From Bondage to Beauty: A Tale of Pursuit, Love, Hope, Death

By Lydia Oluchi Ugwu

When 18-year-old Nkili leaves the shores of Nigeria to meet the husband, whom she’s only seen in a photograph, she has grand visions of a life of success awaiting her. Little does she know that what’s waiting on the other side will plunge her onto a path fraught with twists, turns and crushing disappointment. Will she have the will to fight through and achieve her childhood dreams, or will she be drowned by the tide of adversity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483579016

Book preview

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A door opened from a block of offices. Two small feet stepped out. The feet belonged to a small man cradling a mammoth textbook on his left arm. He shut the door firmly and dug for his keys. Though his shoulders sagged under the strain of exhaustion, his mind fizzled with delightful thoughts that kept a grin on his face. He pictured a little girl throwing the gates open at the sound of his car horn, and two little boys close at her heels screaming Daddy! Daddy!! Behind them, a beautiful queen stood on the veranda smiling affectionately. The man pictured her oval face, warm brown skin, and broad smile. He imagined her kissing his cracked lips, then leading him to the dining table where his favourite meal, pounded yam and egusi soup, waited.

Coming back to the present, the man double-checked the office door was securely locked. Satisfied, he thrust the bunch of keys into his pocket. But, just as he was about to turn on his heel, he felt a presence behind him. The presence signalled danger: it was well past midnight, and most students had retreated to the safety of their hostels. Acting instinctively, he reached for his keys, meaning to

re-enter his office.

Dr Uwadiegwu, a raspy, familiar voice cut him short.

He turned around to confront the owner of the voice.

Towering figure. Balaclava. Pistol.

BANG! Fireworks exploded in his face.

Jesus he groaned, as his feet gave way.

I warned you, his assailant hissed. Whenever Red Scorpion makes a promise, he keeps it!

Red Scorpion…Dr Uwadiegwu shut his eyes slowly. The name hammered in his head, evoking memories.

A few weeks earlier he had been watching the 9pm NTA news with his family when a soft tap came at the door. A bashful young man – one of his students – walked through the door. Dr Uwadiegwu did not appreciate visits from his students but granted the young man audience all the same.

What can I do for you? he queried, once the student had perched on a drooping velvet sofa.

The student wrung his hands nervously. Sir, I’ve come to see you about the exams next week…I need your help. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I failed your course last year, sir…’’

So?

The student’s eyes darted towards the veranda, eliciting the curiosity of Dr Uwadiegwu’s three children who had been watching the action from a corner of the living room. Like cats following the scent of fish, they slithered onto the veranda. The sight that greeted them drew squeals of delight. A 50kg sack of rice, rotund white fowl and carton of Derica tinned tomatoes stood outside the door.

The girl and her two brothers circled the food items like vultures that had spotted rotting meat.

We’ll have jellof rice for dinner, the older boy announced.

I prefer rice and stew, his sister disagreed.

No, I said jellof first! the boy shot back. We can have rice and stew tomorrow.

The girl skipped up to her mother who was stirring a pot of black-eyed beans in the kitchen. She tugged at her wrapper. Mummy, can we have rice and stew for dinner?

Her mother’s eyes widened in surprise, We don’t have any rice, my darling.

But that man in the parlour brought some rice and tinned tomatoes! The girl protested.

The mother paused to look at her little girl: piercing almond-shaped eyes stared back at her, full of expectation; her lithe body rocked back and forth restlessly.

We’ll have rice and stew next time, my darling.

Why can’t we have it today?!

Refusing to be drawn into a bout of cross-examination, the mother returned to her cooking, while her daughter raced back to the veranda.

Where is it? the girl asked her brothers upon meeting a bare veranda. They pointed towards the gate, where a navy green Mercedes was parked. The student was transferring the items into the boot.

The little girl was overcome with frustration and rage. She stormed through the living room, almost knocking down a tray of food carried by her mother.

What’s the matter? their father enquired, breaking away from the newscast.

They want rice and stew for dinner, their exasperated mother explained.

Dr Uwadiegwu was not one to condone childish inanities. He was soon upon the children, brandishing his three-headed whip known as a koboko. His daughter choked back her tears the minute she spotted his koboko.  She and her two brothers scampered to the dining table obediently.

Clean your eyes, their father ordered, his voice tempered with compassion. "I know you wanted to eat rice for dinner, but I couldn’t accept the food the student brought; it was a bribe, and accepting bribes is wrong.

I have taught at the University for ten years, he continued. "God knows I have not accepted a kobo from any student.

"I believe in merit. If a student works hard, the student will pass. But if a student comes to my house with a bag of rice thinking he can bribe me, he will soon find out there’s only one way to pass my course - hard work.

Listen to me children, I may not be able to provide rice and stew for you to eat every day, but I have given you a legacy. One day you will understand that a good name is far better than bags of rice and fattened fowls.

Dr Uwadiegwu reached out to his daughter and eldest child, wiping away the fresh tears trapped in her long lashes. Nkili my darling, someday you are going to be a big girl – a woman – and daddy may not be there to guide you. Always remember to do the right thing, even when it hurts.

He sighed, leaning back into his chair. Let us eat.

In the face of deprivation, his recipe of words made little sense to the children. 

Dr Uwadiegwu wrongly assumed he had ridden himself of the pressing student that night; the next morning he met the student slouched against his office door, waiting.

The student straightened up on seeing him and bowed in greeting. Good morning, sir. He offered to carry the cracked leather briefcase slung across his lecturer’s shoulder, but was rebuffed. What can I do for you, young man?

Sir, I’m sorry about yesterday.

They both stepped into the office.

That doesn’t answer my question.

The student cleared his throat, tentatively inching closer to the lecturer, who was now unpacking the contents of his cracked suitcase.

Sir, please I need your help.

"Look young man, I don’t have all day. What can I do for you?"

Please sir, I’m begging you in the name of God to help me in the exams. I have failed your course twice already. If I fail again, I will be expelled from the university.  Please sir, accept this little token of twenty thousand naira. I promise you, I will do more if I pass.

Dr Uwadiegwu eyed the wad of two hundred naira notes in the student’s hand. I have told you there is only one way to pass my exams: merit. If you keep gallivanting around campus chasing everything in skirt, instead of studying, you will fail. You can bribe other lecturers to pass, but not Dr Christopher Uwadiegwu. I cannot be bought.

The student fell to his knees. Sir, I’m begging you in the name of God. If you let me pass this time, I will study hard. I promise –

Young man, take your money and get out of my office.

The student’s handsome face twisted into a scowl.  He drew himself up to his six foot three inches height, towering over the petite lecturer.

"Oga, you don’t know who you are dealing with. It’s not because I’m humbling myself. Look, in case you don’t know, I’m the leader of the Red Scorpions."

The student tugged at his T-shirt to reveal a dagger jutting out of his underpants.

Dr Uwadiegwu’s large eyes glistened with amusement. He threw back his head and laughed until tears encased his eyes. There are so many of you little boys parading yourselves around campus claiming to be cult leaders these days, he said. You can’t intimidate me.

The student glared at the lecturer like a fire-breathing dragon: Count yourself a dead man if I fail again!

Now Dr Uwadiegwu was splayed out on the ground, staring into the nozzle of a pistol. He closed his eyes and mouthed his last prayer.

At home, Dr Uwadiegwu’s little girl, Nkili, kept vigil at the louvers, waiting for the circular headlamps of her daddy’s car to appear at the gate. Each time a car’s headlights flashed across the gate, she ran to the veranda to see if it was him.

His beautiful Queen set and re-set the dinner plates in different permutations, hoping to take her mind off the eternally-long minutes. When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she set out for her husband’s office.

As she approached the office, she noticed a crowd of students converged on the corridor. The look on their faces stirred up her worst fears. Suddenly, she broke into a race, brushing through the crowd to the object of their attention. Her worst fears were confirmed: a pool of blood, a body, empty eyes.

My huuusbaaaand!!! Her tormented scream ripped through the night.

She slumped to the floor. Everything went grey, then black.

Months later, Mrs Uwadiegwu laid her husband to rest in the village. She never returned to the city: it held too many painful memories. She kept her two youngest children with her, but sent the eldest, six-year-old Nkili, to live in the city with a relative called Uncle Attamah.

On the day of Nkili’s departure, her mother walked her to the main road, where she and Uncle Attamah would take a taxi to the Warri bus park. They stood at the side of the road inhaling clouds of red dust diffused by cars shuttling through the untarred road. Nkili locked her mother’s hand in a tight grip, hoping none of the taxis would have space for two.

They had been standing at the roadside for close to an hour before a rickety green taxi stopped.

Let’s go, Uncle Attamah beckoned to Nkili, scooping up their bags.

Follow your uncle, her mother urged. Nkili’s arms were now tightened around her mother’s waist. Mrs Uwadiegwu felt like Judas Iscariot.

Uncle Attamah retraced his steps to mother and daughter. Ada, he addressed Mrs Uwadiegwu, placing a hand on her shoulder. You’re doing the right thing. You’re a poor widow, you have nothing to offer this girl. If she can get a sound education, she will become an asset to you tomorrow. Please release her, let us be on our way.

Mrs Uwadiegwu nodded. His words gave her courage to keep the incipient tears at bay. She gently loosened Nkili’s tight grip around her waist, taking her hands in hers. My darling, it is time to go. When you get to the city, make sure you’re a good girl. Obey your uncle. Study hard and do well in your studies. You are going to the city so that you can have a better life. Don’t forget you promised to build mummy a big house. I and your brothers are relying on you to do well, okay?

Nkili wanted to say yes, she just couldn’t. She looked at Uncle Attamah – the short, pot-bellied man her mother was nudging her towards - and desperately wished she could stay in the village with her mother and brothers.

Uncle Attamah did not have a family of his own, or much income to go by. He was just a school teacher struggling to make ends meet. His one-bedroom apartment was one of many unpainted, derelict structures hemmed in by swampy roads, foul air, swarms of unrepentant mosquitoes and thick bushes. That did not deter him from opening his heart and his home to Nkili, whom he introduced to neighbours as his daughter.

At first, Nkili was dazed by the new city: the busyness of its pothole-ridden roads, the maddening noise of everyday life, and the constant rains that tumbled out of the sky mercilessly. She often thought about her mother and brothers; wondered what their lives were like in the village, if they missed her.

Over the ensuing weeks, Uncle Attamah watched her gloomy expression soften. She began to laugh more often and talk to him animatedly, telling him stories about her father, mother and brothers. In a short while, their compound was bursting with children from the neighbourhood eager to listen to Nkili’s enchanting stories about the tortoise and the hare. Adults too loved Nkili’s charitable nature. She had no reservations helping neighbours scrub their soot-stained pots or wash their dirty plates.

At the same time, Nkili was never one to miss out on a fight. She fought boys twice her size and girls twice her age without hesitating. If anyone called her a name she didn’t like, if a child tried to ‘scatter’ a game she was so carefully organising, if someone rejected her ideas or tried to jump the queue at the well, she lunged at them without hesitation. Having inherited her father’s petite, fragile frame, Nkili was no match for her rivals. But what she lacked in strength, she made up by becoming a ‘biting queen’ as dubbed by the kids in the neighbourhood. If she was being overpowered by her rival, she’d simply sink her teeth into a choice part of their anatomy, inflicting injury. The kids quickly learned the fear of Nkili’s bite was the beginning of wisdom.

As the months went by, Uncle Attamah registered Nkili at Greater Tomorrow primary school, where he taught science.

At school, Nkili’s rise to fame was spontaneous. She quickly caught the attention of students and teachers, owing to her feisty nature. At the same time, she distinguished herself as one of the school’s top-performing students, making her the preferred representative for the school during state and national academic competitions.

Driven by her mother’s parting advice, Nkili studied arduously to ensure she maintained her position as a premier student. Getting top grades and winning competitions reassured her she was on the right path to building a bright future.  It also instilled in her a deep sense of pride. She felt invincible.

Nkili’s reign of academic dominance continued until primary four, then things began to change.

On the first day of school, at the start of a new term, the teacher introduced a scraggly-looking boy named Emeka.  His bald head was a mosaic of ashy, infectious-looking ringworm patches; his lopsided shirt was closer to brown than the recommended white. His green shorts were ridden with holes that his classmates quickly tagged ‘post office boxes’. Nkili hated him at first sight.

The teacher, for some reason, thought Nkili would be the best ‘seat mate’ for Emeka. Go and sit with Nkili, she directed Emeka. Nkili, make sure you help him settle in.

 Nkili was seething inside when Emeka clambered next to her wearing a broad grin.  

 Hi, he smiled at her.

 She returned his greeting with the hiss of a viper, longing to wipe the ‘dirty’ smile off his yellow pimply face.

There was not much she could do about sharing a bench with him, so she picked a piece of chalk and drew a dividing line across the bench.

 This is your side, and this is my side, she warned him.

 She could only keep him at bay for so long; Emeka had no regard for the dividing line: his buttocks crossed freely to whichever side of the bench he pleased. This triggered endless rows.

Shift! Nkili would yell at him whenever he trespassed, her nostrils flaring out in anger.

 I’m not shifting. Do your worst.

 Shift you dirty pig!

 Look here, Mrs Grasshopper legs, if you call me a dirty pig again, I will slap okro seeds out of your mouth.

Exchanging blows and insults formed an integral part of their day. Nkili couldn’t resist the acidic remarks, and Emeka couldn’t resist retaliating with his fists, which often led to a kicking and tearing match. Their fighting matches inevitably attracted corporal punishment: kneeling down in front of the class, riding invisible bikes, and receiving strokes of the cane, became a common occurrence for both of them. They often came off drenched in sweat and tears, but it didn’t alter their routine – even when Emeka tried to extend an olive branch.

Nkili, why can’t we be friends? he’d ask in a conciliatory tone.

Nkili would circle a hand round her head. God forbid! Who wants to be friends with you?

Get out my friend! Mrs Cat eyes.

Shut up shorty!

At the end of the term, Nkili regretted her unfettered arrogance. The ‘dirty pig’ with ‘post office box’ ridden shorts knocked her off the top spot, emerging the best performing student. Nkili was stumped, she couldn’t even cry. She felt she had let her mother down, and her brothers. She promised herself to regain the top spot the following term. Consequently, evenings and weekends were spent buried in her textbooks, forfeiting opportunities to cook mud food with the kids in her neighbourhood and to play ten ten with the girls.

The following term Emeka relegated her to the second spot again. Nkili cried her eyes out, accusing Emeka of surreptitiously copying her work. In response, the classroom teacher assigned Emeka to a new bench. It didn’t undermine his academic dominance. He maintained the top spot until they finished primary school, bagging the coveted Bodmas scholarship for secondary school. Nkili was glad to see the back of him after the final Common Entrance Exam. In her heart, she promised herself secondary school would be different. She would be unbeatable.

Nkili twirled in front of a full length mirror; her heart was bursting with pride. At last, she was going to secondary school after months of fantasising. She looked smart in her brown checked uniform, brown sandals and white socks. For her, the moment felt epochal – an important step in achieving her mother’s wishes.

She paused to savour her appearance: oval face, beautiful almond-shaped eyes, full pouting lips, luminous brown skin, daintily carved limbs. God, I’m so beautiful, she thought.

A rustling sound from the inner room reminded Nkili time was running.

Nkili, are you still here? A tinge of harshness undercut Uncle Attamah’s voice.

I’m leaving, sir, Nkili replied, hoisting her rucksack onto her back and running through the front door.

The neighbourhood was a burst of colours. Children in their neatly pressed uniforms fanned out in every direction, heading to school. Nkili joined a swarming mass of brown to make the two-kilometre trek to her new school.

At the rusty, iron gates of the school, teachers brandishing canes pointed students to the assembly ground, which was abuzz with the excited voices of returning students. Nkili, feeling slightly awkward, joined the mob of new Junior Secondary One students, often referred to as JS1 students.

At 7.30am, a koboko-wielding teacher quietened the students, and assembly begun. Nkili, still adrift on a cloud of euphoria, barely participated in the prayers and national anthem, or heard instructions reeled out by a female teacher wearing a black turban and ground-sweeping skirt. After her offering of platitudes, a squat balding man stepped forward and introduced himself as Mr Pepper, the principal.

At the mention of his name, a cackle rang out from behind Nkili, prompting her to swing around. The owner of the voice was light-skinned, pimply faced and dishevelled. Nkili froze, not believing her eyes. Standing behind her was her archenemy, Emeka. He was wearing the same broad grin he often displayed in primary school.

Mrs Grasshopper legs!  he teased without a tinge of surprise.

Nkili bit her lower lip. Tears simmered below the surface. Now she was going to be stuck with him for the next six years.

The moment assembly was over, she sprinted across the grassy field towards the bright-orange classrooms that towered three storeys high. Pausing at the door, she took in the interior: freshly painted magnolia walls, grey cement floors, tightly-packed three-seat benches and desks, and four croaking white fans that dangled precariously above the benches. Nkili stood by the door, waiting for all her immaculately dressed classmates to trickle in, and only went to look for a seat when she was sure Emeka was not a member of her class.

Despite the chagrin of Emeka’s presence, Nkili quickly grew to love her new school. Sure Success Academy was a motley of sportive students prone to wild pranks, quirky teachers, and the principal, a very curious character. Mr Pepper, the principal, was a Russian-trained doctor, turned educationist who loved regaling students with embellished stories about his student days in Russia. Curiously, he wore his trousers, which were always two sizes too big, inches below his chest; he also sported a thick, soot-stained moustache in a handlebar style, and spoke with an accent that was a cross between Indian and Nigerian. Nkili never grew weary of hearing his stories, like the day he stepped out of his hotel room amid a snowstorm, and couldn’t find his way back. Or the day he asked his female flatmate for a razor blade, which came out sounding like the Russian word for prostitute. Nkili particularly loved the stories about his academic achievement, how he was able to learn Russian within six months, and – at graduation – emerge the best student