My Mother’s Memoir

By Courage Amalime

Ebere coped well with her misery until her life suddenly darkened when she was denied education because she was a girl and her mother had passed away. Although her mother gave her the lamp that was believed to show her the way out, her father’s breath blew it out by saying, “Girls are not made to carry the lamp. Rather, they are meant to put the stove on.” Emeka, her younger brother, was their father’s favourite and must carry the lamp because he is a male child, even though he refused.
Perplexed and hopeless, Ebere is a target of sexual advances and early marriage.
But some birds are not meant to be caged. Ebere only needs to think, talk, smell, look, listen and act when the tiniest rays of the sun come shining through the tunnel. Only for her to see that at the end of the tunnel, her beloved brother, Emeka, has narrowly escaped the hangman’s noose, and he is now in a cage with chains and cuffs.
But Mr Van-Dutch knows a fine pearl when he sees one and will not let it be lost in the mud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528928526

Courage Amalime

Courage Amalime is a Nigerian residing in the United Kingdom. He worked for an advertising agency as a client service executive for 10 years before relocating to UK. He is currently a mental health nurse. His first movie production ‘Within Me’ brings to the fore his passion for arts and entertainment as a means of communication for socio-economic development and well-being.

Book preview

About the Author

Courage Amalime is a Nigerian residing in the United Kingdom. He worked for an advertising agency as a client service executive for 10 years before relocating to UK. He is currently a mental health nurse. His first movie production ‘Within Me’ brings to the fore his passion for arts and entertainment as a means of communication for socio-economic development and well-being.

Dedication

To my beloved wife, Ruth, the sugar of my life, and dear son, Coby, the salt of my life.

My friend, Mai Nasara, for inspiring me to pick up and see to the finishing of a novel that I wrote over seven years ago.

To Africans, particularly in Nigeria. In my own little way, this is my message to you.

Copyright Information ©

Courage Amalime (2021)

The right of Courage Amalime to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528914000 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528928526 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

I sincerely thank the team of Austin Macauley Publishers for giving me the opportunity to see this work published.

Chapter 1

Underneath the Western Avenue flyover bridge were lined up motionless yellow trucks, taxis, buses, and all brands of saloon cars, push cart and motorcycles. The traffic police popularly known as ‘Yellow Fever’ in the line of duty tries to control the traffic, in the line of service, he tries to decongest the jam, rays of the sun right in his face. His handkerchief soaked, armpit dripping, and back wet, he soon took cover in a giant umbrella of a woman that sells chilled water, assorted biscuits and sweets.

School boys in groups and girls in units emerged from the cross roads in their school uniforms, their badges showing the high or grammar school they belong. The boys have their shirts ripped, or smeared with colours like an abstract painting. The kids from St John grammar school draw particular attention as their all-white shirt and trousers has defaced, yet looks original in inks of autographs of their mates, or inscriptions like ‘forget me not’, ‘goodbye teacher’, ‘your future starts now’ and many more. You just laugh and appreciate the sleepless nights these kids have expend in order to pass their final West African Examination Council Exams; the much-dreaded final examination which has earned nicks all over. Kids from high schools call it ‘Baba Yaba’, while the ones in grammar schools call it ‘Almighty WAEC’.

Whichever, they know that, crossing to the next level of their lives depends largely on the egg heads sitting in the 12-storey edifice, towering over its companion bungalow at Harvey road at Yaba area of Lagos.

Today, not many of the kids will give thoughts about the outcome of the exam. Rather, they cheer and celebrate freedom from the May/June sleepless nights, burning candles, turning the pages, memorising Pythagoras theorem, and English vocabularies. The sweetest part of this day is that it marks the end of the teachers’ cane.

Street traders, shop owners, and motorist stare at this school leavers; the leaders of tomorrow in admiration.

Like every other year, this day brings hope to the betrothed, and to those thrown and tossed about like sheep without a shepherd.

Like other girls, I have walked through this multiple junction of Ojuelegba road alone, and nobody took notice of me. I was 18 years old, 5'13", and Ebony skin, with little flesh to cover my brittle bones.

My brother was 16, 6'11, he inherited the brown skin of his father, as well as muscles, but had a V-shaped huggable shoulders, unlike his father. He had hurried home, thrown his shirt on the table and moved briskly towards the kitchen cupboard, ransacking it in search of food to stop his rumbling belly. Not to maintain eye contact; I stare at the rumpled and crumbled shirt lying loosely on the chair, like a coat of many colours, it’s been autographed, in rays of blue, red and black ink, with an inscription ‘dark nights, day lights’. I was carried away in a brief moment of thoughts, but abruptly disconnected by Emeka’s fury as he suddenly shouts at me, Why have you not cooked? Where is Mama?" It was a special day for him and the household, though not his birthday.

I ignored him, I’ve learnt the arts of putting up with his roar as a ‘sister’, ‘mother’, as well as a ‘wife’ for 10 years. As a girl child, my father and dear brother looked on to me and my mother for their cooked meals. My sisters; Nkechi, seven, and Oluchi, eight years old are excused but not exempted

My mother had gone to the early hour farm market, as early as the first cock-crow to buy ingredients and foodstuffs, to make his favourite; bitter leaf soup with corn flour meal, to celebrate this day. We hurried home salivating, with a huge appetite, looking forward to voraciously devour this delicious, once-in-a-blue-moon lunch.

Behold, like Emeka we have all returned home hungry, without a display, only for Emeka’s roar to tell me ‘I different, I’ve got a different belly’.

What I keep wondering was how he coped after the expiration of the stipend budgeted to cover 31 days, but barely last 7 nights. Then comes the yellow moon shinning through rumbling and tumbling belly, and the stars hiding sad faces, from dusk to dawn, we live like birds that neither sow nor harvest, but somehow, the crumbs of daily bread and dews from heavens gives us a reason to go on.

17:45. Our mother is not back from the market. We waited, and waited. Endurance fading, patience sinking, outburst looming, yet we filled the belly gaps with water to keep the rumbling and moaning of the belly members quieter. Nkechi and Oluchi soon began to cry. Emeka lies on the floor with belly face down, while I stood by the window looking out for my mother, holding my stomach as my innards continues with its protest, and I was listening helplessly.

O! At last she emerged from the corner of the street with a food basket well balanced on her head and a plastic bag in ahand; looking dishevelled. But then I noticed she is looking dishevelled, and walking lifelessly like a monkey crawling to find the next tree. ‘An unusual gentility,’ I said to myself.

Mama is back, I said excitedly, running out to meet her.

Taking the plastic bag from her in a hurry. She was expressionless, but who cares. I looked in the plastic bag, there were two books. What nonsense is this, I thought for a moment. No bread or akara?! I moaned.

Putting the food basket down, she brought out fresh farm made ‘garri Ijebu’ and then groundnut. Emeka quickly got his bowl, put some garri in it, with the groundnut, added a cup of cold water from the clay pot and two spoons of sugar and started to eat. After a brief moment he exclaimed, Hmmm! It was the best snacks to calm the moment.

And I said to myself, What a wonderful mum. Soon, the body chemicals started to adjust, making me to see clearly, that, apart from the superficial bruise on her wrist, there is a scratch on the upper part of her neck.

What happened to your hand? I asked in curiosity.

She started to tell me the story of a daylight madness, in dark cloud.

15:00…Oriola. My mother had stopped by the side of the road at Ojuelegba junction to look left, and then right to make sure the road is clear from incoming cars, Volkswagen buses, commonly known as ‘Danfo’, or the Ford truck, ‘Molue’. Satisfied it was safe, she crossed to the other side of the road briskly, walking along the pavement with a food basket on her head, swinging her hands freely. It was as if the food basket was glued to her head. She continued, and reached a T-junction. Once again, she stopped, to look and listen, just as she was about to move, a man in a pair of dirty jeans, knickers, and a vest moving briskly with two 50kg bags of rice on his shoulders sweating profusely in order to get his daily bread, ran into her, almost knocking her down with the food stuff. Quickly, she supported the basket with her hands as she managed to steady herself.

Can’t you see? she said angrily.

The man moved on, deliberately ignoring her.

Idiot, she growled.

And then she crossed and continued to walk along the pavement, the basket still sitting steadily on her head. She has learnt this art of carriage over years, and I don’t know if she is going to pass it on.

Ahead was a heap of rubbish. Moving briskly, aware that her children would soon be home for lunch, she walked past the rubbish bin, suddenly she stopped. For a brief moment she stood motionless, lost in deep thoughts. Either by intuition or hindsight, she had seen something that triggered her interest. She turned around easily and walked backwards, her eyes fixed on something in front of her. And then she stopped beside the heap of rubbish, looked around like a thief to ensure nobody was watching. The coast seemed clear, she would have thought as she put the basket on the ground and moved towards a yarn bag lying sideways beside the rubbish bin. The bag was stocked with books, magazines and expired newspapers, it was so full that its contents were falling out. Hastily, she bent low and began to search through the bag. Among this scholarly garbage was a big green hardcover book and a small red book. She dusted them and put them in one of the plastic bags.

With lightning speed suddenly came the sound of blaring siren and flashes of blue lights. Oriola was startled. Gripped with fear and fright, she moved hastily to pick up her basket. Sighting the white and green Mitsubishi 300L bus, she began to walk-run. The bus drove towards her. Sensing that they were after her, she increased her pace and soon began to run. The bus increased its speed and pulled up at the left-hand corner of the road, screeching to a halt, and then two officials in white shirts atop green pairs of trouser got off the bus and started to chase her.

Stop there, woman, stop! one of the officers called in a loud voice.

Oriola, would not listen as she ran into the corridor of a ‘face me, I face you’ house, panicking. She knocked on a door seeking for refuge, there was no response. Alas, the young officers caught up with her. Now terrified and helpless, my mother began to scream.

Help! Please help me! I am not mad. I am not a madwoman o! Leave me alone. I am not mad!

Her protest alerted the occupants of the house as they came out of their rooms in troops. They watched my mother struggle with the basket held tightly in her right hand, swinging her body left and right to break free. Her wrapper came off, leaving her with her white underwear. One of the officers picked it up. The neighbours couldn’t accost the officers but kept murmuring, saying, Wetin happen! Wetin this woman do una?

My mother and passer-by sympathisers couldn’t express their displeasure, they looked on helplessly. It reminded me of the great legend Fela Anikulapo Kuti who rightly said: Police man, go slap your face you no go talk. Army sef go whip your yanch you go dey look like monkey.

The young officers turned deaf ears. Each holding my mother by her right and left wrist restrictively, they dragged her along forcefully. The driver of the bus drove slowly, approaching the trio and then pulled over steadily.

A third officer got out of the bus with vexation and leaned on it. Though dressed in the same uniform like the other two, he was distinguished by the safari shirt. On his green beret holder was three gold platted buttons. No doubt, he was in charge of this task force. Inscribed on the body of the bus was Psychiatry & Human Rehabilitation Task Force. As soon as they pulled my mother to where the superior officer stood, my mother continued her plea.

I am not mad, please. I am not mad.

The officer stared at her intently moving his big eyeballs scornfully, from her head to her toes.

If you are not mad, then what were you doing at the rubbish bin?

As if my mother could read his lips, she blurted out, I am not crazy. Leave me alone! Forcefully pulling her hands off the officers who were waiting for the next command to either lynch or lock her up. The basket fell to the floor and the books in the polythene bag and the food items scattered on the ground, the tuber of yam got smashed, and the tomato were all over the place, iced fish, vegetables and pepper were all on the floor. The green covered book slipped out of the polythene bag.

The inspector looked at the items on floor for several moments, not missing the big green cover book with the title: Wood & Iron Technology.

I saw this book in the rubbish and decided to take it, my mother continued, sobbing.

The officer gazed at her briefly, and then the book.

Let her go, he said, turning swiftly to enter the bus.

They entered their vehicle hurriedly and sped off. My mother stood motionless for a brief moment still sobbing until they were out of sight. She must have taken in a deep breath with her eyes closed. Meanwhile, the incident has been a 30 minutes free view for on-lookers and passers-by who watched as if it was a reality TV show.

After picking up her stuff, she raised her head, only to see a crowd who could not help her in time of distress, but now staring at her like a movie star. She adjusted her wrapper, and then in low tone she said, Idiots! What are they looking at! Do I look like ‘Oyinbo’ nonsense, she hissed.

Carrying her basket on her head, she started to walk home wearily. It was the first time I have seen my mother so dejected. She must have been so scared to her marrow. Imagine being hospitalised in the ‘Yaba’, or Aro psychiatric hospital when you are not sick in the head.

O My God!

Just as she was ending the story, our father returned from work; just on time as we finished the cooking. The aroma of the bitter leave soup enveloped our 12x12 bedroom divided into two sections by a sea blue flowery curtain, thereby creating a living room, and a bedroom. The living section had a single and a double cushion chair. Though, the foam has gone flat, it is still neatly covered by a sky-blue piece of upholstery.

The brown rubber carpet was torn here and there, but my mother had sewn them to make it look decent. Even at that, you need not be told that its life span expired long ago. The Formica on the centre table had peeled off, exposing the underlying glue. A medium-sized wooden table and a chair rest on the wall of the right corner, dominated by a rusty but not dusty KDK table fan, and a Sony cassette player. We always have the giant kerosene lantern on the table as we ‘Never Expect Power Always’ (NEPA) are very erratic with their services. I can bet the KDK was the trend in their time. Opposite the table was a cupboard made of polished wood. It contained some breakable plates, on top was a tray containing glass cups covered with a white napkin; these were untouchables. They are strictly used when we have special guest. Beside the cupboard was a stack of intellectual treasures my mother had stored over the years, as we often do not have the money to by recommended books. My mother’s favourite phrase was, ‘the secret of success is in the books’. She undoubtedly believed in her assertion as she bombarded our home with books of all sorts; collections of books within and above our age. Whether we could read them or not, whether we read them or not, she cared less, she was happy to see us flip through the pages, and looking at the pictures or illustration. Strongly believing that every book is a treasure to hold and behold.

Chapter 2

While awaiting his WAEC result, the book, Wood and Iron Technology found its way into Emeka’s hand and he started to read it. Influenced by what he was reading, he went to visit his teacher, Mr Justice Aluka who lives on the next street. Aluka was in his fifties, 5'5 stocky and stout, strings of greys illuminates his Afro. Popularly known in the community by his nickname, ‘Oloyinbo’, because he is endowed with English vocabulary and excellent grammar. In fact, he speaks Oyinbo pass English man." and he does not hesitate to pass his skill and knowledge to his students, also during the colonial era, he worked with the church English missionaries, helping to translate Yoruba, as well as Igbo to English. The kids were fond of him, and he savoured every moment he played with them.

Mr Justice was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt with shoulder beret holder and a pair of black high waist trousers, with a long green-stripe tie to match his green high-heel pair of shoes that was begging for a renewal. Perhaps, as usual, ready to visit the community town house where he finds his mates and exercise his grammatical prowess.

Emeka walked towards him gently as he was locking the door, and said, Good afternoon, sir.

Hello! Emeka, how are you? Mr Justice replied with excitement and a wide smile.

I am alright, Emeka replied maintaining eye contact.

Emeka was one of Mr Justice’ favourite students because he had picked up the English language so well, you would think he wrote Michael West dictionary. And Mr Justice is so proud of him. He has no doubt Emeka will triumph over ‘baba Yaba’.

Good lad, so what have you been doing?

Hmm! Nothing, it’s boring staying at home, no work, no money, sometimes no food, yes! That reminds me. I read something about technology in this book, he showed the book to Mr Justice. On page six, it says; ‘the application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes, especially in industry, used to solve problems that benefits human.’ I do not really understand. There are numerous interesting pictures inside that have also left me thinking.

‘Let me see,’ Mr Justice asked, taking the book from Emeka, he began to open it page by page, and as he comes across the pictures he mentions the names in a low tone, Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, Ingvar Kamprad, Chongging, Lu Zuofu.

Are these rich people? Emeka asked curiously.

They are successful people, Mr Justice answered; moving gently, he sat on the door pavement, and continued, Successful people make the world, rich people build communities. Obioka is neither of both, that is why we are drowning in poverty. We have made a big mistake. We saw ourselves as leaders of tomorrow. No! You are the builders of tomorrow. We look up to you for economic recovery, industrialisation and technological advancement. It is the only way we can be rescued from the doldrums of poverty. Gone are the days when we erroneously thought that technology education was for those who could not cope with the curriculum. It’s your generation, it’s your future my boy, build it! Build it!

Chapter 3

20:15. I was lying on the single-cushion chair, my legs stretched over the hand rest, while my head leaned on the other. My buttocks were pressed against the spring of the chair and it was hurting. Though uncomfortable, I was so engrossed with the story of the novel, ‘Goose of the River Nile’ that I didn’t mind the little discomfort. It was better than lying on the mat. Emeka was sitting on the chair reading, ‘Wood and Iron Technology’. Except for his green soccer pants with white stripes at the hips, he was bare, exposing his muscular biceps, broad shoulders and flat stomach that do not respond to the bulk of ‘fufu’. Though, strongly built, rough, tough and rugged by birth and nature, he was easy going, barely smiled, and lacked a sense of humour. Nkechi and Chioma, lie on the mat in deep sleep. It was so quite you could hear the tick tock of the clock.

Also, I could hear my parents having their usual tête-à-tête. After a while, their voices began to rise. In a crescendo, it became a heated argument. Emeka and I stared at each other wondering. And then, I heard my father in a loud voice say, She is a woman, can’t you understand?

And so what!!! My mother responded simultaneously. Over my dead body will that happen! She continued.

For the first time in 18 years I heard my mother’s voice so loud so clear talking back to her sole provider.

I got up, moved towards Emeka, not sure of what to do, and then tip toed towards the curtain and opened it slightly to peep.

God forbid, she continued, flicking both hands over her head, and hissed to show her unequivocal rejection of whatever had triggered the argument. Just as she was about to go back to bed, so as to ignore my father, he pulled her back, holding her by her pink flowery worn-out sleeping gown.

Come back here! Did you just flick your fingers at me? He pushed her against the wall.

Listen woman, he continued in a deep voice, pointing and shaking his fist furiously. I rule this house and I have the final say. Do you understand?

Hmm, hmm, my mother murmured.

Looking intently into his eyes and wagging her head gently, No, no, not in this regard. I will rather die, she continued.

Making bold efforts to get off his hold, my father let her go, and then, as she was moving towards the bed, she said, Tufia kwa!

My father lost his control. How dare you swear at me, he grabbed her, pulling her back once again, this time, she got a dirty face slap that sent her sprawling on the twelve inches spring bed, and crashing against the spring before she landed on the floor.

Yeeh, yeeh, ooh! she moaned.

I and Emeka rushed in and saw our mother lying on the floor groaning in pains. Emeka bent low to help her stand up. She could not.

My ribs, she uttered in pain.

My father moved up and down restlessly and furiously, as we tried to help her sit up. Suddenly, she passed out.

Mama, Mama! Mama! Emeka called apprehensively. She did not answer.

It dawned on my father his wife was dying. In panic, he began to call, Nne! Nne! Ada! Hey! Hey! biko, please, ejo am sorry, please get up! Get up! he exclaimed, holding my mother’s hands, he felt it getting cold then he shouted, Help! Help! My wife, please help! he trembled as he moved outside running from pillars to post, here and there, knocking from door to door in the neighbourhood. Within thirty seconds, our bedroom was packed full of men and women on emergency call. Believe me, it remains one of the quickest rapid response squared I have experienced.

Baba Tope was the first to rush in with his singlet and ‘kembe trouser’ followed by Mama Ijeoma, Papa Amaka and Mama Amaka, and Mama Chidinma. Papa Amaka checked if my mother was still breathing by listening to her heart beat for few seconds, confirming she is alive, he tilted her head backwards slightly to ensure the airway is clear.

Bring onion, Baba Tope requested, sprinkling water on Mama’s body. I moved briskly to the cupboard to get the onion. Mama Chidinma, Mama Amaka, and Mama Ijeoma became prayer warriors calling on God and his all his angels to this battle of life.

My father’s face was welled up in tears, my sisters were crying, hence Mama Amaka took them to her house.

Baba Tope squeezed the onion into my mother’s nostrils, and then put her in a recovery position. The prayer became tensed as Baba Tope joined, calling on ‘Olodumare’, the creator of the heavens and the earth, the maker and breath giver to restore the breath of life to Oriola.

After a brief moment, she sneezed, sneezed, and sneezed; again and again in quick successions. And then, gradually and slowly she opened her eyes.

Praise the Lord! Mama Ijeoma exclaimed.

Hallelujah! we chorused.

Baba Tope and Papa Amaka assisted to sit her up, but she suddenly held on to her ribs as if she felt a sharp pain. My father moved closer to help.

Nne. I am sorry, o! he said remorsefully.

She startled, further attempts were futile as each time he tried, she suddenly got frightened.

Leave her alone for now, in fact stay away for a while, Baba Tope whispered to my father.

Let’s take her to the hospital, Mama Chidima suggested.

When it’s daybreak, Papa Amaka responded.

Mummy Ijeoma and Mama Amaka helped my mother to lie on the bed. From that day henceforth, I started to believe in the 2nd commandment, ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’, for I tell you, were it not for these people, my mother would have been in memory lane before her time.

The sound of Baba Tope’s ‘tortoise car’ woke us up as early as 06:00. It stopped in front of our house and he blared his horn. My mother was awake and ready, I doubt if she had any sleep. Accompanying her was Mama Amaka and, of course, my father. She got out still unable to walk upright, except with the support of Mama Amaka. Baba Tope opened the passenger’s door and slid the car seat forward to enable her get in the back seat. She lowered to go in, but could not go low enough as she felt the sharp pain in her left side.

A bit lower, my father said, putting his hands around her side lovingly to support her. Again, she suddenly was shocked.

Leave me alone! she snapped, staring at him scornfully.

They looked at each other eyeball to eyeball. I felt the rush of goose pimples engulfing my father as he gently took his hand off her.

With little effort and support from Mama Amaka, my mother finally got in the car, and Mama Amaka joined her, while my father sat at the front seat like a chicken in iced water seeking for an early sun.

Baba Tope started the car and began to move slowly, being careful of the ‘jagajaga road’.

Baba Tope entered a pot hole which made everybody in the car jerk. My mother was lucky, Baba Tope drove his car into ‘Obioka’ on this particular day as he would often park on the road, and walk into Obioka. He continued to manoeuvre through the rocky and bumpy road making the car to bump again and again. Trying hard as much as he could to avoid the potholes caused either by erosion which have left the roads muddy and messy, or Government neglect which makes it a death trap. Baba Tope has been driving on this road since the time of the early missionaries, being the chauffer of the Priest. It used to be a very good road leading to the cathedral, but since the missionaries left, it has deteriorated, likewise electricity supply, which has left the place in complete darkness both in body and mind. Water supply was far from our reach, we blessed the Lord who sends down the rain on both the rich and the poor.

Bab Tope’s ‘tortoise’ car was living up to its name until it finally got stuck in the mud. He tried several times to move it out, but it was so slippery, the tyres could not grip the ground. For about 30 minutes they could not move, neither could they get out. Baba Tope like an old soldier had to move. So he stuck his head out through the passenger’s side, as my father gave way leaning backwards, then he stretched to take a closer look at the position of tyres and the road. And then Baba Tope returned to his position, took a deep breath in and out, keeping a straight face, hands on the steering firmly, he turned it to his left, put the gear in reverse, move backwards a tiny bit, and then to his right as he changed to gear one, and moved out gently. To avoid a reoccurrence, he reared his head to take a careful view on the best path to drive.

The day was getting brighter yet it was only Baba Tope’s ‘tortoise car’ that was on the road.

Well done sir, my mother said.

Thank you jare, Baba Tope replied, glancing at my father as if to say, You are the cause of all this ‘wahala’.

Finally, they got to the general hospital and met a kind doctor who gave my mother quick attention. The doctor asked what happened.

On that night, my father had simply told my mother that he would not be able to finance my education any longer because he had to start saving towards Emeka’s university education.

I saw no reason for my mother’s quarrel. It was a simple application of economic principle; limited resources that had to be allocated to areas of uppermost importance. Some other things must be forgone. After all, most girls in Obioka dropped out after primary school, the best they often attained was Form 3 of the Junior Secondary School. Sometime ago, I recalled my mother had pleaded with my father to let me conclude my senior secondary school education before bowing out. My father had refused, saying, She does not need it.

My mother had persisted. Breaking every now and then, I have struggled to the final year of the Senior Secondary School at 18 years old. My mother would have reasoned, ‘Why should I be the one to forgo my education for Emeka?’ Yes, he is a male child. So what? What made him better than I am? In the first instance, I am the eldest, I was sound academically and industrious too. I had