Tears of the Lonely

By Ayo Oyeku

Do the tears of the lonely ever dry? Okikis world is awakened by a strange encounter with a mysterious cashew tree, a talking tree. He finds solace in the mysterious tree as he leans on its tutelage to battle the vicissitudes of his family life. He faces the challenge of an intolerable father, Adigun, who grossly abuses his wife and makes life unbearable for his three children. Amope, a humble-hearted mother, with pious extravagances, would not allow her children to show ill feelings toward their benefactor as she battles with epilepsy. All these culminate in the mind of Doja, Amopes first son, as he awaits the accurate time to pin his fathers callousness against the walls of vengeance.

The stage is set when Okiki grasps education as his lasting panacea to end his tears. But darkness begins to roam around his flickering light of hope when his father escapes to the city with his secret lover, his brother is being pursued by a weight of guilty conscience, and his sisters marital dream is being smeared in their pursuit to salvage Amopes life.

This is a heart-rending and inspiring story set in Nigerias post independence years, creating a perfect imagery of a failing nation through a dysfunctional family, while the vision for a glorious future is set in the eyes of a lonely child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466905481

Ayo Oyeku

Ayo Oyeku is a Nigerian writer. Through his various published works in foreign anthologies, he has established himself as a perfect writer with the African edge, both in prose and poetry. He divides his time between writing, nation building, and entrepreneurship. This is his first novel.

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Contents

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A NOTE ABOUT

THE AUTHOR

For the lonely child

Tears of the lonely, silent trickles of bitterness, puddles sown into the fields of time, bringing harvests of joy in its due season.

1

The Encounter

It was a sunny afternoon. The sun was lofty high in the sky. And its rays reflected on the lonely path that led to the village market. The path was deserted, and wore the garment of quietude. But for the sounds of a footstep that heralded the coming of a passer-by, with a clockwork precision.

Wait!

A voice called out from the winds. The passer-by halted suddenly. He had heard a voice. The little boy was sure he heard a voice. Tall, elephant grasses graced the otiose bushes fencing the footpath leading to the market. The boy waited. He turned his eyes about, to be sure of where the voice was coming from.

He had noticed a few things. The deserted bushes curved into a shaggy mane of hair, distorting his sight. He brushed them aside with the back of his right hand, to see the jokester lurking away from sight. He could see no one. He bent low, low enough to smell the beautiful dust on the gleaming clay road; which reddens the foot of every graceless wayfarer. Still, he found nothing. Satisfied, the boy stood erect and turned to leave. Only for his feet to be barricaded by words that metamorphosed into a knoll.

Look, I am here.

He had heard again. His whole being could testify to this ethereal truth. The voice was soft, calling and tempting. It echoed within his inner cavity. Droplets of timidity began to wet his soul. The innocent boy became afraid. The voice had spoken from his right side. His neck stiffened under the gargantuan weight of his head. His mouth salivated. And he swallowed each atom of saliva to quench the fire of fear that was stoking in his heart.

He turned his head slightly to the right. He rolled his eyes sideways, to catch a total view of the intimidating jokester. His sight caught a tree. Indeed, it was a tree: a large, firmly rooted, cashew tree. Its roots spread out like tentacles over the earth. Its slender branches held high, the greenish leaves and the ripened cashew fruits. The leaves cropped up so high and around the tree, that it stood fixed like an ancient demigod.

It was unbelievable. The boy’s fear suddenly vanished. He knew the cashew tree. It had always been there, as far as he could remember. He turned his head fully to gaze the object. The wind blew softly around the cashew tree. It surreptitiously oozed out alluring fragrance from the old village tree. And its leaves swayed. The boy stood, rooted to the ground, engulfed by the enticing fragrance. He smiled. He was certain that the cashew tree couldn’t have spoken to him. He laughed at his foolishness. He was sure to have been eluded by his feeding thoughts. He stole furtive glances at the cashew fruits. He contemplated on whether to pluck some of it or not.

You can have as much as you want.

The unknown voice said. Again, the boy had heard, audibly. Not with his heart, but with his ears. He had contemplated plucking some cashew fruits, and he just heard an affirmative from the tree! The whole world changed before him. The cashew tree had undulated into a head with escalated dreadlocks. With a few inches apart, two over-ripened cashew fruits hung loosely at the centre of the tree. Swaying gently, blinking as an eye. A few leaves, stretching from both sides, overlapped on one another, a few inches below the imagined eyes. It waved and recoiled in an attempt to enunciate words.

The air began to blow forcefully with an unimaginable crescendo. The atmosphere was changing. The clouds began to move swiftly away from the surface of the sky. Endangering darkness crawled towards the surface of the sky. The innocent boy was beclouded by fear and terror. He shut his eyes, shook his head, and flicked his eyes open.

Darkness vanished. Everything returned back to normal. The cashew tree swayed gently under the sunny afternoon. But the eyes and lips had remained. The boy began to peer closer at the organs. His mind raced beyond the hills and rivers. His heart thudded heavily against his chest. Suddenly, a great strength rejuvenated his whole being. He held unto it. Quickly, he turned away from the cashew tree and fled to the market.

His hasty arrival into the market was unnoticed. The hustling and bustling of the market ignored his consciousness. He heaved a sigh of great relief and calmed down, as he pushed his way through the busy market.

The immense Kajola market was most busy on Saturdays. It was the market day. On this day, things were sold at an exclusively cheap rate. And the villagers took advantage of this day to buy things in stock. Belonging to the people of Kajola, yet, the market was shared with people from the neighbouring village; Irewolu. The two villages fostered a healthy relationship by trading with one another at the market. The boy was from Irewolu.

The sun descended upon the market atmosphere. It radiated heat from its core and stung the people with its arrows. The breeze blew hotly against the perspiring bodies. Traders and buyers sweated under the sun. Buyers haggled angrily with the persuasive traders, and threatened to leave, hurrying to flee from the wrath of the vengeful element, smiling at them in the clouds. Still, gossip was at its peak, as some people cared less about the scorching sun.

Good afternoon, mama.

The little boy stopped in front of a large, old counter. Wet vegetables were arranged on the counter. Water dripped from the vegetables unto the dusty market floor. A large quantity of melon seeds were evenly scattered across the old counter. The old woman’s eyes blinked in cognizance of the boy.

Good afternoon, my son. How is your mother?

She is well. Home is well too. The boy responds generally.

He wasn’t a stranger to the generous, old woman. He knew she would take her dutiful time to ask after everyone in his family. Enunciating her words carefully and simultaneously delaying the young boy. Since he had answered her next, likely question, he quickly declares his purpose, before the old woman thought of what to say.

Mother needs some melon seeds, the boy cuts in.

Ignoring his demand, the old woman stoops low. She sticks her neck out of the counter, peering closely at the boy.

Are you not the child born to Amope seven festivals back? She enquired.

Yes, Mama, he replied quickly.

Oh! You have grown so big.

She remarked gleefully; clasping her wrinkled palms against her chest. She stared at the boy in total surprise. The young boy fidgeted with his fingers to hold back his impatience. The old woman had seen him three days back, and asked the same question. And she had also reacted the same way. The boy watched her throat, as she mumbled to herself. The weak flesh around her throat contracted and threatened to snap at the slightest strain.

Mother needs some melon seeds.

He repeated, more calmly. He stretched the money in his hand towards her. He heaved a sigh of relief as the old woman collected the money. The senility of her senescence took toll on her trading process. The boy patiently watched, as she slowly packed the required quantity of melon seeds in a large leaf.

You can have this too, my son.

The boy had flung his hands frontward to collect his pack of melon seeds. But the generous woman filled his vacant palms with some groundnuts. He could not reject her kind gesture. He smiled at her. He thanked her, meekly. And he stuffed the groundnuts into his left pocket.

This is for your mother.

She handed over the melon seeds to the boy. He collected it from her and turned to leave. The old woman began sending continuous greetings to Amope. The boy assured to convey her greetings as he walked slowly away from her stall. She was now asking for a remembrance of the boy’s name, when he vanished from sight.

The young boy walked as fast as his tiny legs could carry him. The old woman had delayed him, and he was sure his dear mother would have been waiting for him by now. He hurried along the bush path. It seemed as if all the air in the bush followed him. It blew into every part of him. He dashed his right feet against recalcitrant stones that hindered his pace. Pelting them away, as red dusts settled on his feet.

Okiki

The call darted towards him like a fired arrow; piercing through his bones and marrows. It sent a chill down his spine. He could feel his feeble legs fractioned against one another. His name had been called. The call was soft, but piercing. He had heard the similar voice. He turned his head. He was standing towards the cashew tree again. He was certain that it was a call from the mysterious tree.

The vengeful sun slid behind the rocky clouds. The atmosphere changed with rapid fervour. And the breeze came, dropping in small packets. It made him shudder a little. Another sizeable packet of breeze hit him towards the chest. It tore through his tender heart and caressed his soul. He became calm. He was fully aware of what was happening around him.

The elephant grasses by the bush path seemed to close up on him. It embraced him into a confident posture. He clenched his fists. Holding unto every atom of air he could grasp. His palm began to ache. But he clawed at the fragile melon seeds. Then the wind came rushing towards him. It blew vehemently at him. Crippled stones rattled across the ground. Red dusts grew wings and mounted on the invisible strata of the air.

The heavy wind flung the branches of the cashew tree wide. Its leaves swayed loosely. And some of the ripe cashew fruits dropped to the ground. The leaves twirled around Okiki. He did not shrug them off. He allowed them to caress his body. Lost in the rhapsody, Okiki opened up to the embrace of the tree. The rushing winds escaped behind the bushes. All became still.

You can have them.

The cashew tree’s branches swung low, as he heard. He looked at the direction. Right at the root of the tree were some cashew fruits. They were scattered all over. He could not resist the temptation. He thought of the pleasurable satiation he would derive from the fruits. But his sanctimonious sanctity would not let him. He shrugged off the impetuosity that weighed on his shoulders. He turned to leave.

Okiki please, I want you to have them.

The persuasive words of the cashew tree sailed slowly into his ears. A feeling of guilt beclouded him. Unless he took some of the fruits, he was certain that the kind tree would not be pleased with him. Taking careful steps, he moved towards the tree. He bent down and picked some of the cashew fruits. The shadow of the tree enveloped him; soothing away his fears. Okiki stood up, facing the tree. He opened his mouth to express his gratitude. But the words refused to come out. The tentacles of innocence in his bowels pulled at the words clutching to his throat. The encounter mystified him.

Go home. Mother calls you.

The cashew tree told him. Immediately, Okiki became conscious of time. He realized how expectant his mother would be by then. Hurriedly, he pushed some of the fruits into his pockets. He packed the melon seeds firmly in his hands and dashed away. He ran as swiftly as he could, gathering much winds and dusts back to the village.

Amope, a fair-skinned robust woman was standing on her toes, awaiting the arrival of her last child. A soft crumple below her eyes told she was in her late forties. The once beautiful woman stood in front of her hut. The blurring silhouette of a person afar off materialized into Amope’s dearest child. A soft anger welled up within her, as her fears were