He paid for 14 children in university, IMSU, FUTO, even one in UNN, quietly. On Christmas day, he killed three goats, shared meat to every widow in Amaka, 23 widows. He thought his kindness was insurance for old age. He thought when old, people will remember. He did not know sickness does not check insurance. It was Tuesday morning in August. Harmattan never reach, rain hold small, sky grey. He woke up to carry grandson, little Ebuka, visiting from Owerri for holiday. He tried to lift right hand. Hand did not lift. He tried to shout "Nkechi!" Only drool, strange sound. "N... N... Nke..." Mama Nkechi ran inside from kitchen. She saw him on floor, struggling, one side face shifted, mouth twisted. "Jesus! Williams! What is it!" She thought malaria. She rubbed leg, "Stand up! Stand up na!" He could not stand. By 10am, they carried him to Federal Medical Centre Owerri. Wheelbarrow first, then keke 3,500, then taxi. Doctor looked, did small test, said one word that scattered everything built for 30 years. "Stroke. Severe stroke. He may never walk again. He may never talk again." And just like that, most cheerful man in Amaka became silent. When I heard news in Abuja, I cried one hour. My husband Emeka did not comfort. He said, "Your father has stroke at 67. That is old age. Why you dey cry like small pikin? And don't ask me for money for hospital." That was when I knew marriage already dead. But I stayed, because nowhere to go. For two years, Mama called every week. "Adaeze, your father no dey talk." "Adaeze, we no get 47,000 for drug." "Adaeze, Chief Okafor don carry our cassava and gate." I sent small money, 5,000, 10,000, from small hair business profit 20,000 per month, Emeka collected rest. Until that 2am call. That call changed everything. I entered night bus from Abuja to Owerri, 10 hours, no AC, baby crying beside me, smell of fuel. I did not sleep. Thinking of father. When small, he put me on shoulder and carried me to school every day. He said "Adaeze, you will be bigger than Amaka. You will live in Abuja." And I did. But I failed. Marriage failed, hair business locked 200,000 for 6 months. And now father in wheelchair. When I entered Amaka Village by 11am, people looked. "Adaeze don come back! After 4 years!" I did not greet. I ran to our compound. And that was when I saw him. Small boy, barefooted, maybe 14, thin, oversized shirt, my father old slippers too big. He was sitting beside my father wheelchair, cleaning father good hand with warm water. My father, Chief Williams Uche, most cheerful man, was now small. Cheeks inside. Eyes down. My mother inside, praying loud and crying. I dropped bag. "Who are you?" Small boy stood, afraid. "My name na Chidi, aunty. My mama was Williams daughter, your sister." "Why are you sitting with my father? Where is Mama?" He swallowed, "Aunty, Mama dey inside. Papa cannot talk since morning. I dey help am. I came from Port Harcourt, no house." I looked at father. He looked at me. One good eye filled tears. He raised shaking hand, wanted to touch me. At that moment, white Hilux drove into our compound with speed, dust everywhere, blue gate already removed. Man came down, agbada, shining shoes, Chief Okafor. Youth Chief of Amaka. He pointed at me and Chidi. "Adaeze, you don come? Good. Come and hear. Your father land behind school, I don collect 2,000,000 deposit from buyer for 12,000,000 sale. So comot for that wheelchair, we need to clear that place tomorrow with tractor. And gate, I removed and sold for 80,000." My blood became hot. I thought my problems were in Abuja with locked shop. I did not know my real battle was just starting, in my father own village, Amaka. And that small houseboy Chidi, barefooted, would be only one standing with me. Blue gate removed, land sold, father silent. My name is Adaeze Williams. And I returned after 4 years to fight. Story starts.