Jessica Nwankwo Scholastic Writing Portfolio - 8 Selections
BACKGROUND - Personal Essay or Memoir
It is said that music vibrations stimulate plant growth. In my case, my family and culture compose the music that leads to my growth.
My family is my safe haven; my parents do their best to provide me with the basic needs while nurturing me lovingly.
Other kids around my age expressed their, at times resentful, readiness to leave their parents; they believed they had the tenacity needed to independently plant themselves into security. I could not relate to such attitudes, as I loved my parents so much and thought it was my obligation to remain loyal and available to them after how well they have treated me. My parents are the stick of support I wind my dependent and steadfast vines around, the roots of stability that keep me grounded and absorb essential nutrients needed to help me gain the strength to blossom and reveal my valuable qualities.
Food is an important aspect of my culture. My mother is often in the kitchen preparing dinner, singing as she does so, like a gardener sings to their plants. On Tuesdays, beans and plantain make contact with oil in the pan, sizzling, a harmonious union of sweet and savory smells filling the air. Wednesdays, chopped okra and spinach bounce rhythmically in the water as they are seasoned with pepper, spices, and crawfish to prepare okra soup to eat with fufu. Sundays, mouths salivate at tasting the tomatoey aroma of red stew and rice. On special occasions, spicy suya and sweet Nigerian buns are prepared. I am amazed by her magic hands and her aptitude for flavor.
The Nigerian community continuously plays the keys of moral code. There is a certain way one must speak to elders, there was always an issue if one tried to give something with their left hand, and there were standards of manner in which one presented themselves to the public. As a result, I have a deeply-rooted set of morals and manners I adhere to, and I often reference these when making decisions and interacting with others.
Academics are also important to them. And it made sense-- coming to America to create hopefully fulfilling and better lives for themselves and their children, they wanted their offspring to take advantage of academic opportunities and strive for high accomplishments. As a result of this sentiment, I constantly aim to achieve the highest grades I can while ensuring I learn something from the courses and programs I participate in and branch out towards a variety of academic disciplines to attain long-term understanding.
However, my connection with my culture has not always been on a high note. As I grew into my adolescent years, while the love for my family and culture was still present, I experienced greater self-awareness about being inconsistent with them. I thought I could not speak the language or do the dances, so I kept quiet and did not dance at all. I felt like the jigsaw puzzle piece that was forced into the bigger picture, the piece that would not fit within the last empty space. Or like a square peg jammed into a round hole-- I fit into the opening, but not without manipulation and pressure on my edges and chipping of my paint. Ambivalence oscillated me between my resonance and lack of resonance with my culture as if I were riding a swing, but I was always destined to return to the indecisive middle, the divide between two sentiments. I had denied the sweet fruit of culture, claiming it to be bitter without ever having a taste, planting seeds of resentment into my soul. I had covered my ears to tune out its reverberating rhythms.
To this day, I do frequently find myself riding this swing. I still do not speak the language, and I only understand some of the basic words. I cannot conjure amazingly tasty meals like my mother, though I am learning. And I am still not completely comfortable with participating in dancing, at least not in public. But I realize I do not have to perfect my identification with my culture in order to resonate with the deeply-rooted and underlying rhythms that drive and define my family and culture.
My family is my safe haven; my parents do their best to provide me with the basic needs while nurturing me lovingly.
Other kids around my age expressed their, at times resentful, readiness to leave their parents; they believed they had the tenacity needed to independently plant themselves into security. I could not relate to such attitudes, as I loved my parents so much and thought it was my obligation to remain loyal and available to them after how well they have treated me. My parents are the stick of support I wind my dependent and steadfast vines around, the roots of stability that keep me grounded and absorb essential nutrients needed to help me gain the strength to blossom and reveal my valuable qualities.
Food is an important aspect of my culture. My mother is often in the kitchen preparing dinner, singing as she does so, like a gardener sings to their plants. On Tuesdays, beans and plantain make contact with oil in the pan, sizzling, a harmonious union of sweet and savory smells filling the air. Wednesdays, chopped okra and spinach bounce rhythmically in the water as they are seasoned with pepper, spices, and crawfish to prepare okra soup to eat with fufu. Sundays, mouths salivate at tasting the tomatoey aroma of red stew and rice. On special occasions, spicy suya and sweet Nigerian buns are prepared. I am amazed by her magic hands and her aptitude for flavor.
The Nigerian community continuously plays the keys of moral code. There is a certain way one must speak to elders, there was always an issue if one tried to give something with their left hand, and there were standards of manner in which one presented themselves to the public. As a result, I have a deeply-rooted set of morals and manners I adhere to, and I often reference these when making decisions and interacting with others.
Academics are also important to them. And it made sense-- coming to America to create hopefully fulfilling and better lives for themselves and their children, they wanted their offspring to take advantage of academic opportunities and strive for high accomplishments. As a result of this sentiment, I constantly aim to achieve the highest grades I can while ensuring I learn something from the courses and programs I participate in and branch out towards a variety of academic disciplines to attain long-term understanding.
However, my connection with my culture has not always been on a high note. As I grew into my adolescent years, while the love for my family and culture was still present, I experienced greater self-awareness about being inconsistent with them. I thought I could not speak the language or do the dances, so I kept quiet and did not dance at all. I felt like the jigsaw puzzle piece that was forced into the bigger picture, the piece that would not fit within the last empty space. Or like a square peg jammed into a round hole-- I fit into the opening, but not without manipulation and pressure on my edges and chipping of my paint. Ambivalence oscillated me between my resonance and lack of resonance with my culture as if I were riding a swing, but I was always destined to return to the indecisive middle, the divide between two sentiments. I had denied the sweet fruit of culture, claiming it to be bitter without ever having a taste, planting seeds of resentment into my soul. I had covered my ears to tune out its reverberating rhythms.
To this day, I do frequently find myself riding this swing. I still do not speak the language, and I only understand some of the basic words. I cannot conjure amazingly tasty meals like my mother, though I am learning. And I am still not completely comfortable with participating in dancing, at least not in public. But I realize I do not have to perfect my identification with my culture in order to resonate with the deeply-rooted and underlying rhythms that drive and define my family and culture.
REUNION - Short Story - HONORABLE MENTION
It was early evening now. The clouds gradually cleared the sky, humbly permitting the sun to shine. The residue from the light rain from earlier left faint markings on the car window, distorting the world beyond. Simon sat in the front passengers seat, observing the world from his window, the partially obscured view analogous with his recollection of the area. It had been a while since he had last been here—eleven years to be exact. As a result, the environment was a cloudy memory in his mind.
“The cafe on Penrose Avenue, right?” Aunt Allison said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes.” By hearing the street name alone, he could not remember if he had ever been there. It wasn't until they arrived at the cafe that his memory was triggered. Aunt Allison pulled to a stop. At the sight of the cafe, he felt as if he had arrived at an almost-home. There were big, glass windows that revealed the casual activity going on inside. Chrysanthemums and Gardenias decorated the window boxes. Hung on the door was a sign that read “Welcome, Come on in!”
…
Zachary sat at his usual table at the cafe, flipping through the newspaper absentmindedly. His mind was preoccupied with the fact that his son was coming to visit. It had been years since they had interacted last. What would he look like? What would he be like? He could not possibly imagine all the change that had happened since they had been separated. 11 years is a long period of time to miss out on in someone's life. A long period of time for a connection to fade. A long period of time to forget.
...
He stood there for a moment, holding onto a streetlamp. This was the place, right? Aunt Allison did seem certain about it, and he could trust her judgment more than his own, as she was more familiar with the place and her cousin, his father. There was no other cafe on Penrose Avenue.
A customer exited the cafe, holding the door open for Simon. If he was not going to push himself to enter, this was going to. A polite exchange of gratitude and acknowledgement, and he was in.
The aroma got to him first, transporting him to a time earlier in his life when he had visited here often with his father. An impression of safety and joy. The rich aroma of coffee dominated while complemented by the smells of freshly-baked bread and pastries that resided in the background. The warmth greeted him with a comforting familiarity. He just hoped that his father would do the same.
The cafe was fairly busy, but not uncomfortably so, as they would be closing in a couple of hours. He caught some curious eyes, people intrigued by this apparent newcomer, but it was not off-putting as much as it was interesting. As he stood there, awkwardly waiting for a motioning from his father, a few of the people seemed to look at him as if they recognized him and were trying to match his familiar face to a name.
His father had said he would be sitting at a table near the window. He did not give much guidance other than that, but on the right side of the building, Simon saw a man seated alone facing his direction, a second menu placed across from him as if expecting company.
Simon took in a deep breath and exhaled silently, an attempt to ease his nerves and steady his rapid heartbeat. There was no need to be anxious— this was his father he was about to meet. It was not like he had never seen him or lived with him before. His memories from early childhood involving his father were mostly pleasant. There was nothing to worry about and everything to be excited about. The chance to reconnect after such a long period of time apart. The subsequent joy in seeing each other. The conversations they would share, rekindling their relationship.
He was dressed as if he had just come out of an executive meeting, and wore an expression of exhaustion to match. As Simon approached the table, his father's eyes remained on the newspaper in front of him, as if engrossed by what he was reading.
“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” Simon said half-jokingly, half undermining his own importance and the significance of their meeting.
“No.”
Yet Simon noticed that his father had placed his phone next to him, occasionally glancing at it as if expectant of a call or message.
“What do you suppose he’s doing right now?”
“Who?”
“Dad.”
“Why the mentioning of your dad recently?” While attempting to mask her true feelings with light-heartedness, there was slight suspicion and bitterness in her voice. It was not directed at her son, but rather, at the subject matter.
“I’m just curious. I mean, we never visit or call him, and he doesn’t either. Could I… call him sometime?”
“I’m not sure he uses the number I have saved anymore.” She knew that was a lie, as he called occasionally and she subsequently ignored him, and he wasn’t keen on change.
“Is there harm in trying?”
“You know, he has a life of his own. Can’t expect him to just clear his schedule and welcome you with open arms.” She lightly chuckled, but there was an underlying seriousness to her tone. “Think it over first.”
Can’t expect a clear schedule and open arms. The mind had a strange way of bringing up the past in given situations. He replayed his mother’s words. She meant well and brought in reason, but he could not help but think that all these years, his father had been waiting for him, and as a result, this meeting was something to be excited about, to look forward to. It was something to be excited about.
“Hi, D–,” Simon caught himself. Yes, the man sitting in front of him was his father, but they had not seen each other for 11 years, and had hardly communicated within that time frame. What if his father rejected such a title now? He tried again. “Hi.” He had to suppress the rising excitement in his voice.
“Hello.” He simply glanced up momentarily to exchange the curt greeting, but his eyes quickly returned to the newspaper and furtive glances towards his phone.
Maybe he was just shy, a little awkward, much like himself. He could not blame him.
Long-suppressed questions swarmed Simon's mind. Have you been thinking about me? Mom? Have you re-married? Why haven’t you called? Visited? Do you even care? Of course he cared. He cared enough to return his initial call, and he cared enough to meet him here. He did not harbor any negative thoughts against his father, despite what his mother tried to insinuate and instill. But this did not seem like the time to bring topics like that up. Untouchable, much like the forbidden questions of first dates.
After a period of silence, he settled on, “How are you?” A smile masked his nervousness.
“Fine.”
“That’s great. “
Roadblock. Simon waited, but his father never reciprocated the question. Awkwardly, he offered, “I’ve been good, too.”
A simple nod, and their conversation slipped into silence once again. Not much of a conversationalist, he supposed. It was up to him to keep the conversation going.
He tried to make use of the newspaper unfolded in front of his father. “What are you reading?”
“Just the day's news.”
“Ah, nice… Anything interesting so far?”
A simple shake of the head 'no’.
A growing sense of unease overcame Simon. It was one thing to be socially awkward. It was another to be so oblivious to attempts at interaction and ignore all conventions of showing engagement in conversation that it came off as uncaring. He could try to make more eye contact. Don't jump to conclusions. But did his father care, truly?
The menu. Maybe getting something to eat would drive away some of his discomfort. “I'm going to go order something. Would you like anything?”
Hesitantly, “Just coffee. Just tell Rita 'order #47’, and she'll know.”
“Okay.” How much coffee could someone have until it did more harm than good?
Simon was about to get up when his father slid something towards him. Money. $6.71 exactly. Why so precise?
“Oh, that's okay. I can pay.”
His father did not take back the money, and instead patiently waited as if Simon had not said anything.
“It's okay, really. Don't worry about it. I can—”
His father looked up at him, one of the only times since he arrived, an expression of seriousness intermixed with a trace of pleading. He slid the money closer.
Not really knowing what to do and surprised by his father's insistence, he pocketed the money. “Um… thank you.”
He scanned the menu for something he might like.
Scrumptious Strawberry Tart ……………………..……………….. $3.25
Additional cost of 25¢ for extra strawberries
Back at home, he made them on occasion, with extra strawberries.
His father had said he wanted coffee.
Standard Coffee ……………………………………………………………… $2.70
w/ or w/o milk
But he also mentioned something about order #47. Nothing on the menu said such a thing. He figured it was something on a secret menu.
Simon approached the counter and was met by a woman, presumably the owner. Mostly dark brown, her hair showed some highlights of a lively, deep Auburn color as well as some gray streaks. She wore a warm smile, a reflection of the comforting environment she had created with her cafe. He smiled.
Before he could speak, she exclaimed, “Oh my stars!” She was beholding his presence, as if reuniting with an old friend. However, realizing that he was slightly uncomfortable and confused by her expression, she reeled in her ebullience. But the curious stares of some customers could not be diverted.
...
For Zachary, the air grew stuffy as he felt the unwanted attention from the other customers. Practically everyone was staring in his direction, undoubtedly to see the rare sight of him with his son, of him with anybody. They weren't doing a very good job at hiding their wonderment, but it seemed that they had stopped trying altogether, switching from furtive glances to prying and engrossed gazes. Now that Simon had gone to order something, the attention was split between the two of them as customers looked back and forth, hanging on to each of their actions and words as if even the insignificant interactions held deeper meaning to them. As he glanced up from his newspaper, it was as if he had pierced through the intrusive stares of nearby customers, for they had immediately diverted their attention away from him, instead resorting to fabricated small talk as a way to mask their curiosity.
…
“Well I'm glad to know you've been well,” Rita said cheerfully. “You really have grown! How quickly the years go by!”
Simon gave a shy chuckle. He didn't remember her all that well, but he liked her energy, and in the few minutes he had spent at the counter, he had already had a more engaging and fulfilling conversation than he was having with his father.
“Anyway, what can I get you?”
“The strawberry tart, please. And he said I should ask for 'order #47’ for him?”
“Coming right up! That will be $6.71.” she was about to make him pay, but instead offered, “Don't worry about the cost. It's on the house. Take it as my way of saying welcome back.”
He had already nearly refused to accept the money his father had given him, but he thought it would have been even ruder to not take her up on her offer. Besides, he didn't want to make a fuss, and instead saw gratitude and acceptance as the best way to approach this. Though he hesitated, he finally said, “Thank you.”
When the order was ready, he took in the delicious smell of the strawberry tart and the appealing arrangement of the strawberries. But upon receiving the coffee, the beautiful scent was cancelled out by it's overpowering and unpleasant aroma. It was over-roasted, burnt, bitter, black coffee. He wondered how anyone could even drink it without being disgusted.
Upon reaching the table, he saw his father getting up. “Where are you going?”
He hurriedly said, “Please excuse me for a moment,” and he was out the doors.
What was that about? A business call? Something about his hurried yet quiet expression made him think otherwise, as if maybe he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable by his own son's presence. He wanted to tell himself not to jump to conclusions, to take all things into consideration, but when he took their interactions over the past hour into account, he could come to no other conclusion but that. The very thought made him squirm, as he felt unwanted, unliked. As he ate his strawberry tart, he considered leaving as well. If he called Aunt Allison, maybe she would pick him up now, before things had an opportunity to get worse.
His father had returned. Aunt Allison did not answer her phone, but he had already decided it was time for him to go. Hesitantly, and with a forced smile, he managed, “Thanks for meeting me here. I think I'm going to go now.”
He noticed a slight tensing in his father's demeanor, which his father attempted to mask with a plain, understanding tone. “Okay. I could take you to—”
Simon responded little too quickly. “—No! I mean no, it's fine, really. Aunt Allison can pick me up. I wouldn't want to put you through that trouble.” Or himself, for that matter.
As he walked out the door, he took one last glance at his father. That didn't go as expected at all. How could someone seem so different if he had known them before? 11 years was a long time, long enough to cause unwanted change. Maybe he should have considered his mother's words and caution more carefully.
…
“How did it go?” Aunt Allison asked eagerly.
“It was fine.” Simon didn't sound nearly as happy about it, but he tried to force a smile.
“What happened?” she could detect his lack of enthusiasm.
“Nothing, really. We didn't talk much. Oh well.”
“Oh, that's too bad. I thought you guys were going to use that time to catch up.”
Simon remained quiet, resuming his diversion of looking out the window.
“Maybe he was just a little shy. He can be like that sometimes.” Aunt Allison offered reassuringly.
“Yeah.” He wasn't so sure.
“The cafe on Penrose Avenue, right?” Aunt Allison said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes.” By hearing the street name alone, he could not remember if he had ever been there. It wasn't until they arrived at the cafe that his memory was triggered. Aunt Allison pulled to a stop. At the sight of the cafe, he felt as if he had arrived at an almost-home. There were big, glass windows that revealed the casual activity going on inside. Chrysanthemums and Gardenias decorated the window boxes. Hung on the door was a sign that read “Welcome, Come on in!”
…
Zachary sat at his usual table at the cafe, flipping through the newspaper absentmindedly. His mind was preoccupied with the fact that his son was coming to visit. It had been years since they had interacted last. What would he look like? What would he be like? He could not possibly imagine all the change that had happened since they had been separated. 11 years is a long period of time to miss out on in someone's life. A long period of time for a connection to fade. A long period of time to forget.
...
He stood there for a moment, holding onto a streetlamp. This was the place, right? Aunt Allison did seem certain about it, and he could trust her judgment more than his own, as she was more familiar with the place and her cousin, his father. There was no other cafe on Penrose Avenue.
A customer exited the cafe, holding the door open for Simon. If he was not going to push himself to enter, this was going to. A polite exchange of gratitude and acknowledgement, and he was in.
The aroma got to him first, transporting him to a time earlier in his life when he had visited here often with his father. An impression of safety and joy. The rich aroma of coffee dominated while complemented by the smells of freshly-baked bread and pastries that resided in the background. The warmth greeted him with a comforting familiarity. He just hoped that his father would do the same.
The cafe was fairly busy, but not uncomfortably so, as they would be closing in a couple of hours. He caught some curious eyes, people intrigued by this apparent newcomer, but it was not off-putting as much as it was interesting. As he stood there, awkwardly waiting for a motioning from his father, a few of the people seemed to look at him as if they recognized him and were trying to match his familiar face to a name.
His father had said he would be sitting at a table near the window. He did not give much guidance other than that, but on the right side of the building, Simon saw a man seated alone facing his direction, a second menu placed across from him as if expecting company.
Simon took in a deep breath and exhaled silently, an attempt to ease his nerves and steady his rapid heartbeat. There was no need to be anxious— this was his father he was about to meet. It was not like he had never seen him or lived with him before. His memories from early childhood involving his father were mostly pleasant. There was nothing to worry about and everything to be excited about. The chance to reconnect after such a long period of time apart. The subsequent joy in seeing each other. The conversations they would share, rekindling their relationship.
He was dressed as if he had just come out of an executive meeting, and wore an expression of exhaustion to match. As Simon approached the table, his father's eyes remained on the newspaper in front of him, as if engrossed by what he was reading.
“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” Simon said half-jokingly, half undermining his own importance and the significance of their meeting.
“No.”
Yet Simon noticed that his father had placed his phone next to him, occasionally glancing at it as if expectant of a call or message.
“What do you suppose he’s doing right now?”
“Who?”
“Dad.”
“Why the mentioning of your dad recently?” While attempting to mask her true feelings with light-heartedness, there was slight suspicion and bitterness in her voice. It was not directed at her son, but rather, at the subject matter.
“I’m just curious. I mean, we never visit or call him, and he doesn’t either. Could I… call him sometime?”
“I’m not sure he uses the number I have saved anymore.” She knew that was a lie, as he called occasionally and she subsequently ignored him, and he wasn’t keen on change.
“Is there harm in trying?”
“You know, he has a life of his own. Can’t expect him to just clear his schedule and welcome you with open arms.” She lightly chuckled, but there was an underlying seriousness to her tone. “Think it over first.”
Can’t expect a clear schedule and open arms. The mind had a strange way of bringing up the past in given situations. He replayed his mother’s words. She meant well and brought in reason, but he could not help but think that all these years, his father had been waiting for him, and as a result, this meeting was something to be excited about, to look forward to. It was something to be excited about.
“Hi, D–,” Simon caught himself. Yes, the man sitting in front of him was his father, but they had not seen each other for 11 years, and had hardly communicated within that time frame. What if his father rejected such a title now? He tried again. “Hi.” He had to suppress the rising excitement in his voice.
“Hello.” He simply glanced up momentarily to exchange the curt greeting, but his eyes quickly returned to the newspaper and furtive glances towards his phone.
Maybe he was just shy, a little awkward, much like himself. He could not blame him.
Long-suppressed questions swarmed Simon's mind. Have you been thinking about me? Mom? Have you re-married? Why haven’t you called? Visited? Do you even care? Of course he cared. He cared enough to return his initial call, and he cared enough to meet him here. He did not harbor any negative thoughts against his father, despite what his mother tried to insinuate and instill. But this did not seem like the time to bring topics like that up. Untouchable, much like the forbidden questions of first dates.
After a period of silence, he settled on, “How are you?” A smile masked his nervousness.
“Fine.”
“That’s great. “
Roadblock. Simon waited, but his father never reciprocated the question. Awkwardly, he offered, “I’ve been good, too.”
A simple nod, and their conversation slipped into silence once again. Not much of a conversationalist, he supposed. It was up to him to keep the conversation going.
He tried to make use of the newspaper unfolded in front of his father. “What are you reading?”
“Just the day's news.”
“Ah, nice… Anything interesting so far?”
A simple shake of the head 'no’.
A growing sense of unease overcame Simon. It was one thing to be socially awkward. It was another to be so oblivious to attempts at interaction and ignore all conventions of showing engagement in conversation that it came off as uncaring. He could try to make more eye contact. Don't jump to conclusions. But did his father care, truly?
The menu. Maybe getting something to eat would drive away some of his discomfort. “I'm going to go order something. Would you like anything?”
Hesitantly, “Just coffee. Just tell Rita 'order #47’, and she'll know.”
“Okay.” How much coffee could someone have until it did more harm than good?
Simon was about to get up when his father slid something towards him. Money. $6.71 exactly. Why so precise?
“Oh, that's okay. I can pay.”
His father did not take back the money, and instead patiently waited as if Simon had not said anything.
“It's okay, really. Don't worry about it. I can—”
His father looked up at him, one of the only times since he arrived, an expression of seriousness intermixed with a trace of pleading. He slid the money closer.
Not really knowing what to do and surprised by his father's insistence, he pocketed the money. “Um… thank you.”
He scanned the menu for something he might like.
Scrumptious Strawberry Tart ……………………..……………….. $3.25
Additional cost of 25¢ for extra strawberries
Back at home, he made them on occasion, with extra strawberries.
His father had said he wanted coffee.
Standard Coffee ……………………………………………………………… $2.70
w/ or w/o milk
But he also mentioned something about order #47. Nothing on the menu said such a thing. He figured it was something on a secret menu.
Simon approached the counter and was met by a woman, presumably the owner. Mostly dark brown, her hair showed some highlights of a lively, deep Auburn color as well as some gray streaks. She wore a warm smile, a reflection of the comforting environment she had created with her cafe. He smiled.
Before he could speak, she exclaimed, “Oh my stars!” She was beholding his presence, as if reuniting with an old friend. However, realizing that he was slightly uncomfortable and confused by her expression, she reeled in her ebullience. But the curious stares of some customers could not be diverted.
...
For Zachary, the air grew stuffy as he felt the unwanted attention from the other customers. Practically everyone was staring in his direction, undoubtedly to see the rare sight of him with his son, of him with anybody. They weren't doing a very good job at hiding their wonderment, but it seemed that they had stopped trying altogether, switching from furtive glances to prying and engrossed gazes. Now that Simon had gone to order something, the attention was split between the two of them as customers looked back and forth, hanging on to each of their actions and words as if even the insignificant interactions held deeper meaning to them. As he glanced up from his newspaper, it was as if he had pierced through the intrusive stares of nearby customers, for they had immediately diverted their attention away from him, instead resorting to fabricated small talk as a way to mask their curiosity.
…
“Well I'm glad to know you've been well,” Rita said cheerfully. “You really have grown! How quickly the years go by!”
Simon gave a shy chuckle. He didn't remember her all that well, but he liked her energy, and in the few minutes he had spent at the counter, he had already had a more engaging and fulfilling conversation than he was having with his father.
“Anyway, what can I get you?”
“The strawberry tart, please. And he said I should ask for 'order #47’ for him?”
“Coming right up! That will be $6.71.” she was about to make him pay, but instead offered, “Don't worry about the cost. It's on the house. Take it as my way of saying welcome back.”
He had already nearly refused to accept the money his father had given him, but he thought it would have been even ruder to not take her up on her offer. Besides, he didn't want to make a fuss, and instead saw gratitude and acceptance as the best way to approach this. Though he hesitated, he finally said, “Thank you.”
When the order was ready, he took in the delicious smell of the strawberry tart and the appealing arrangement of the strawberries. But upon receiving the coffee, the beautiful scent was cancelled out by it's overpowering and unpleasant aroma. It was over-roasted, burnt, bitter, black coffee. He wondered how anyone could even drink it without being disgusted.
Upon reaching the table, he saw his father getting up. “Where are you going?”
He hurriedly said, “Please excuse me for a moment,” and he was out the doors.
What was that about? A business call? Something about his hurried yet quiet expression made him think otherwise, as if maybe he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable by his own son's presence. He wanted to tell himself not to jump to conclusions, to take all things into consideration, but when he took their interactions over the past hour into account, he could come to no other conclusion but that. The very thought made him squirm, as he felt unwanted, unliked. As he ate his strawberry tart, he considered leaving as well. If he called Aunt Allison, maybe she would pick him up now, before things had an opportunity to get worse.
His father had returned. Aunt Allison did not answer her phone, but he had already decided it was time for him to go. Hesitantly, and with a forced smile, he managed, “Thanks for meeting me here. I think I'm going to go now.”
He noticed a slight tensing in his father's demeanor, which his father attempted to mask with a plain, understanding tone. “Okay. I could take you to—”
Simon responded little too quickly. “—No! I mean no, it's fine, really. Aunt Allison can pick me up. I wouldn't want to put you through that trouble.” Or himself, for that matter.
As he walked out the door, he took one last glance at his father. That didn't go as expected at all. How could someone seem so different if he had known them before? 11 years was a long time, long enough to cause unwanted change. Maybe he should have considered his mother's words and caution more carefully.
…
“How did it go?” Aunt Allison asked eagerly.
“It was fine.” Simon didn't sound nearly as happy about it, but he tried to force a smile.
“What happened?” she could detect his lack of enthusiasm.
“Nothing, really. We didn't talk much. Oh well.”
“Oh, that's too bad. I thought you guys were going to use that time to catch up.”
Simon remained quiet, resuming his diversion of looking out the window.
“Maybe he was just a little shy. He can be like that sometimes.” Aunt Allison offered reassuringly.
“Yeah.” He wasn't so sure.
FRUIT - Poetry - HONORABLE MENTION
Nourishment for the soul
Drips and flows
From their
Dulcet
Lips
Beckoning and beguiling
They say
Come
Have a taste
Of the
Sweet
Refreshing
Juice
She came
And took a sip
Bitterness
Blandness
Bad.
It penetrated through her
Incisive
And painful
Beyond the workings of the physical body
Tainting
Her soul.
Where was the nourishment
The healing power
The elixir
For all ails?
An acquired taste
Perhaps.
Drips and flows
From their
Dulcet
Lips
Beckoning and beguiling
They say
Come
Have a taste
Of the
Sweet
Refreshing
Juice
She came
And took a sip
Bitterness
Blandness
Bad.
It penetrated through her
Incisive
And painful
Beyond the workings of the physical body
Tainting
Her soul.
Where was the nourishment
The healing power
The elixir
For all ails?
An acquired taste
Perhaps.
QUIET - Short Story
Zachary was barely listening to her reasoning. When he did listen, he manipulated her arguments in ways that her words betrayed her, so that her arguments became lies and his nonsensical arguments became truth. He was spewing out hateful and degrading attacks, each word a knife to her soul; he knew how to skillfully and deliberately craft his words in ways that caused them to incise, twist, and anchor themselves into her soul, making her mind and emotions writhe and hurt long after each utterance and rendering her emotionally incapacitated.
There were times Jolene wondered whether he could hear himself speak, or whether his goal in the moment was simply to make her hurt more than he hurt, blind to the pain his words wreaked. But after years of enduring his volatile rage, she finally had enough. She was sick of it. Sick of not having a voice as long as he was in control of the conversation. Sick of bending to his stubbornness, impossibly trying to defy gravity, forcing herself to be gentle against his delicate temperament to avoid provoking his ire. Sick of incurring his wrath anyway even after her carefulness and compassion. It did not matter what she did— he was hard to please and even harder to handle when discontent. She had held on too long to the chance that things would get better and return to the way they were when they had just met— those perfect, peaceful times now buried under years of his incessant criticism. She had held on too long, deceived by his initial countenance, the one that was so irresistible to fall in love with. But this. This was not love. This was not what a lasting marriage was supposed to feel like. What was the point of holding on any longer when the harder she clinged to him, the sharper the blade was, the more her soul bled, and the more she wept? When she had to put forth more and more effort as time went on in order to earn his affection, bring peace to their marriage, and find happiness? The weight of all the years of his mercurial mood swings, abuse, and manipulation had finally caught up to her, cumbersome on her exhausted and metamorphosed soul. The words that she had hesitated for so long to say had finally been released from her previously choked up throat. His actions over the years had put steady pressure on the trigger, and his actions today had provided the trigger with the final force needed to release her bullet of words from the cartridge, propelling out of the barrel and dealing extensive damage. If he had not been listening to her before, he was listening to her now. “Then I guess it wouldn’t bother you to know that I’ve already started filing for divorce!” Partially shocked by her audacity and worried about what would come next, she hoped her steely words would help bring mercy on her soul and their relationship.
The words came at him in slow motion, but he felt a pang in his chest from the impact, and he immediately froze in speech, his newly prepared fusillade of words dying as they escaped his lips and then getting trapped in his throat altogether. His expression went impassive, and his body relaxed. Zachary remained there, staring at her, unsure how to even begin processing what she had just said to him. His mind repeated her remark, yet with each repetition, his grasp on the simple English that had been spoken to him slipped away. Initially breaking the sentence into smaller chunks for easier processing, his mind had obliterated the group of words to the point that they were no longer comprehensible. Just piping-hot alphabet soup in his already chaotic, toxic mind. What had she said to him that had made his mind, voice and body shut down? It was as if he was denying what had been said to him now, as if there were a chance that if he played her statement over again and again, eventually, one of those times would reveal that he had imagined it or that she was joking.
As the words escaped her lips, things instantly went silent. So silent that she was able to hear the ticking of the clock in the living room booming in her head. She dreaded the silence. Her eyes had locked with his own, or rather, she felt as if he had trapped her in his gaze, and he pierced the thin layer of boldness she had just gained. This was not like how he stared at her the first time they had met. He had captivated her then, sending her swimming in his cool, relaxed gaze. She had willingly jumped into that pool. But this was now an ocean, and with the expansiveness and strangeness that came with it, she had lost her ability to swim confidently, now drowning in the abyss. His dark eyes conveyed no sign of emotion, but drew her in, like whirlpools that threatened to swallow her into the unfathomable. He was simultaneously staring into her and through her, as if she were a ghost, aware of her presence yet seeing beyond her as well. To her surprise, he did not react to her news by shouting even louder with fresh diatribe or threatening to destroy and scatter the surrounding environment. And yet even so, as he waited there, she was more terrified than ever. At least when he was shouting, she could determine that he was angry. But now, she had no clue of what was going on in his mind. The false sense of serenity that overcame his demeanor clashed with the tension she felt from his gaze. She was in the eye of the hurricane right now, the temporary calm spot, while everything around her was engulfed in chaos, and that cataclysm would soon come for her again. Fearing the chance of destruction catching her off guard and trapping her further, she made a calm escape. Still aware of how suddenly she had hit him with her news, she murmured, “I’m going to go pick Simon up from school.”
He watched as she left the house, partially in a daze and partially uncertain of how he wanted to react. It was not until after he had heard her lock the door and drive off that his mind attempted to reconnect with reality.
There were times Jolene wondered whether he could hear himself speak, or whether his goal in the moment was simply to make her hurt more than he hurt, blind to the pain his words wreaked. But after years of enduring his volatile rage, she finally had enough. She was sick of it. Sick of not having a voice as long as he was in control of the conversation. Sick of bending to his stubbornness, impossibly trying to defy gravity, forcing herself to be gentle against his delicate temperament to avoid provoking his ire. Sick of incurring his wrath anyway even after her carefulness and compassion. It did not matter what she did— he was hard to please and even harder to handle when discontent. She had held on too long to the chance that things would get better and return to the way they were when they had just met— those perfect, peaceful times now buried under years of his incessant criticism. She had held on too long, deceived by his initial countenance, the one that was so irresistible to fall in love with. But this. This was not love. This was not what a lasting marriage was supposed to feel like. What was the point of holding on any longer when the harder she clinged to him, the sharper the blade was, the more her soul bled, and the more she wept? When she had to put forth more and more effort as time went on in order to earn his affection, bring peace to their marriage, and find happiness? The weight of all the years of his mercurial mood swings, abuse, and manipulation had finally caught up to her, cumbersome on her exhausted and metamorphosed soul. The words that she had hesitated for so long to say had finally been released from her previously choked up throat. His actions over the years had put steady pressure on the trigger, and his actions today had provided the trigger with the final force needed to release her bullet of words from the cartridge, propelling out of the barrel and dealing extensive damage. If he had not been listening to her before, he was listening to her now. “Then I guess it wouldn’t bother you to know that I’ve already started filing for divorce!” Partially shocked by her audacity and worried about what would come next, she hoped her steely words would help bring mercy on her soul and their relationship.
The words came at him in slow motion, but he felt a pang in his chest from the impact, and he immediately froze in speech, his newly prepared fusillade of words dying as they escaped his lips and then getting trapped in his throat altogether. His expression went impassive, and his body relaxed. Zachary remained there, staring at her, unsure how to even begin processing what she had just said to him. His mind repeated her remark, yet with each repetition, his grasp on the simple English that had been spoken to him slipped away. Initially breaking the sentence into smaller chunks for easier processing, his mind had obliterated the group of words to the point that they were no longer comprehensible. Just piping-hot alphabet soup in his already chaotic, toxic mind. What had she said to him that had made his mind, voice and body shut down? It was as if he was denying what had been said to him now, as if there were a chance that if he played her statement over again and again, eventually, one of those times would reveal that he had imagined it or that she was joking.
As the words escaped her lips, things instantly went silent. So silent that she was able to hear the ticking of the clock in the living room booming in her head. She dreaded the silence. Her eyes had locked with his own, or rather, she felt as if he had trapped her in his gaze, and he pierced the thin layer of boldness she had just gained. This was not like how he stared at her the first time they had met. He had captivated her then, sending her swimming in his cool, relaxed gaze. She had willingly jumped into that pool. But this was now an ocean, and with the expansiveness and strangeness that came with it, she had lost her ability to swim confidently, now drowning in the abyss. His dark eyes conveyed no sign of emotion, but drew her in, like whirlpools that threatened to swallow her into the unfathomable. He was simultaneously staring into her and through her, as if she were a ghost, aware of her presence yet seeing beyond her as well. To her surprise, he did not react to her news by shouting even louder with fresh diatribe or threatening to destroy and scatter the surrounding environment. And yet even so, as he waited there, she was more terrified than ever. At least when he was shouting, she could determine that he was angry. But now, she had no clue of what was going on in his mind. The false sense of serenity that overcame his demeanor clashed with the tension she felt from his gaze. She was in the eye of the hurricane right now, the temporary calm spot, while everything around her was engulfed in chaos, and that cataclysm would soon come for her again. Fearing the chance of destruction catching her off guard and trapping her further, she made a calm escape. Still aware of how suddenly she had hit him with her news, she murmured, “I’m going to go pick Simon up from school.”
He watched as she left the house, partially in a daze and partially uncertain of how he wanted to react. It was not until after he had heard her lock the door and drive off that his mind attempted to reconnect with reality.
PHOTOTROPISM - Poetry
Young Sunflowers move in relation to the sun,
Longingly following its radiant light.
They stretch themselves tall
Twist their juvenile stems taut,
Yet fail to touch the sky,
Fail to be in union with the sun.
Petals and leaves were not of much help;
They only provided the illusion of flight
While my roots grounded them,
A conscious effort
To prevent flying carelessly into the flaming sun
As young Icarus.
The plants of the garden despised the Dandelions.
They could not fly, and instead
Attempted to ground the Dandelions
A stigma of ‘weeds’ shrouding the truth.
Some succumbed
Failing to catch the wind
Floating towards the ground
And sowing their seeds in resignation
In hopes their offspring would carry on their legacy.
Other Dandelions soared with the stigma
Dancing in communion with the air
Floating higher and higher, in attainment with
They envied the ability of the dandelions
To become in touch with their origins,
To connect more easily with the essence of nature
Than they could.
Freedom and fluidity, the dandelions possessed
Triumphing over the simple exterior beauty
Of the other plants of the garden.
Longingly following its radiant light.
They stretch themselves tall
Twist their juvenile stems taut,
Yet fail to touch the sky,
Fail to be in union with the sun.
Petals and leaves were not of much help;
They only provided the illusion of flight
While my roots grounded them,
A conscious effort
To prevent flying carelessly into the flaming sun
As young Icarus.
The plants of the garden despised the Dandelions.
They could not fly, and instead
Attempted to ground the Dandelions
A stigma of ‘weeds’ shrouding the truth.
Some succumbed
Failing to catch the wind
Floating towards the ground
And sowing their seeds in resignation
In hopes their offspring would carry on their legacy.
Other Dandelions soared with the stigma
Dancing in communion with the air
Floating higher and higher, in attainment with
They envied the ability of the dandelions
To become in touch with their origins,
To connect more easily with the essence of nature
Than they could.
Freedom and fluidity, the dandelions possessed
Triumphing over the simple exterior beauty
Of the other plants of the garden.
SAPLING - Poetry
What are these saplings
Without their backbone
Their stick of support
To guide their growth
Upward
Beyond leaps,
Bounds,
And horizons?
They grow
And flourish
Until storms aggravate their immature leaves
And erode the soil
Which secures them
To the ground.
They struggle
With as much
Resolve and resilience
Possible for their development
Succumbing to the oppression
Of the relentless storm
Shortly after.
For where was their backbone?
In the opposite direction.
Abandoned
Forsaken
As they grew towards another source
Of power
Of strength
Of support
In this new and rugged terrain.
Another source,
Which hid at the sight of dark clouds
Bearing warning of the imminent storm,
Leaving the saplings
To fend for themselves
To grow without guidance
Or protection.
So small
So young
So weak.
To bend
And break.
They wither without their support
Recoiling
Leaves folding inward
Never again
To grow as strong
And as mighty.
Never blossoming
Never bearing their
Sweet fruits
For the world.
Without their backbone
Their stick of support
To guide their growth
Upward
Beyond leaps,
Bounds,
And horizons?
They grow
And flourish
Until storms aggravate their immature leaves
And erode the soil
Which secures them
To the ground.
They struggle
With as much
Resolve and resilience
Possible for their development
Succumbing to the oppression
Of the relentless storm
Shortly after.
For where was their backbone?
In the opposite direction.
Abandoned
Forsaken
As they grew towards another source
Of power
Of strength
Of support
In this new and rugged terrain.
Another source,
Which hid at the sight of dark clouds
Bearing warning of the imminent storm,
Leaving the saplings
To fend for themselves
To grow without guidance
Or protection.
So small
So young
So weak.
To bend
And break.
They wither without their support
Recoiling
Leaves folding inward
Never again
To grow as strong
And as mighty.
Never blossoming
Never bearing their
Sweet fruits
For the world.
LEAP - Flash Fiction
They were gaining on him. He heard their footsteps clumsy as they attempted to move their feet as quickly and as intensely as their fervor and frustration They had abandoned all efforts at furtive chasing, aware that he knew they were after him. As small as he was, he moved in a quick and agile manner, ripping through the breeze and cutting past trees through his own attempt at an unpredictable path.
Hiding was not an option. It would give him the chance to catch his breath, but he knew that whatever technology they were using was sophisticated enough to detect his attempts at concealment. It almost seemed senseless to run from them, but there was no time for elaborate thinking. All he could think about was escaping, to finally be rid of their presence, if only for a while. He could not stand the thought of continuing as their involuntary lab rat, used for experimental purposes only, completely disregarded as someone who’s life and significance was to be respected and understood. They only cared about his special qualities, those that they intended to keep hidden from the outside world yet intended to benefit from and experiment on to the fullest extent.
He was nearing a clearing and a dead end. Before him was a cliff from which he could not see much below due to its cragginess and the fog that surrounded it. He could hear the ruffling of the bushes as they made their way past the dense woods.
They watched as he stood near the edge of the cliff, trapped. This, they saw as an advantage. He would be theirs once again now. They would make sure to reinforce the doors. They would remove any potential tools from sight and reach. Stronger chains could be arranged for.
The only direction for freedom was forwards. He could allow himself to be captured again by them, but the punishment and the precautions would be stricter. If he went back, there would be no chance at ever coming out again. But forwards held its own mysteries, its own potentials. Death or life. Who had ever survived a fall from a cliff? It was only the insane who dared to attempt such a feat.
And yet he had already made up his mind, and was therefore without any other option.
He would not do it. He would be theirs.
He stared at the edge of the cliff, observing how it pierced confidently into the oblivion. He, too would need that confidence.
One hesitant step. He could almost feel their cold hands grabbing him then.
There would be no chance for freedom then.
He would not do it. He was theirs. Let him hesitate. Trap him. His attempt at sending them through a labyrinth had failed. He could not possibly had thought he could escape. It must have been a flighty impulse. They took a step, ready to take him back before anyone would have an opportunity to intervene--
He bolted towards the edge of that cliff. No thinking. Just action, temporary flight, and a dive.
He would not do it. He would die. Angry shouts followed with pursuing him towards the edge.
He closed his eyes and jumped, the air giving way to his piercing determination.
Tumbling blindly through the thick, impenetrable fog.
Hurtling towards the sturdy yet unforgiving ground.
Hiding was not an option. It would give him the chance to catch his breath, but he knew that whatever technology they were using was sophisticated enough to detect his attempts at concealment. It almost seemed senseless to run from them, but there was no time for elaborate thinking. All he could think about was escaping, to finally be rid of their presence, if only for a while. He could not stand the thought of continuing as their involuntary lab rat, used for experimental purposes only, completely disregarded as someone who’s life and significance was to be respected and understood. They only cared about his special qualities, those that they intended to keep hidden from the outside world yet intended to benefit from and experiment on to the fullest extent.
He was nearing a clearing and a dead end. Before him was a cliff from which he could not see much below due to its cragginess and the fog that surrounded it. He could hear the ruffling of the bushes as they made their way past the dense woods.
They watched as he stood near the edge of the cliff, trapped. This, they saw as an advantage. He would be theirs once again now. They would make sure to reinforce the doors. They would remove any potential tools from sight and reach. Stronger chains could be arranged for.
The only direction for freedom was forwards. He could allow himself to be captured again by them, but the punishment and the precautions would be stricter. If he went back, there would be no chance at ever coming out again. But forwards held its own mysteries, its own potentials. Death or life. Who had ever survived a fall from a cliff? It was only the insane who dared to attempt such a feat.
And yet he had already made up his mind, and was therefore without any other option.
He would not do it. He would be theirs.
He stared at the edge of the cliff, observing how it pierced confidently into the oblivion. He, too would need that confidence.
One hesitant step. He could almost feel their cold hands grabbing him then.
There would be no chance for freedom then.
He would not do it. He was theirs. Let him hesitate. Trap him. His attempt at sending them through a labyrinth had failed. He could not possibly had thought he could escape. It must have been a flighty impulse. They took a step, ready to take him back before anyone would have an opportunity to intervene--
He bolted towards the edge of that cliff. No thinking. Just action, temporary flight, and a dive.
He would not do it. He would die. Angry shouts followed with pursuing him towards the edge.
He closed his eyes and jumped, the air giving way to his piercing determination.
Tumbling blindly through the thick, impenetrable fog.
Hurtling towards the sturdy yet unforgiving ground.
NIGERIA: A PLACE TO CALL HOME - Personal Essay/Memoir
Thieves lurking in the nighttime shadows, patiently and adeptly waiting for their chance to come out from hiding and pillage through quiet houses containing snoring, sweet-dreaming sleepers. Witchcraft and voodoo doctors practicing their potions and poisons on unsuspecting passersby. Scammers with deceitful tactics, swindling money from innocent people simply searching for trustworthy transactions. Terrorist groups like Boko Haram invading villages, attacking and striking fear into the hearts of the inhabitants. The ubiquitousness of corruption hijacking the government, leading the country towards greater turmoil and tension. The prevalence of poverty afflicting multitudes of the population, steering the country into perpetual hardship. Animals running amok, scurrying between buildings and jumping towards intruders from the wilderness. Dry, scorching days and dark, powerless nights. An anomaly containing all things bad, ugly, and evil, contrasting more “civilized” places. These stories from my aunts, uncles, and other family members, as well as depictions of the country in the media, painted my misconstrued perception of Nigeria for years. Although at times suspiciously grotesque, these tales were all I had to construct my vision of the motherland.
However, as I finally had the opportunity of spending time in this infamously-proclaimed land, I was able to shape my own informed and experienced view of Nigeria. Enugu was different from Lagos, a hybrid of urban and rural. Lagos served as the transitioning point in my journey. It was a city sprawling with activity; vendors lined the streets, proudly displaying their products and coaxing potential customers to buy their assortments of fruit, clothing, magazines, and more; women and men alike carried baskets of items atop their heads, darting through hectic traffic and dodging indifferent vehicles in order to reach their destinations; beggars fearlessly and hopefully approached car windows, peering into the cars, banging on the windows and murmuring desperate pleas; vehicles proceeded to drive through the traffic, impatiently waiting for their opportunities to cut through the jammed streets, disregarding the implied yet nonexistent divisions in the roads; kekes and okada weaved their way rapidly through the limited and narrow open spaces in the roads, nearly running into civilians who attempted to get themselves through this jumbled mess. All the while, military personnel seated atop trucks or stationed at checkpoints attempted to control and contain the chaotic situation, while at the same time collecting “fares” from checkpoints before vehicles were allowed to travel any further. It was almost like a Los Angeles or New York City in Nigeria, always hustling, always busy, always congested.
In contrast, for Christmas, I stayed in the quiet village of Eke in Enugu, behind the hustle and bustle of up-and-coming city life. The daytime sun beat the land and its inhabitants relentlessly with its torrid heat. Red dust lingered above the surface, suspended by the stagnant air and dirtying the sandals of trodders of the land. The nighttime engulfed the village into its dark cloak while at the same time the moon, its gentle partner, shone brightly with its welcoming glow to light up the sandy, obscured path.
As we walked this same path during the day, I saw irony in the fact that it was Christmas Day. Back in America, Christmas was normally associated with cold temperatures and snow to create the perfect White Christmas. However, Nigeria was experiencing a Red Christmas; except for the occasional breeze, the heat continued to beat us, and the red sand continued to dirty our shoes as we headed to church. The church, though small and simple, came to life through the voices of its members. It did not need a professional choir; the members’ voices permeated the room, their passion and joy communicated through every syllable they sang, their bodies swinging and clapping to the rhythm of the music that coursed through their veins.
The rest of the day was filled with visiting and preparation for Christmas celebration in the evening. When that time finally came, the whole family gathered at my grandmother’s house, and celebration commenced through photo-taking, talking, and eating. As I sat outside eating cake near the window of my grandmother's house, I admired the togetherness of my family and relatives. The adults chatted about adult matters, though in a more lighthearted fashion than usual. The children were either on their phones playing games or in the clearing playing with and setting off what they called “knockout”, illuminating the evening with the reds, oranges, and yellows of the sparks. Everyone seemed engrossed in the day, allowing themselves to be embraced by happiness and contentment. Thus, the thought of our departure the following day had been suppressed within the depths of our minds, and instead an illusion of time ruled our thoughts.
All of the sudden, in the midst of excitement and joy, there was the shedding of tears, mimicking the coming of tides. My sister’s tears had triggered a ripple effect of crying that spread to the girls of the group, and the tears eventually became a surge, escaping our eyes uncontrollably, communicating all the joy, all the sadness, and all the surprise at the dwindling day that threatened the amount of time we had left to spend with people we had grown so close to. In the background, the women had gathered in a circle, singing their hearts out. Although I did not understand all the words, it was the emotion with which they sang the song that captured my soul. This only served to intensify our tears. The sweetness of the cake paled in comparison to the new sourness of the evening, and I could no longer concentrate on its taste. Time had escaped us just as autumn leaves fall from their tree and and are scattered by the wind, causing the leaves to go their separate ways. In a matter of time, we would have to do the same, returning to our other home seven thousand miles away --- and abandoning this newly realized home, a place of happiness and acceptance. That night, there was no light. NEPA had taken power again, despite it being Christmas, just like our happiness had been snatched away by the impatience of Time. The rest of the night seemed to have left us on what should have remained a joyous day.
Even as I wrapped up the night with my cousins playing Ncho, the thought of having to leave the next day pervaded my mind. I had shed all of my tears outside, my eyes puffy and strained from the sudden and intense release of emotions. But I could tell that my cousins were not ready to let the painful idea go, as well as the emotions that surrounded it. I watched as they sat cross-legged on the couch in front of me, silently shedding tears while playing the game with me. Their attention was captivated by something else, which was evident in their mindless and uncalculated decisions in moving the pebbles from one hole to the next. By not speaking to me now and choosing sadness over happiness, they were missing an opportunity to make a move that would at least end the night on a sweeter note.
The wind rippled through the palm trees, alternating between hopping from leaf to leaf, as if playing a continuous game of leapfrog, and grabbing the trees vigorously by their palms, engaging them in complex and confused dances. The room was distinctly cooler than previous mornings, a pleasant break from waking up in a sweat due to long and hot Enugu nights. It subdued/assuaged our saddened states to calmness and acceptance of the situation. Suddenly, fog descended over Nigeria like a blanket, covering the country in a haze. The haze seemed to cover up all that we had done while in Nigeria, obscuring experience into a memory. According to my father, Nigeria was experiencing Harmattan. My family was leaving that same day. It was as if Nature was lamenting over our departure with its howling wind and resolved to use Harmattan as a way to keep us here.
When I had first arrived, my unfamiliarity with Nigeria convinced me that I would not be able to last in such oblivion; when I was about to leave, the feeling of acceptance was so welcoming to the point of my devastation. Such a change had occurred when the trip came to an end. I no longer viewed Nigeria through the lens of fear, foreignness, and forlornness. This trip served as an eye opener, revealing the truths that Nigeria held. Yes, it included some unfortunate things; dilapidated slums resided in the background of the urban scenes, abandoned by government funding, and thieves did go around looking for trouble. But it also included good things that my relatives and the media had glossed over, feeding my mind with biased and exaggerated ideas that had failed to shed light onto Nigeria’s progression into advancement or the rich cultural life that reinvigorated my motive to learn and accept my parents’ language and culture. Maybe it took coming at the most magical time of the year to reveal the treasures that Nigeria kept buried under the mask of misconceptions.
However, as I finally had the opportunity of spending time in this infamously-proclaimed land, I was able to shape my own informed and experienced view of Nigeria. Enugu was different from Lagos, a hybrid of urban and rural. Lagos served as the transitioning point in my journey. It was a city sprawling with activity; vendors lined the streets, proudly displaying their products and coaxing potential customers to buy their assortments of fruit, clothing, magazines, and more; women and men alike carried baskets of items atop their heads, darting through hectic traffic and dodging indifferent vehicles in order to reach their destinations; beggars fearlessly and hopefully approached car windows, peering into the cars, banging on the windows and murmuring desperate pleas; vehicles proceeded to drive through the traffic, impatiently waiting for their opportunities to cut through the jammed streets, disregarding the implied yet nonexistent divisions in the roads; kekes and okada weaved their way rapidly through the limited and narrow open spaces in the roads, nearly running into civilians who attempted to get themselves through this jumbled mess. All the while, military personnel seated atop trucks or stationed at checkpoints attempted to control and contain the chaotic situation, while at the same time collecting “fares” from checkpoints before vehicles were allowed to travel any further. It was almost like a Los Angeles or New York City in Nigeria, always hustling, always busy, always congested.
In contrast, for Christmas, I stayed in the quiet village of Eke in Enugu, behind the hustle and bustle of up-and-coming city life. The daytime sun beat the land and its inhabitants relentlessly with its torrid heat. Red dust lingered above the surface, suspended by the stagnant air and dirtying the sandals of trodders of the land. The nighttime engulfed the village into its dark cloak while at the same time the moon, its gentle partner, shone brightly with its welcoming glow to light up the sandy, obscured path.
As we walked this same path during the day, I saw irony in the fact that it was Christmas Day. Back in America, Christmas was normally associated with cold temperatures and snow to create the perfect White Christmas. However, Nigeria was experiencing a Red Christmas; except for the occasional breeze, the heat continued to beat us, and the red sand continued to dirty our shoes as we headed to church. The church, though small and simple, came to life through the voices of its members. It did not need a professional choir; the members’ voices permeated the room, their passion and joy communicated through every syllable they sang, their bodies swinging and clapping to the rhythm of the music that coursed through their veins.
The rest of the day was filled with visiting and preparation for Christmas celebration in the evening. When that time finally came, the whole family gathered at my grandmother’s house, and celebration commenced through photo-taking, talking, and eating. As I sat outside eating cake near the window of my grandmother's house, I admired the togetherness of my family and relatives. The adults chatted about adult matters, though in a more lighthearted fashion than usual. The children were either on their phones playing games or in the clearing playing with and setting off what they called “knockout”, illuminating the evening with the reds, oranges, and yellows of the sparks. Everyone seemed engrossed in the day, allowing themselves to be embraced by happiness and contentment. Thus, the thought of our departure the following day had been suppressed within the depths of our minds, and instead an illusion of time ruled our thoughts.
All of the sudden, in the midst of excitement and joy, there was the shedding of tears, mimicking the coming of tides. My sister’s tears had triggered a ripple effect of crying that spread to the girls of the group, and the tears eventually became a surge, escaping our eyes uncontrollably, communicating all the joy, all the sadness, and all the surprise at the dwindling day that threatened the amount of time we had left to spend with people we had grown so close to. In the background, the women had gathered in a circle, singing their hearts out. Although I did not understand all the words, it was the emotion with which they sang the song that captured my soul. This only served to intensify our tears. The sweetness of the cake paled in comparison to the new sourness of the evening, and I could no longer concentrate on its taste. Time had escaped us just as autumn leaves fall from their tree and and are scattered by the wind, causing the leaves to go their separate ways. In a matter of time, we would have to do the same, returning to our other home seven thousand miles away --- and abandoning this newly realized home, a place of happiness and acceptance. That night, there was no light. NEPA had taken power again, despite it being Christmas, just like our happiness had been snatched away by the impatience of Time. The rest of the night seemed to have left us on what should have remained a joyous day.
Even as I wrapped up the night with my cousins playing Ncho, the thought of having to leave the next day pervaded my mind. I had shed all of my tears outside, my eyes puffy and strained from the sudden and intense release of emotions. But I could tell that my cousins were not ready to let the painful idea go, as well as the emotions that surrounded it. I watched as they sat cross-legged on the couch in front of me, silently shedding tears while playing the game with me. Their attention was captivated by something else, which was evident in their mindless and uncalculated decisions in moving the pebbles from one hole to the next. By not speaking to me now and choosing sadness over happiness, they were missing an opportunity to make a move that would at least end the night on a sweeter note.
The wind rippled through the palm trees, alternating between hopping from leaf to leaf, as if playing a continuous game of leapfrog, and grabbing the trees vigorously by their palms, engaging them in complex and confused dances. The room was distinctly cooler than previous mornings, a pleasant break from waking up in a sweat due to long and hot Enugu nights. It subdued/assuaged our saddened states to calmness and acceptance of the situation. Suddenly, fog descended over Nigeria like a blanket, covering the country in a haze. The haze seemed to cover up all that we had done while in Nigeria, obscuring experience into a memory. According to my father, Nigeria was experiencing Harmattan. My family was leaving that same day. It was as if Nature was lamenting over our departure with its howling wind and resolved to use Harmattan as a way to keep us here.
When I had first arrived, my unfamiliarity with Nigeria convinced me that I would not be able to last in such oblivion; when I was about to leave, the feeling of acceptance was so welcoming to the point of my devastation. Such a change had occurred when the trip came to an end. I no longer viewed Nigeria through the lens of fear, foreignness, and forlornness. This trip served as an eye opener, revealing the truths that Nigeria held. Yes, it included some unfortunate things; dilapidated slums resided in the background of the urban scenes, abandoned by government funding, and thieves did go around looking for trouble. But it also included good things that my relatives and the media had glossed over, feeding my mind with biased and exaggerated ideas that had failed to shed light onto Nigeria’s progression into advancement or the rich cultural life that reinvigorated my motive to learn and accept my parents’ language and culture. Maybe it took coming at the most magical time of the year to reveal the treasures that Nigeria kept buried under the mask of misconceptions.