The Journey Within

By K. C. Anyanele

Japhet at the end of his National Youth Service Corps programme died of an unknown disease as a result his promiscuous lifestyle which his mother never imagined. After his burial, the mother embarked on a journey to the place of his primary assignment to find out the type of life her son lived. From the various narrations made by Japhet’s close associates she concluded that life was a journey made within our heart. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publiseer Publishing
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017

Book preview

BOOK

Dedication

For you who have refused to dine with mischief. For that one whose works haven’t been published and remains unread until now. The people of goodwill who would never go to the table with those who plot against human conscience.

1. PROLOGUE

Look, you’d better stop shedding those tears. Save them for my own time. The dead is only dead. I think I’ve tried in bringing up a son who would have been a replica of your father who died years ago. But now see what has happened. He just left us that way. Of course, he couldn’t have died too soon if he wasn’t messing up his life. Well, what could a woman like me do? What pains me most is that his was a painful birth. Not too long after his birth broke out the civil war which claimed your father. Your father was hit by a friendly bullet. Not even by an enemy soldier. In twenty five years I’ve lost two men who came into my life. Now, Rosa, do I have any other male child to take the place of your father here on earth?  Do I have any other male child to manage the family farm estate? No, I won’t cry anymore. I wouldn’t shed tears anymore. But I have you, my daughter. You are the only person I still have in this life .So, stop shedding those tears...please, just stop...please.

By now tears were filling up my own eyes. I tried so hard to suppress them from dropping as I took Rosa by the hand. It was a Tuesday morning and that day made it exactly three days since I returned from Abak.

Rosa had come up early in the morning to sweep the compound I noticed that when she was sweeping the spot where Japhet was interred she was seized by a fit of tears. He turned twenty-five just four months ago. I was so surprised at his death, especially at the circumstances which surrounded his demise. Since I gave birth to him I did everything possible to see that he conducted himself properly. He was a very quiet boy who never misbehaved.

When he was an undergraduate he became so evangelical and denied the orthodox religion. He was fanatical but...but to think that Japhet of all people would rise again to be a friend of the world was something I couldn’t fathom. Japhet. To learn that he contacted that dreadful disease from a woman....oh!

As I poured water on my face I saw Agasu and Nnedi come into the yard. Agasu was my husband’s elder brother. He had eight children—five boys and three girls. Nnedi was his younger sister. Their mother had only three of them. They had come to find out how my journey went.

Japhet did his National Youth Service Corps somewhere at Akwa Ibom State. He didn’t return home after one month of his discharge. So, I was surprised when his corpse was brought home for us to bury. After the burial, I decided that I must go and find out what type of life my son lived and what killed him there.

2. UYO

The moment the taxi in which I travelled from Aba to Uyo veered into the park that I didn’t know what else to do. Just the day before I was given an address by Ukpo who had married one of our village women. Ukpo was from this part. He had a younger brother who worked in Uyo. I unfolded a small sheet of paper on which his brother’s address was scribbled. In addition, he had given me a letter. The search would begin from here. I wobbled through various commuters and hawkers. I was sweating profusely as a result of the intensity of the sun. My armpits were drenched and all of a sudden it dawned on me that I could be oozing out an odour. Anyway, it didn’t matter.

Before my journey I had been warned that I might not find taxis easily but plenty of motorcycles. That was the commonest transportation. I looked intently at the address. I didn’t know whether to call the office or the street. I beckoned on a motorcyclist. Iboko lane, I said to him. He gazed past me and shook his head after muttering something in Ibibio. Was it that he didn’t know Iboko lane or that I might have pronounced it badly? Perhaps I mispronounced the name of the street. I tried this again at two others and received the same response. What on earth! Anyway, I continued to ask people and even showed some the paper. I knew that by the time I must have shown every motorcyclist the address I would find one person enlightened enough to take me to the place. That was a good initiative and I was fortunate. My bet. Hm! The man said that he knew the place. I had to get there before close of office hours. That was the only way if I wanted a place to hole in. But before I climbed the bike I had to ask him his charge for the drop. He spoke Ibibio to me. This time I had to make him realize that I didn’t understand Ibibio. I told him flatly that I was Igbo. It was then that he showed me his teeth and adjusted his dark goggles. One hundred naira. I marvelled and wanted to say it was exorbitant but I had to let that go since I didn’t have an idea of the place. And I had to get to