The Son of the House by Cheluchi Onyemelukwe-Onuobia

Author:Cheluchi Onyemelukwe-Onuobia [Onyemelukwe-Onuobia, Cheluchi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Literary
ISBN: 9781459747104
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2021-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

Papa died of diabetes in 1972, two years after the war ended. He would have lived if not for his stubbornness. He had developed a small sore on his foot that would not heal. Then it grew. The doctor had said it was infected and that his foot would have to be amputated.

I remember standing by Papa’s bedside and hearing him say, “Tell that doctor that nobody can cut off my leg, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Papa, but —”

“You do not say ‘but’ to me, young woman. Nwabueze Ndubuizu can never be a cripple, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ehen. Now, Afam” — his gaze pierced deep into my eyes — “you must take care of Afam. He is drifting now. The sooner he settles down, the better. He must marry. As soon as possible. At his age, I was married. You must help him. And Chielotam. You understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes, sir. But —”

“Did I not just say not to say ‘but’? Your mother is a strong woman, but you must stand by her and help her.”

“Yes, Papa,” I whispered, although I wanted to say “but” again: But why do you talk this way? But you cannot leave Mama? But what about me? But I did not want to raise his ire, so I kept my buts to myself.

When I returned to the hospital in the morning to relieve my mother, my father was gone.

I had little time to grieve, or to wonder at the unremitting emptiness Papa’s death left in my heart, because that was when Afam began to drink. I often thanked God that Papa had not lived to see this, that he only had seen his son’s inability to settle down. After drifting for a while, Afam went back to live with Mama in the village. There he drank every second his eyes were open. He stole from my mother. He robbed our neighbours too, selling their goats and chickens to feed his growing habit. He showed no remorse when he was caught, and paid no mind to my mother’s weeping.

His behaviour angered me. He was not the only one who went to war. We all had scars from it. But we carried on. We put away our thoughts like carefully folded wrappers at the bottom of the clothes box and faced the business of living. Those whose houses and property had been confiscated by the government in Lagos and Port Harcourt began to figure out how to build new ones there, or moved to Enugu and Onitsha to start life afresh. Those who had buried kwashiorkor-ridden children had other children, woke from their nightmares each morning, and set off for work to feed their children. Young men held jobs in Enugu and even found time to drink and smoke while listening to new bands like Egwugwu. But Afam was determined to throw his life away. When I wanted my mother to come live with me in Enugu, Mama reassured me that Afam was a quiet drunk and that he did not bother her or act violent.

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