By Patience Akpan
He was a much older man. And married. But these didn't stand in the way of his love for me. I was the most important person in his life. Or so I loved to think. He always had time for me. I was his special girl, his gem. Not once in all the years I knew him did he ever say he was too busy for me. He was always there. And for years, he was the most constant person in my life. Even now, I can see him sitting on his favorite stool on the verandah (porch) of his house. He sat there, waiting for me to come to him. And I always went, knowing he would be there, waiting. Knowing that all other things and people would fade as I sat on the floor beside him, or leaned on the pillar at one end of the verandah, ready to drink in his words, his stories, and his dreams -- which were mostly his dreams of what he wished for me.
Now, as I look back, I don't know when I first became aware of him. But I certainly know how the relationship started -- he told me about it several times. It was one of those love-at-first-sight stuff, though I doubt that I really noticed him that first time. But later, I did notice him: I had to, as events outside our control threw us together in such a way that there was no way I could have ignored him. Not that I wanted to. He loomed large in my life, and everything and everyone else, faded in the background. I may not recall how it really started but I do remember the many hours we spent together on many a moonlit night. The stories he told, and the things he said during those nights have been my rock these past years. But recently too, I've begun to notice just how much I'm acting like him.
The other day, I was frying chicken to use for stew. During the preparation, bits and pieces of the meat kept ending up in my mouth (those chicken, they sure know how to fly!). Later, after I had finished cooking and cleaned up, I wondered vaguely why I was feeling full "even thought I haven't eaten all day." A voice -- it must have been the chicken -- whispered in my ears, "yeah right, you haven't eaten all day!" I burst out laughing as I recalled what he used to do. When he had something to share -- meat, for instance (in those days when kids waited until after eating to eat the meat) -- he would cut off a bit and put in his mouth before giving to whoever it was meant for. He did that with each portion he gave out. Later, he would say, "can you believe what I just did, I shared it all without leaving anything for myself!" His wife and I would look at each other and hide a smile. Oh yes, his wife and I were on good terms, but that's another story.
Talking about meat reminds me of the "goat trip" I went on two years ago. Two other families and I went to this farm some two hours south of Edmonton, Alberta. We turned the trip into some sort of picnic, and we had a blast. Of course, that can not be said for the three goats who got axed. But I hope my own 62-lb goat knew that I truly sympathized with his fate: I refused to look at him while he was led like a sheep to the slaughter. Out of principle! The isi ewu was the last item to go, because each time I looked at the bared teeth in the freezer, I couldn't help but remember that once upon a time, those teeth were chewing on something. I should be a vegetarian -- yes, I know I've said it before. But I look at it this way: animals at least can run away from my grasping fingers, but vegetables can't. I'd rather eat something that has the potential to protect itself than one that just sits there for the picking -- literally!
How did I end up talking about meat? Oh yes, I remember, it was about this man in my previous life. So this evening two years ago, as I was cleaning the goat meat and packing into small freezer bags, I thought of him. I imagined him standing with me there in the kitchen and saying, "I told you that this day would come." This day, being the day that I went and paid cash for one full goat because I was tired of eating beef and chicken. This day being the day I would have a choice of what food to eat, and also afford it. This day being the day when many of his dreams for me would come true. But I get ahead of myself.
The memories of this man do not just centre around food, not that it would be totally out of place. Mealtimes were our best times and it wasn't just the food. It was the conversation and the advice he dispensed in what I now refer to as ten-for-99-cent prescription. My entire life -- with its twists and turns, its joys and frustrations, warts and all -- daily reminds me of him. I am the woman I am because he loved me, and molded me in his own image. To borrow from the song by Canadian songster, Celine Dion, he was my eyes when I couldn't see beyond the small universe of our lives at the time. He dreamt for me when I was too young to dream. He filled my head with "nonsense," as his wife used to say. And the "nonsense" were about the world -- the one he said awaited me. At the time, I couldn't see beyond the walls of his home, and my future didn't stretch beyond the next day. But he had seen it all. In his youth, he had traveled to all parts of Eastern Nigeria as a trader. Then he had an accident during one of those trips. He hurt his legs so badly that it took years before he would fully recover. By the time it was over, he had lost everything, and didn't have the resources to start afresh, so he turned to other preoccupation. He had stopped traveling, but he hadn't stopped dreaming about the world beyond our immediate horizon. He spent most of the time we knew each other introducing me to the world he said would one day be mine. And today, I am what I am because one man loved me, believed in me, and gave me a dream to pursue. With his words, he opened up a new world for me -- one that was beyond my imagination.
We had lots of conversations, though it would be more accurate to say he talked and I listened. He would usher me into his presence by calling me with one of the names he gave me. He had several affectionate names for me but three still stick. One was a generic name among my Annang people. It's 'Kan-anwan (Agadi-nwanyi in Igbo). Though it means "old woman," it's never used to address an old woman. When used for a young woman or girl, it often indicates familiarity and/or affection. The second name was unique but not uncommon. I have never seen the name written, but it sounds like Jorgee. From his usage, it simply meant gem or precious stone. It might have been a derivation from the word, george, which is used for the expensive fabric (wrapper) that women in Eastern Nigeria love so much. Then there was the third name, which was my favorite. It was both unique and exclusive, a name he made up just for me. Eto-mmong-nwed literally translates as "pen" (especially the older fountain pens that came with an ink bottle). The way he used it, the name sounded as if I was the pen itself and ink flowed through my veins. My becoming a journalist seemed to have given form to that impression. My mother however thinks it more reflected his dream that I would one day become a university professor. To him, that was the pinnacle of knowledge and wisdom -- knowing so much that one was able to teach in the university. In my language, the university translates as "school of experts/wise people." (Ufok nwed nta ifiok.) My mother is probably right, for one of his dreams for me was that I would "go to all the school there is to go."
Education featured on his long list of dreams for me. It was something that was important to him. It was the ticket to a comfortable and bondage-free life, he used to say.
"And the time will come when you will dine with kings, and people would serve you," he would say many nights as we sat on his verandah, watching the moon make its way across the sky. I didn't really care about people serving me, but I was fascinated with the idea of dining with kings and traveling to all corners of the world. One of those nights I asked why the moon always seemed to be going somewhere.
"It doesn't really go anywhere, it only appears so."
I sighed. "I wish it travels because then I can travel with it to wherever it is going."
"Listen to me, you don't need the moon to travel to the ends of the earth. If you want to go to the ends of the earth, you will go. In fact, if you want to go to the moon itself, you will get there. Just study hard in school."
"Really, you mean I can go to the moon?"
"Yes, you can. People who are not as intelligent as you are have gone to the moon."
Now that was something to dream about.
"Remember this, Eto Mmong Nwed," he would say. "Whatever you set your mind to accomplish, you can achieve it. Just go to school." For me, this always translated as: "if you can dream it, you can have it," a principle that I've lived on, even as I'm careful to pick the dreams I have. Experience has shown that I may have had whatever I dreamed of, but most dreams do turn into nightmares. I'm sure that's not what he wished for me.
His other refrain, but related to this one on education, was on the need for me to keep my mfon mma. (No, I won't translate!) He said repeatedly that there was time for everything. "Don't allow any man to deceive you with empty promises. Things are not always as attractive as they first appear," he would tell me in his equivalent of "not all that glitters is gold." He said I should not be deceived by ephemeral attractions. "Whatever a man says, he'll give to you, you can give to yourself several times over. Don't get side-tracked. Keep your eyes on the goal." The goal, of course was to "go to all the school there is to go to."
This stress on not being sidetracked by immediate attractions was set against the backdrop of our society where women were (and still are) generally dependent on the men in their lives. Many girls got into early marriages as a temporary relief from poverty. Usually, after the kids had arrived, the young women sank into abject poverty, and in many cases their circumstances were not that much better than when they were unmarried. Plus, now they had children to take care of and provide a future for. But with their scarce resources, the vicious cycle of poverty was complete: there usually was no way out under such conditions. He believed that education, apart from being the ticket to the good life, was a great equalizer in the gender power relations. This was because, through education, I would be economically independent enough to enter into a relationship on equal terms. It was extremely important to him that I was economically independent, and that I was not in any relationship where I would be subjugated because of any lack in me.
Years later, I would wonder about this insistence on this aspect of my life. How could a man, born in his time and raised in as patriarchal a society as ours was (and is), have wished that this one woman grew up to be an "independent woman?" Independence in a woman is not even a valued trait. How would he today respond to the regular charges of my "stubbornness" or "strong willed?" Is this the "independence" that he wished for me, or did I corrupt his message during the process of implementation?
Sometimes, I think I know what his answers to these questions would be. He was a man ahead of his generation. In a society where polygamy was (and still is) prevalent, he remained a faithful monogamist. (Interestingly, his own sons grew up to be "notorious" polygamists.) Of all the men I knew back then, he was the only one who helped his wife with the housework. That was quite revolutionary for a man in his generation and environment. The perfectionist he was, he cleaned his own room, washed his own clothes (didn't trust anyone to do them well) and generally took care of himself. The only thing I didn't see him do was cook, but he helped in other ways such as shopping for groceries (read, going to the market to buy foodstuff for his wife). So perhaps, he knew what he was doing when he filled my head with the "nonsense" that has shaped my life and constituted the person that I am today. I don't know if he would be pleased with his "handwork" and sometimes I wonder if I didn't carry his sermons on "independence" too far. (Being strong can sometimes be so exhausting!)
Still, I owe my life to this one man who truly and deeply loved me. In a way, he gave life to me and sustained it when the Civil War made it difficult for my father to do it. He also gave me words that I have lived by these past years.
This great man went on to glory before I could adequately thank him; before his dreams for me would come to actualization. Bur I hope that as he looks at me today from Heaven, he is pleased with what he sees. I've not yet gone to the moon (and I doubt that it's still my dream). I've not gone to "all the school that there is to go" and become a teacher of experts, but I'm working on it. I've not yet gone to the ends of the earth, but I've been in four continents, including Australia (how further can anyone go!). My life is still a work-in-progress, and by God's grace, this man's dreams and prayers for my life will come to pass. However, there's one thing I can do now: remember this man. I never got to say "thank you" to this great man who was so influential in my early years. And so on this Father's Day in the year, 1999, I send a belated "thank you" to my grandfather who now dwells in heaven. Sosongo, Usobom!!!
-- In memory of my maternal grandfather, Chief Jackson Akpanekpo-Ekerete (1916-1985), with whom I spent the early years of my life.