His Return

By Nwanganga Shields

Clint, a first-generation American, feels a calling to postpone law school to travel to Nigeria where his parents were born. His parents, who had distanced themselves from Nigeria, had striven to make him American. Against their wishes, he went to live with his grandparents at Arochukwu, a small town situated on one of the tributaries of the Cross River, and to participate in its traditions. There, through stories, he started experiencing the life of his great-grandfather Achi, who had been brought to the area as a slave in the late eighteenth century. Achi had lived at a time when the Aros influence among other ethnic groups was waning, following a 19011902 British invasion to destroy the deity from which the Aros derived their power and to open the area to Christian missionaries. This is a story of a young African Americans struggle to reclaim his identity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503553187

Nwanganga Shields

Nwanganga Shields grew up in Arochukwu, Nigeria, and currently lives in Bethesda, Maryland. She retired from the World Bank and is a widow with four adult children, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandson. Nwanganga studied at University of St. Andrews and American University. Her first book, Ejituru, was published in 2013.

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Copyright © 2015 by Nwanganga Shields.

Library of Congress Control Number:             2015904061

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names including historic Names, Titles, Places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. Names including historical Names,Titles, etc

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/16/2015

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

In loving memory of His Royal Highness Mazi Kanu Oji, OBE, CON, CFR, the late Eze of Arochukwu, and Mazi Iheonyebuokwu Eni of Amanagwu, my late grandfather.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The people of Arochukwu deserve a lot of thanks for having such a rich history and culture. I am grateful to Prince Eni Kanu Oji for refreshing my memory of Ikeji days and to Mr. Chijioke Oji for traveling all the way from Lagos to Arochukwu to obtain for me the inscription on the stained-glass window in Obinkita Presbyterian Church. Thank you. Thanks are also due to Octavia Johnson, Erima Fobbs, and Helen Ragazzi for useful comments on various iterations of the story and to my grandchildren Rhys and Grace Shields, Kathleen and Jennifer Gathright, Isabella and Alessandro Raggazi, Nenneya Shields, and Wambura Fobbs for their encouragement. Great thanks to Edward Fenton of the UK Writers Workshop and Mr. William Greenfield for comments and criticism of my various draft. I owe a lot to both of you.

CHAPTER ONE

At twenty-two, Clint was spending a lazy day at home in early June, while Peace and Peter, his Nigerian parents, were at work. He’d graduated from college only three weeks before and was looking forward to law school at American University. He would be following in his father’s footsteps. He’d agreed with his parents that it would be more economical for him to live at home during his time in law school since the school was on Massachusetts Avenue Northwest, a stone’s throw from his parents’ house in Tenley Park. To all appearances, he was quite happy to do so. His parents, relatively well-off, had been willing to foot the law school bill for their only son, but he had rejected their offer to pay for his tuition, preferring to finance his further education by student loans. He was grateful for what he had already received from them, and a student loan would cover his tuition and incidentals. Living at home, he wouldn’t have to worry too much about money, and he’d satisfy his parents’ wish to provide for him. He felt it was the least he could do for them.’

He lay on his bed, glancing around his childhood room at all his trophies from swimming and track and his diplomas from elementary school, middle school, and high school. Soon his college diplomas would be added to the loot. On this warm June day in his parents’ house, he felt a sense of unease. He felt there was something missing in his life. Did he really want to go to law school? Was this what he really wanted? His application to law school was at his father’s urging. Up until then, he had always done everything according to the script prepared by his parents, who, like most middle-class Nigerian parents, tried to control every aspect of their children’s educational lives. His parents wanted him to have a successful professional career and had determined that he could be either a doctor or a lawyer. His father, in particular, wanted him to follow in his footsteps and make a name for himself in the legal profession.

His parents had chosen to live in a predominantly white neighborhood because they wanted him, their only son, to have the best education. So far, they had succeeded. He had striven to meet his parents’ expectations. In high school, any grade other than an A would have been a subject of much discussion and a warning of an impending failure and a slide into poverty. But he had excelled, leaving with a 4+ grade point average. He was accepted at several liberal arts colleges, and his final decision, a school in Massachusetts, was based on the criteria set forth by his father, even though his choice would have been Howard University, a predominantly black college in Washington DC. It was during his first year in college that he had begun to feel dissatisfied with his life so far. Deep in his gut, he felt that something was missing, and he needed to know more about himself and what he wanted out of life. He wanted to be able to make his own decisions.

In his first semester, he met and befriended several foreign students from different parts of the globe. He was drawn to those from Africa and was fascinated by their tales of African customs and traditions, about which he himself, though Nigerian, had absolutely no inkling. One was Tunde, a Yoruba from a royal family in Abeokuta, in Southwestern Nigeria, who talked incessantly about his father, the ruler of Abeokuta, and about Nigerian politics. He was majoring in economics. Given his father’s position, he was sure that he would one day be the governor of his state. He appeared to have unlimited funds and was often in Washington DC to meet visiting relatives or to attend important functions at the Nigerian Embassy.

Another was Justin from Malawi who talked about the changes taking place in his country after the death of the strong man Kamuzu Banda. He was very dismissive of the democratic ideals Clint had been brought up to accept as an ideal form of government. He firmly believed that most African countries were better off ruled by dictators, that Banda knew what was good for Malawi, and that during his time, Malawi had been able to avoid all the problems of corruption and the diversion of government funds plaguing many African governments, like Nigeria. Look at what has happened since his death and the arrival of democracy—Justin would say in answer to ribbings about Banda by other students—chaos and corruption.

On the other hand, Tunde argued that it would be difficult for a dictatorship to work in Nigeria. Nigerians are too individualistic and would rise up against anybody who tried to curb their natural instincts.

Justin had attended the elite Kamuzu Academy and was worried that given the changes taking place in his country, the Academy might lose its elitist position.

During countless discussions in dormitory settings or in associations of African students on social issues in Africa, Clint’s opinions on Africa—formed as they were by the American press’s emphasis on fraud, corruption, poverty, famine, and other miseries and his parents’ lack of empathy for their homeland—began to change. He thought that he could expand his knowledge by taking a course on African literature. However, when he mentioned this to his father during one of his Christmas breaks, Peter told him outright that such esoteric studies would only detract him from his goal of getting admitted into a good law school. Peter convinced him that he could always read African literature for enjoyment, and there was no point in taking it as a class subject.

Looking out of the window of his bedroom, he gazed at the spring flowers blooming in the neighbors’ yards, but his mind was somewhere else. He wondered what his college friends were doing. Tunde was going home for the holidays and returning to go to graduate school. Justin, who also majored in economics, had a job offer with Bank of Malawi. They appeared sure of their plans and aspirations and of their roles in the future of their countries. Interacting with them and other students from Iran and Middle East in social situations made him realize that all the decisions about his future had been made for him, and he had always acquiesced without any dissent. Furthermore, he knew very little about his own heritage or family.

His parents were reticent when it came to speaking about their lives in Nigeria. He knew that they had emigrated from there, but beyond that, he knew very little. What he did know consisted of funny and disparaging anecdotes about incidents that took place during his parents’ early years in Nigeria or what they had read in the papers. One such incident apparently occurred the only time he had visited Nigeria. That visit had become part of the family lore. Whatever happened was such that his parents never felt it was necessary for him to accompany them to Nigeria again. Clint smiled as he recalled his parents’ amusement as they discussed this visit. The family had arrived at Port Harcourt in the second week of December. Clint had just turned five, and his sister, Sarah, was a baby.

His father, Peter, had brought up the visit one night at dinner.

His mother, Peace, laughed. Don’t remind me of that dank, dilapidated airport hotel we stayed in.

What did you expect? I was told that the hotel was quite pleasant before the war.

Come off it. I didn’t expect a palace. What I minded was the women crowding the bar area and the expatriates thinking that all the Nigerian women in the place were there to be picked up. Peace screwed up her face in disgust.

That was the reason you gave for asking for room service, I recall, Peter said.

What I remember most is the cracked plates and the lukewarm coffee. Let’s talk about other things. I want to forget that experience. She got up to clear the table.

Another time, Peace recalled a different incident from that visit. I wonder what happened to the driver my parents—or maybe it was your parents—sent to meet us at Port Harcourt. I remember that car ride. The air-conditioning wasn’t functioning, and the children cried and complained of the heat.

I must say that I was taken aback by the pandemonium on the road leading out of Port Harcourt, Peter answered, scratching his nose and pursing his mouth like someone trying to remember a difficult past. I, somehow, didn’t expect so much traffic. The roads were congested. The noxious smell of gasoline permeated the air. Cars competed with pushcarts, bicycles, motorcycles, and pedestrians.

Laughing, Peace added, The car horns and the loud shouts emanating from the pedestrians were deafening to the ear.

After living in the United States for so long, we had forgotten how things were in Nigeria, Peter said. There was no visible order, as the drivers tried to outmaneuver each other.

Can you imagine how I felt sitting in the back with the two rascals? asked Peace. She turned and smiled at Clint and his younger sister, who sat listening wide-eyed to the conversation.

Don’t stop. Tell us what happened, Mommy, they’d begged.

What happened was inevitable. As our car approached the junction where the turnoff to the Aba Road was situated, the driver swerved to avoid hitting another car but unfortunately hit a young boy who was trying to cross the road. Peace clasped her hands. The crowd gathered, and even though the young boy suffered only minor scrapes, the young boy’s guardian saw it as an opportunity to make money.

I came out of the car hoping to de-escalate the situation and went up to the young man to find out where he was hit, Peter added. My presence only made matters worse because before the boy could respond, someone from the crowd shouted, ‘Make them take him to the hospital. These big shots think they can get away with anything.’ There was a chorus of agreement from the crowd. It was the worst thing that could have happened on our first day in Nigeria.

Oh, remember that man who said he was the boy’s father? Peace asked, shaking her head.

How can I forget him? I was afraid of the situation getting out of hand and the crowd taking it on themselves to administer justice to the driver, so I tried to keep calm.

This produced a snide remark from Peace.

Ignoring her, Peter took up the thread of the story from where he had left off. As I approached the young man, his so-called father rushed out from his shed when he heard of the accident and cried out, ‘Don’t touch him. You must take him to the hospital for the doctor to look at him, or you pay me to charter a taxi to take him there. Besides, you must also pay for his treatment.’

Peter shook his raised hands to demonstrate. I didn’t know what to do. There was no policeman around, and I knew that if one were present, it would cost me much more in time and money before we could leave the area. The crowd took sides, gesticulating wildly.

Peace, fidgeting around on the dining room chair, explained, The argument was between those who agreed with the guardian’s position and those who thought the child wasn’t seriously hurt, and the guardian just wanted money.

Yes, that was the case, Peter said, But I was thinking that with five people already in the car, there wasn’t enough room for a sixth person, plus the self-appointed guardian of the child. The hot air was stifling, and I was in a quandary. I thought of you all, hot and uncomfortable in the car, and I knew that Peace was getting ready to jump into the fray and perhaps make the matter worse. Rather than give in to the avaricious man, I opted to take the boy to the hospital. We all squeezed into the car, which was meant for only five passengers.

Was I sitting with you in the front? Clint had asked.

"Poor Peace. She had both of you on her lap. It was very uncomfortable for everyone. Even now, I can visualize Peace holding her children tight, not able to hide her irritation. Halfway to the hospital, the guardian asked to get out. ‘Oga,’ the man said, ‘Just pay us so that we can go our way. You know how it is in this country. We’ll waste a lot of time at the hospital, and I won’t be able to sell anything today. Settle with me, and let us out of the car.’ By this time, I was very angry and couldn’t contain my anger."

Peace laughed. I knew he was a fraud when he asked for a hundred naira.

Smiling, Peter said, In my frustration, I lashed out, saying, ‘I don’t have it. Besides, I feel it isn’t our fault. Your boy should have been watching where he was going. He ran in front of our car, and if the driver hadn’t stopped when he did, the boy would have been seriously hurt. You have already wasted our time, and by now we would have been at Aba.’ I flung sixty naira at him and ordered him to get out of the car. My intention was actually to give him fifty, but I added ten for taxi fare back to the junction.

That visit had hardened his parents’ resolve to not risk their children’s lives by taking them to Nigeria. After that, they showed a strong disinclination to visit the country despite several requests from their parents to bring the children. They were prepared to pay for their parents to visit them in their new home in the United States. Recalling the conversation, Clint couldn’t help but feel a modicum of sympathy for his parents for distancing themselves from Nigeria. However, he also felt that, unlike his college friends, his background was incomplete, and he needed to learn more about his heritage.

Clint looked at his watch. He had been sitting in his room the whole morning, and it was now past midday. By this time, he knew exactly what he had to do. The more he thought about it, the stronger he felt that he needed to break the mold and act on it. Not wanting to dwell on his feelings for too long and talk himself out of doing something, he picked up the file marked Law School, went to the family room where the house phone was, and called the admissions office. He explained tongue in cheek that he would like to defer his admission because he had been offered an opportunity to travel to Nigeria to gather information on its legal systems. He intended to specialize in human rights in law school, and this was an opportunity he could not forgo.

After some discussion, he was told to put his request in writing. If it was denied, he could always reapply next year, he was told. The dean was a very kind man who advised him on how to couch his letter. After that, he decided to follow through, and he wrote a letter to the law school requesting a deferment. In order to avoid a full-scale family meeting, during which both parents would band together to persuade him to change his mind, pointing out the reasons why he should continue his education, he fixed a stamp on the envelope and ran to the mailbox at the end of the street to mail the letter. Uncharacteristically, he felt at peace. The deed was done, and he was ready to bear the consequences. Next, he called the manager of Bethesda’s Barnes & Noble who agreed to see him at 4:00 p.m. that day. Having worked during past summers in the store, he did not have a problem being rehired, this time in the café since there was no opening in other departments. He was to start as early as next day.

CHAPTER TWO

Peace, a doctor at a nearby medical clinic, was the first of the family members to arrive home. Hi, Clint, she called as she deposited her bag on the hallway table. How was your day? Did you do anything interesting? Did any of your old friends come by or call? She continued talking as she hurriedly went into her bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

Clint waited before answering until she came into the family room, where he was lying on the sofa listening to jazz music on the radio.

Tousling his hair and turning down the radio, she pulled a chair up close and sat down beside him, gazing at him expectantly. Well, I’m listening. What did you do today?

He switched his attention from the music to her face. Nothing much, Mom, he replied, except that I went to Barnes & Noble, and I have a summer job. I start tomorrow.

But, Clint, Peace said, raising her voice, I thought we agreed that you would use the time this summer to prepare for law school, perhaps volunteer in Dad’s firm. Why the sudden change of mind?

You agreed, not me, Clint thought. Clint could hear the irritation in her voice. He hesitated, feeling that perhaps the timing was a bit off, and he should defer talking about his plans yet. Peace didn’t pursue the matter. We’ll talk about it when Dad comes home, she said. Right now, I have to go and get your sister from the YMCA. She got up and left the room.

Very typical of this family, eh. Dad must have the final word, he thought resentfully. We’ll see about that.

Clint bade his time until after the family dinner. He listened as his parents talked about their day, and his sister talked about her summer school. Then, in a determined voice, he said, Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you. He looked up from his plate and saw all eyes staring at him. He plunged in. I’ve decided to defer law school for a year at least.

Defer law school! his parents shouted at once.

What do you mean? What nonsense am I hearing? his father shouted, slamming his hands on the table. Peter, a stocky dark-brown man with gold-rimmed glasses had always made it clear to his children that he knew what was best for them and would tolerate no argument whatsoever. Visibly annoyed, he glared at Clint, challenging him to take back what he had said.

Listen to me! Clint shouted back.

Both parents stared angrily at him as if they’d never expected to hear such a tone from him.

Okay, Clint, we’re listening, said his mom, breaking the silence.

I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’m not sure I want to go to law school. I want a year off to think about it. I called the university and spoke to the dean, Clint said, wringing his hands nervously.

You did what? his father shouted. Are you out of your mind?

I don’t see why you are annoyed. This is my life, not yours, he replied vehemently.

Rubbish! shouted his father, It may be your life, but it is us who will have the responsibility of bailing you out if things go wrong. Don’t you think we, as your parents, deserve the right to have you discuss such an important decision that would affect your whole life?

Isn’t that what we are discussing now? Clint asked.

Don’t be facetious. There is a difference, and you know it. We are discussing this decision when it is a fait accompli, Peter said in a voice that he used for someone he considered stupid.

Oh boy, replied Clint, letting all his pent-up anger erupt. Did you ask me when you decided to move to Tenley Park? Do you remember what happened? You made all the arrangements without any hint to me. I only knew about it when you came to the day care on the last day of school and plucked me up and brought me here. Talk about a decision that changed one’s life! That was it. Do you know how unhappy I was in middle school and high school? Did you ever one day try to find out what I was feeling? It is always ‘Clint, do your homework. Clint, you must study. We do not want anything below A from school.’ Do you remember how many times you have pointed out the garbage men and the beggars near the Tenley metro station to tell me that that was what I would be if I did not study? When I was in high school, if I looked tired, you ransacked my room looking for illegal drugs as if I have ever had the urge to take them. Just to name a few. Do you remember the argument over my wish to apply to Howard University? You did not want to hear of it, and rather than fight you, I bent to your wish.

Aghast, everyone in the room stared at him open mouthed.

Confronted with the steady deterioration of public services and schools and the increasing level of drug use, Clint’s parents, like most middle-class families, had decided to move from the their inner-city apartment on Fourteenth Street Northwest across town in search of a safe haven and environment for their children. Distraught, Peace did not know how to explain now to Clint the trauma of being pregnant and having to avoid every morning hordes of unemployed youths loitering in the entrance to the apartment and having to walk along streets with garbage bins full of discarded drug paraphernalia, condoms, and half-eaten hamburgers. So she shouted, Enough, Clint! You cannot talk to your father like that. Every decision we made since we had you was for your own benefit. Stop this at once!

Emboldened, Clint shouted back, For my own benefit! Ha! Ha! While we are at it, did you ever try to find out if I was interested in going to Nigeria? The only thing I knew was hearing both of you talk of your experiences when you were on your honeymoon and the one time you took us to visit just before I started kindergarten. Whether you like it or not, I am deferring law school and will try and save up money to go to Africa for a year.

At this point, his mother, unable to restrain herself, got up. Folding her hands tightly around her body, she shouted, Africa! What is this?

This was echoed by his father, who seemed too upset to look at him. He got up from the table and paced the room.

I have homework to do, said Sarah, who had just finished clearing the table. She dashed out of the room. His sister didn’t want to get involved in this family fight.

After what seemed like a lifetime, his father finally said in a calmer voice, Clint, you must be joking. I hope you haven’t written the letter.

But I have, Clint replied evenly.

Peter blew up again. You did what? he shouted. Why didn’t you wait to consult us before doing such a thing? This is a decision that will affect your life, and you felt you had to make it all by yourself. What’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind? What are you going to do in Africa? Travel around? Get a job? Where? You have no particular skill to impart, and graduates from African universities have difficulty finding jobs. Clint, use your brain. We are not going to subsidize any harebrained activity. He sat down heavily on his chair and covered his face with both hands.

Peace tried to reason with him. Let’s calm down. As long as you haven’t posted the letter, Clint, there’s no harm done.

I posted it this afternoon because I didn’t want to change my mind, said Clint smugly.

Well, just write another letter saying that you made a mistake, she tossed back, unperturbed.

Mom, I can’t do that, Clint said in a firm voice. I don’t care if my request for deferment is turned down. I don’t want to go to law school in the fall. I’m not even sure what I want to do in the long run. I know I want to take a year off and decide whether I want to be a lawyer. I’ve been thinking about this for some time.

Are you out of your mind, Clint? cried Peter, grasping at any straw. "Did we force you to apply