Broken Promise & Other Stories

By Ejine Okoroafor

‘Reading this author is like reading Chinua Achebe, especially when it comes to giving painstaking attention to the details of Igbo culture.’ National Mirror, Nigeria.

Ejine Okoroafor, the acclaimed author of A Rose in Bloom, and its’ sequel, Pathos of A Wilting Rose, serves a delectable short stories collection.

While sustaining the fast dying genre of short stories, she pays reverence to her beloved hometown, Oguta and tells the immigrant’s story.

A masterful storyteller, with her unique and unassuming style, the author easily holds the reader spellbound through a riveting love story, heart rendering broken promise, the poignant orphan story, and the universal immigrant saga.

They are chronicles of the present time and of the old, of love and betrayal, of arrogance and humility. They are epiphanies of our lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781698702704

Ejine Okoroafor

EJINE OKOROAFOR is a novelist and practising MD. She originally hails from Oguta, Imo State, Nigeria. Her flair for writing prose and poetry stems from childhood, and subsequently culminated in the publication of 6 books including 2 novels(A Rose in Bloom & Pathos of a wilting Rose); 2 poetry books(Whimsical Rhapsody & Emotive Napalm) as well as, 2 Children's books( Inem's Folklore Series & Adventures of Nana Jill). Some of her poems have also been published in the Anthologies, Twilight Musings, Songs of Honor and other sites on the internet. Besides her literary pursuits, Ejine is a renowned traveller, who deems herself extremely lucky, to have lived in NIgeria, Ukraine, United Kingdom and currently residing in the USA, as well as visiting over 20 countries around the world.

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Copyright 2020 Ejine Okoroafor.

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 written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-6987-0271-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6987-0270-4 (e)

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Trafford rev. 08/07/2020

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Homage to my beloved hometown, Oguta

Contents

Broken Promise

Kizito and I

Pension-Plan Nurse

Nwabuife

Acknowledgments

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Broken Promise

‘H ello! Hello!! Gogo , are you there, can you hear me?’ I heard the worried voice of my younger brother, Ndudi, inquiring from the other end of the phone line. He feared our phone connection had cut off but nonetheless continued to shout, ‘ Gogo , hello, Gogo , hello, are you there?’

I heard Ndudi clearly. However, I was unable to respond or assure him that I was still on my end of the phone line and could hear him. My phone was tightly pressed to my right ear as I struggled to hang on to our conversation and maintain my balance at the same time. I felt dizzy. My thoughts were muddled, and I struggled to grasp the dreadful news that he had just relayed to me.

The shock left me dazed, transfixed and barely able to move or talk. My spirit seemed to have exited my body, leaving me hollow.

I continued struggling to come to terms with the news that Ndudi had just conveyed to me. Maryam was dead! Maryam was dead!! Ricocheted again in my head. The mother of my beautiful daughter Kaka was dead. That she killed herself. She had willfully tied a rope around her own neck and hanged herself was devastatingly shocking.

The imagination of what might have happened zigzagged through my mind like electric shock. I was traumatized.

Painfully, it was my fault and I had caused it. I caused it. I had disappointed her, which led her to take her own life. I should have known better than to ignore her, having unwittingly failed to talk to her in the last few months or more.

How would I have predicted that her reaction would be so dire? That Maryam would react to potential rejection by taking her own life, how is that possible?

She seemed so strong. My Maryam was strong. My beautiful Maryam was gone. She had left Kaka too, my beautiful 3-year-old daughter whom I am yet to meet.

Ndudi had assured me that Kaka was fine. Maryam had left Kaka in her mother’s care before she left to commit suicide… …... Kaka was fine. She did not know about her mother yet. I doubted that she could fully understand the situation yet.

"Hello, Gogo! Gogo!!" I heard Ndudi repeat. ‘Are you still there? Are you okay?’

I was still unable to respond. I opened my mouth, but no words came out to reassure Ndudi that the line was clear and that I could still hear him. I had temporarily lost my tongue. My power of speech seemed to have deserted me.

‘I think the line is cut.’ I heard Ndudi mutter resignedly to no one before a subsequent sharp click indicated that he had hung up the phone. He could not tell that the line remained connected and that I could hear him.

I finally dropped my phone’s handset and slid to the floor of my room in anguish. Maryam was dead. She hanged herself. It was my fault. Those haunting thoughts reechoed in my mind as I wept inwardly without externally shedding any tears.

I lamented my inability to foresee this devastating aftermath and possibly averted it beforehand.

What have I done? I bewailed helplessly while holding both hands, interlocked and atop my head in anguish.

I should have told Maryam the truth. I should never have stopped calling her or sending her money. I should never have made it seem like I no longer cared for her and Kaka. I should never…

I contended with a thousand and one lamentations. Things that I should have or should not have done. Things I wished I could have said that I did not say, and those that I should not have said that I might have said so that Maryam might still be alive. I might still have been able to ultimately bring her and Kaka over to the USA.

How many times have I visualized driving down I-95 North expressway on my way to the JFK airport to pick up both Maryam and Kaka? Cruising in my own car to fetch them after they must have finally arrived in the USA.

I imagined how Maryam would have regarded her new surroundings on disembarking from the plane to touching the coveted soil of the United States of America. I could easily visualize her eyes brimming with that wide unassuming innocence of hers. Her childlike delight as she regards and marvels at everything. I even imagined her quipping refreshingly, "Gogo, the air here even smells fresh!"

I had severally dreamt of Maryam sitting in the car beside me on our drive home from the airport. The wonderment and joy in her voice, indicating her glee, as well as with bursts of her peculiar hearty laughter.

She would undoubtedly detail her flight to me in her usual unpretentious manner. It would have been her first time on air and travelling in a plane. My Maryam had a fear for heights and had frequently marveled at the mystery and ability of planes flying up in the sky. It scared her somewhat, the mere idea of being airborne. She would have confessed that her heart was rapidly fluttering as the plane taxied down the runway prior to soaring speedily into the air like a gigantic mechanical bird that it is. She could have made light of her intense fear of suddenly tipping or falling off the plane when she would have finally summoned up the courage to walk down the aisle from her seat to use the toilet.

She never could fully conceive how planes were able to hold the weight of multiple passengers, crew, and luggage aboard as well as maintain balance in the face of activities onboard. She was always resolved that, "The white man was a wizard."

I was sure that she would have been awestruck by the modernity and amenities of her new surroundings. She would have unfailingly commented on the spacious well-lit roads and smoothly flowing traffic. She might have been intimidated by the rows of shiny and imposing vehicles on the roads. She would have marveled at the trim foliage, the sturdy bridges, and well-preserved waterways. She would have been elated, most of all, about joining me and finally arriving at the promised land.

She would have been filled with similar hopes and promises of living the better life. The testified prototype of how life is supposed to be and to be lived? The same way that I was when I had initially arrived.

I imagined Kaka squealing at the back seat with huge delight surrounded by the collection of assorted biscuits and chocolates that I would have stocked especially for her.

I would have been bursting with pride and joy at their contentment.

Those were my dreams, our dreams, and ultimate plans. The reality though was that I could neither afford to bring them over from Nigeria to the USA yet, nor would I have desired bringing them over to share my current abode, even if I was able to afford their fare.

I would sooner have died than bear the shame of bringing my beloved Maryam and Kaka over to share this tiny room.

My current sleeper sofa can sit two or sleep one