A Mother's Debt: The True Story of an African Orphan

By Talent Chioma Mundy-Castle

This is a true story from deepest Africa. In 1954 a healthy baby girl is born in unusual circumstances and her mother dies, never regaining consciousness. Neither is able to make even the briefest eye contact with the other despite having been as one for nine months. The little girls father, distraught at his wifes death, cannot bear to take his daughter home and she is left in the care of the hospital authorities. She is technically an orphan, and officially becomes one, when her father dies 5 years later. During this 5 year period the father remarries and makes amends by taking the young girl home and bonding with her and, in this brief period, they grow to love each other. However, the stepmother feels no affinity towards her and a fractious relationship between the two females descends into real hate.
This is exacerbated by the fact that, in Nigeria, the girl is considered to be a witch and, worse, the murderer of her mother. She must work for anyone but belongs to no-one and is fed, accommodated, and educated only on the whim of numerous relatives, aunties, uncles, and the grandfathers whom she loves the most. But when the grandfathers die she is cast into the abyss of African custom and predatory males and, while developing great beauty, builds incredible tactics and defences to enable her to survive, against the odds.
Ironically, she is saved by a brutal war when, at the tender age of 13, she becomes a child soldier spy and an active service heroine to her comrades, who reward this by discharging her after wrongly accusing her of being a saboteur (turncoat) following her capture and torture by the enemy. This war, so detrimental to most of the population of Biafra, finally shapes her future and, surviving where a million have died, she goes on to struggle through many more adversities (complicated by a web of pagan beliefs, superstition, Christianity and the vestiges of colonialism) to find temporary security on many occasions, but inevitably returning to the seemingly unequal contest. Five well-balanced and variously successful children will testify that their place in the world was fashioned by the dedication, love and sense of purpose of this extraordinary woman. But it doesnt end there..

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477218754

Talent Chioma Mundy-Castle

Chioma was born into the affluent Oparaji family of high status, the last of nine children and the only girl. She should have been assured of a comfortable and loving upbringing surrounded by the extended family of cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, traditionally living together in the family compound in the village of Ezuhu Nguru, Eastern Nigeria. Instead, cruelly orphaned and being much younger than her brothers, she existed at subsistence level throughout the early years of her childhood eventually escaping from the status of child witch at the age of 13 to take part in the Biafran War. Subsequently she returned to the struggle for survival in post-war Biafra and with a growing family of her own was, at the age of 21 ready to transform her life. In 1986 she decided to move her family to England which she considered the ideal place to further her lifestyle and the education of her 5 children. This was against the strong advice of her husband. In some ways this was a good idea and in others it was a disaster and she was repeatedly thrown back into the struggles of her past. The worst was the ending of the marriage to her golden man – he couldn’t face London and returned to his other love, Africa. She now lives in Brixton, London and this year has been chosen as a London Ambassador for the 2012 Olympic Games. She has much more to give, tirelessly working for her charity ‘Ladies of Substance’, an organisation dedicated to helping black families lost in the turbulence of inner city London with its racial undertones and gang culture.

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A Mother’s Debt

The True Story of An African Orphan

Talent Chioma

Mundy-Castle

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© 2012 by Talent Chioma Mundy-Castle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/17/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1834-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1833-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1875-4 (e)

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1      The Morning of My Life

Chapter 2      Working for Life

Chapter 3      Gathering Storm Clouds

Chapter 4      A Change of Life

Chapter 5      Anger and Flames

Chapter 6      Military Training

Chapter 7      Active Service

Chapter 8      A Soul Saved

Chapter 9      The Search Continues

Chapter 10      A Tangled Web

Chapter 11      From Joy into Despair

Chapter 12      The Journey

Chapter 13      On the Move Again

Chapter 14      Success at Last

Chapter 15      Finding the Rainbow

Chapter 16      The Man from Skibbereen

About the Author

Dedication

I have written this account of my life with my five children and all my grandchildren in mind. Without their support, from which I draw my strength, I would not have had the courage to put pen to paper. The debt I inherited from my mother has been repaid with the

help of subsequent generations, faith, hope and charity.

This is for:

Chinedum Gloria

Osinachim Paul,

Nnamudi Godwin,

Chiweuba Andrew,

Oluchineke Emma,

their children and, Mundy-Castle

May my God Bless you all, Thank God

Acknowledgements

Many years have flown away and I continually surprise myself that I am still here to tell the world that our lives are in our own hands. I firmly believe that the key is to play the cards as they are dealt, without any negativity or doubt, since these only serve to cloud the issues and alter the outcome. I did not know my mother and was with my father only for a short period, so I can only thank them for the inherited genes that have enabled me to be who I am today.

As I was much younger than them I did not know my eight brothers well, only one of whom survived the terrible Nigeria/Biafran civil war. Their contribution to the Igbo cause was immense, even in defeat, and they paid the ultimate sacrifice for their beliefs. I am privileged to have also been able to take part in that struggle. We all fought in the war, but never together, and I have no knowledge of how each one died. They just didn’t return, like a million others. Silently, they were wiped off the world’s stage, and quickly forgotten in the chaos of a country awaking from a nightmare.

Although there were many hard times my children were always there for me, eventually giving my life some purpose though, at times, I found it hard to understand what God’s plan was. Gloria, Paul, Godwin, Andy and Emma grew up under my strict interpretations of discipline and, in turn, kept an eye on me as they each reached their own point of realisation. They came to understand that the single most important factor missing from my early life was a caring and loving atmosphere and, in turn, made it their business to redress that omission. I am much calmer now having established that, at last, love is flowing into me. There is no greater love than that emanating from one’s own bloodline. I thank them for being there.

A vital part of my life was reshaped by a giant among men. My husband, Lister, taught me that there was no such thing as terminal mistrust. He planted in me the seed that I could be a ‘Lady of Substance’ by gradually calming my anger and making me aware that there was much good in the world. What he brought into my life is immeasurable and my gratitude to him knows no boundary. He took me and my three children on, gave me two more, and educated us all to the highest standards possible. He also gave me good feelings for men whom I had come to despise.

I am respectful of all those who contributed to my upbringing, good or bad, since everything happens for a reason. I have mellowed greatly over the years and, in hindsight, can see that there was much laudable purpose for many, but not all, of the actions of the people who crossed my path. I would single out for particular attention my stepmother, Jemima, who constantly appears in my story as a tyrannical character. In fact, it was the result of a clash of personalities between us and I have come to the conclusion that without her presence, at strategic moments in my life, I would have been much weaker. I now firmly believe that, during our battles, my individuality was forming and this gave me the strength of character and purpose that I would need to carry me forward. Although, given the option, I would not have chosen her for the role, she was truly my substitute mother and I ask forgiveness for any pain I caused her. I like to think she would feel the same if she were still here today.

Finally my heartfelt thanks go to Michael Rodney Guise who was the driving force in the completion of this book. He supported me with words of encouragement and sympathy while I was re-living the darkest corners of my past. Without this support I would not have had the courage to go to these places which I had not visited for years. I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to him for taking this on and I know that it was just as painful for him.

I hope my story can help others, especially those unfortunate children in similar circumstances. I thank my God that I am here now to be able to pass on my experiences.

Talent Mundy-Castle

Chapter 1

The Morning of My Life

It was as though the diminishing strength of my mother, Grace, as her life ebbed away during the days following my birth, was imbuing my body with the power I would need for the rigours of my own journey. My entrance into this world, just as she was exiting it, was as unconventional as my life was to become. It is only now at the age of 55 that I can finally summon the strength I need to recount the events that followed.

It was June 1954 and it was planned that I should be born in the village of Ezuhu Nguru, Aboh, Mbaise in former Eastern Nigeria—my father, Jonathan Oparaji, was elated at the prospect of at least one of his and Grace’s children originating in his home town, a dream he had long nurtured. His leave had fitted in perfectly with the projected birth date.

A few days before my arrival my mother, Grace, had been collecting vegetables in my grandmother’s garden when a large snake appeared and wound itself around her waist. The villagers raced to the scene on hearing her screams but could do little to help as the reptile was tightly coiled around her and her unborn child and, in her state, they could have caused more damage by attempting a rescue.

My father, Jonathan, had driven his Morris Minor to the market square to buy meat when a villager raced up to tell him what was happening. He quickly drove to the scene and to everyone’s amazement the snake, startled by the sound of the car door slamming, fell from my mother, who then collapsed, unconscious. On the spot where the snake fell an egg had appeared and spilt into two segments, revealing nothing, completely dry. My father and the villagers were unable to comprehend what this meant and it was decided by majority that the pagan gods should be consulted. My paternal grandfather suggested that my mother’s father, a pagan, should be called in to ask the gods for an explanation of the meaning for this distressing incident. A solution to Grace’s condition could then be worked out. However, my father, a strong willed man and a Christian, would hear none of this and ordered Grace to be lifted into his car so that he could drive her to the Shell Oil Hospital at Port Harcourt.

On arrival at the hospital Grace, who was still unconscious, was rushed into an emergency ward where she clung on to life until, two or three days later, she fell into labour, and I was born in perfect health. Jonathan was pleased at this development but my mother was still precariously balanced between life and death and the hospital doctors were of the opinion that death was the most likely outcome. They were unable to explain to him the cause of her grave state so Jonathan made the decision to try the pagan solution that had originally been recommended by Grace’s father (based on the assumption that the reason was spiritual, not medical). So he had Grace taken back to Nguru in a desperate attempt to save her, leaving me alone in Port Harcourt hospital.

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My natural parents Jonathan and Grace Oparaji. I never knew my mother, and my father died when I was 5.

Grace was put to bed in her husband’s house and, after Jonathan had explained what he wanted, my maternal grandfather went to see the native doctors who came immediately to see my mother. They recommended that, since she was so near to death, someone close to her should be prepared to try and bring her back. This would entail ‘killing’ the chosen rescuer by traditional methods; i.e. pouring a form of anesthetic into his nose until he was unconscious. The person selected for this task was my mother’s younger brother, Humphrey, who was a teacher and a Christian. Despite his beliefs he unhesitatingly agreed to this, although my father stipulated that he would not accept Humphrey’s death as the price for saving his wife’s life. He ominously warned the native doctors that if Humphrey was not brought back then someone else would suffer.

Humphrey was then given the anesthetic and quickly succumbed. However, after two hours he had not come round and the native doctors became worried, especially since Jonathan had threatened them with reprisals if anything happened to him, but eventually, to everyone’s relief, his eyes suddenly opened looking startled as reality replaced dreams. At this point Humphrey takes up the story:

I was walking along a road behind Grace and some other people, none of whom I recognised. They were approaching a gate ahead of them when, suddenly, she turned round and looked straight at me.

"She shouted, ‘Go back, Go back!! If I get hold of you I’ll give you a beating!’

But I continued to follow until Grace, without further warning, turned again and ran towards me. I was caught by the swiftness of this move and she hit me hard on the head and I fell.

The next thing I knew was coughing and waking up in front of the doctors and Jonathan. I told them that I had been unsuccessful in bringing my sister back and that she hadn’t wanted to come with me.

Grace had died before Humphrey recovered but my father was angry at the length of time he had been unconscious and the villagers had to protect the native doctors from Jonathan’s wrath. Eventually he calmed down and accepted the inevitable.

No logical explanation was offered by anyone for the snake episode and Grace’s Christian funeral duly took place. This was her last journey and the beginning of mine.

My father’s pain at the loss of his wife was so great that he could not bring himself to take me out of hospital. Along with thousands of other men from British Colonial Nigeria he had uncomplainingly fought with the Allies in Burma during World War II and, for unknown reasons, had retired to Ireland with his family after being released from service at the cessation of hostilities in 1946.

My parents (both of Eastern Nigerian origin) had 6 sons born in Ireland, and on their return to Africa Jonathan was contracted to run a businessman’s club in Abonima, Kalagbari, in Rivers State. My parents had 2 more sons, and then the routine changed—the girl for whom Grace had yearned finally arrived, but with tragic consequences for both of us. I would undergo the long drawn out trauma of a childhood dogged by the twin reputations of being both my mother’s murderer and a child witch. Added to this would be the stigma of being an orphan when, a few short years later, my father would die. This was a horrendous burden for a child to carry in Nigeria and the practice of child witchery still exists to this day. Without parents I would belong to nobody and become the whipping child and slave of any relative in my compound who thought fit to use me for their own ends. The only alternative for children caught in the horrors of this barbaric practice was to run away. But, of course, this could result in repercussions which might be even worse.

Before my father died I was happily innocent of my sinister status since he loved me and kept me protected from those who had only hate in their hearts for the likes of me. One of my earliest memories was the visit of Dick Tiger (the famous Nigerian light heavyweight world champion boxer, and active supporter of the Biafran independence movement) to my father’s club for a match. I became fascinated, and still am, with the sport of boxing.

The account of my mother’s death was told to me much later by both my grandfathers who each lived to be over 100. My paternal grandfather was thought to have lived to be 123, and my mother’s father to 101.

I was christened Irene Chioma. The choice of Irene was my father’s and, although he appeared to have borne no animosity towards me for Grace’s death, he had had no option but to leave me in the hospital in the care of nurses. This was mainly due to the fact that both my grandmothers, who would normally have looked after me, were dead. He visited me regularly in the hospital and, subsequently, in the adjoining orphanage where I lived for my first three years. I remember these occasions and of being led out by the nurses to meet him. I recall how gentle he was and how attached I felt to him. I always felt empty for some time after he left. In fact, I had many visitors but was uncertain of who they all were.

When I was three years old my father remarried, to Jemima, and claimed me back from the orphanage. From this point in time my memories are my own and not events recounted to me by others. I was given a farewell party at the orphanage and I remember the strange feeling of assuming all the nurses were my mothers. Now Jemima had come to take me away and I accepted this as my father always made sure I was treated well.

I initially thought Jemima was my real mother. She was extremely beautiful but very strict and domineering, which I came to interpret as wickedness. I was punished with beatings and had pepper rubbed in my eyes and private parts, particularly viciously when I wet the bed. However, this only happened when my father was at work. When he returned I told him of these occurrences and began to wonder if she really was my mother. My father tried confronting Jemima but she denied everything until, on one occasion, he unexpectedly returned to the house to find me screaming with pain from the pepper treatment. He then realised I had been telling the truth, but the outcome of this was to cause increasing friction between them.

Therefore, I was alternatively happy and unhappy, depending on who was in the house. The abiding memory I have of my father, as he tried to comfort me, is of him playing gramophone records (His Master’s Voice) and asking me to dance for him. His favourite song was ‘Irene, goodnight Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.’ That has lived with me over the years and when I hear it now the feeling of loss is still vivid. A promise he often made to me, as we talked together, was to send me to Ireland for further studies when I was older. However, he wasn’t able to fulfil that promise, although I did eventually visit Ireland but under very different circumstances to those he had implanted in my mind.

My life continued in this fractured fashion until in 1959, when I was 5, my father suddenly died. Some say he was poisoned, which is a popular way of getting rid of enemies in Nigeria. It is often done, not by direct methods, but spiritually (i.e. ju ju) and is thought to still account for a number of deaths today.

When he became ill he was admitted to hospital and, as was the practice, my stepmother went to look after him. I and my three stepbrothers were sent to Jemima’s village, Amuzi, Mbaise. to be looked after by her parents. We lived there for about 6 months when, one morning, an uncle (Christian) arrived on a bicycle and asked my brothers and me to go outside while he talked with my step-grandparents. My grandmother then came outside and told us to get ready to go back to Nguru, my own village, without any explanation. At this point, on seeing the expressions on their faces I suspected that something unpleasant was about to be revealed. Then I asked my uncle if my father was back in the village.

He replied, tersely, No problem, let’s go, and loaded us on to his bicycle (me on the crossbar and my stepbrothers behind the saddle on the carrier frame) for the four mile journey to my home. He wouldn’t directly