Okwudiri, (It is Written) by Safa Alhassan

OKWUDIRI, IT IS WRITTEN

SAFA ALHASSAN

Authors Note 

If I were not who I am, I think I would have been Igbo. I have long been drawn to Igbo storytelling, its depth, cultural weight, and the beauty of its names. It is no wonder most of my favourite Nigerian authors are Igbo. I am still learning.

The past never lets go

Okwudiri, It is Written

I: Tọbẹchukwu

Why does every new beginning feel like grief?

Tọbẹchukwu, can you stop interrupting me for a second and actually listen to what I am saying?

My point is this: every beginning is a mourning of something old, something past or even something familiar. I cannot pretend that everything that happened before is irrelevant and begin making promises to a future I do not even understand.

I am not going to let go of everything that happened with Okwudiri and act as though she did not betray me, as though all the promises we made were not thrown down the drain.

I am still grieving and i cannot help but relive everything.

My life is a continum and an empty vessel that can only be filled with the love I am being denied. The old me does not die simply because it is a new year. I live and relive my past, and there is nothing you can say to convince me that others do not do the same.

Not that I care.

I will not be pretentious. I will not ignore my feelings and pose as suddenly reborn, as though I did not just survive the most devastating moments of my life.

How do you know this beginning will not be worse?

So what exactly are you celebrating?

Beginnings are grief and man-made. I don’t want to start again. There is no such thing as a new beginning, only endings.

That much, I am sure of.

“Tobe….."

"Tobe!”

The voice snapped me back to myself.

I shifted away from the mirror and away from the conversation I had been having with my reflection.

“Okwudiri,” 

I called back, smiling as her figure approached the living-room door.

I remembered how she used to mock the creaking doors in our house.

“You can’t even steal meat from the pot without getting caught. These your doors croak like frogs.”

I had laughed that day not because the joke was funny, but because of the twinkle in her eyes whenever she spoke.

She had that same twinkle now, the same mischievous smile, as she opened the door. It creaked louder than it ever had.

“What are you doing in front of the mirror, Tọbẹchukwu?” she asked affectionately.

“Do you remember Christmas in 2005?” I interrupted, staring at my reflection.

We were twelve. You gave me a promise ring. You said you would love me forever. You said we would live in a compound like Mazi Nduka’s.

She frowned. “What are you talking about? We were children. We were playing husband and wife with Nchedo and Urenna.”

“No. No. No!”

I struck the mirror.

“I have loved you ever since. How do you not see that Okwudiri ?”

Blood spilled from my arm, thick and metallic, dripping onto the floor. I punched the glass again. I hated my reflection and how pitiful I looked.

“You never looked at me!” I cried 

She stepped back. The twinkle vanished and terror replaced it. Her shoes caught my attention. They were expensive Louis Vuitton. He must have bought them. The man she was leaving me for.

“Tobe, please,” she whispered.

“Why do you look at me like I am a monster?” I replied.

“Let me get you help,” she said, trembling. “You’re bleeding.”

My hands went numb. Blood pooled around my feet.

Then I remembered the wedding invitation Mama had handed me that evening. Okwudiri’s name, written in gold cursive, beside his. Another beginning and another lie, dressed in newness. Only then did I notice her blouse. Yellow silk, clinging to her body, paired with a matching skirt.

She was sweating and crying.

I moved toward her.

She stepped back.

She turned to run.

The door suddenly felt miles away.

Was she really here?

Or just the ghost of what I remembered?

II: Okwudiri

Tọbẹchukwu had invited her to his parents’ house that evening, and she did not know how to feel about it. Ever since her wedding had been announced, she had neither seen nor spoken to him. 

Her mother had been especially wary of her movements, keeping her inside the house and fussing over how a bride should remain hidden within her father’s home, eating only fresh food so her skin and beauty would shine in preparation for the big day just two days away.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to feel?” Obianuju asked.

“I don’t see why I have to go all the way there when I’m already engaged to Azubuike,” Okwudiri replied. “You know he just came back from abroad. I can’t have him seeing me around village boys.”

Obianuju burst into laughter. “So your boyfriend Tobe is now a village boy?”

Okwudiri shot her cousin a glance while blending foundation into her face.

“He was never my boyfriend. We were just friends. He is delusional and still trapped in our childhood games. I only tolerated him. He is not my class, biko.”

They laughed.

Okwudiri threw a makeup brush at Obianuju.

Then they began to sing.

She stood up, holding a piece of paper like a bride, dancing around the room with a plastic cup as though searching for her groom. She knelt in front of Obianuju and offered the cup.

They laughed louder, imagining the ceremony.

“If there’s anything you’re good at, it’s pretending,” Obianuju teased.

“This town will know someone is getting married,” Okwudiri said proudly.

“Dr. Azubuike Nwabueze, the only son of Chief Ozoemena Nwabueze, all the way from America, is marrying me heyyyyyyy.”

“God is good my sister,” Obianuju said. “I bind every village boy that wants to pour sand into your food.”

They stepped outside, where Mama stood by the door, smiling and singing:

Nwunye anyi abiala oo…

Our bride has come.

III: Tọbẹchukwu

“Okwudiri,” I said as she walked in, the twinkle in her eyes returning as the door creaked open.

“You look well taken care of.”

She sat beside me and touched my thigh playfully.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

I smiled but said nothing. My eyes lingered on her yellow blouse, the matching skirt patterned with red roses, almost exaggerated. I cleared my throat. 

“You never loved me, but you ate all my money,” I said softly. 

The air grew tense; a silence pressed down between us. 

“Ah, ah, I’m just joking,” I added quickly, forcing a laugh as she quivered beside me. I laughed again, more loudly this time, and touched my stomach. She hit me affectionately, just as she used to when we were twelve.

Suddenly, it was 2005 again. We were playing husband and wife with her two friends, Nchedo and Urenna. Nchedo and her parents lived in Lagos but came to Nsukka every Christmas to celebrate in their sprawling white mansion. Their house had a humongous gate, with lion heads molded in enormous detail, and fences so high that my eyes would melt under the scorching sun each time I looked up, even as Mama held my hand and Papa casually strolled past the uniformed gate man. Inside the sprawling compound, tall palm trees swayed alongside masquerade trees and mango trees, shading tared roads where a fleet of cars glided, including their father’s famous white jeep, also adorned with a lion’s head. There was something about lions that clearly fascinated him. A massive lion statue rose from a water fountain, water splashing around it. I had always found it disturbing. Nchedo’s father must have hijacked our stream water into his compound, I thought. It was magical and completely theirs.

That enormous house was where we played our childhood games. Whoever I caught would be my wife. But my young eyes and heart, always sought Okwudiri. She was the one I wanted. The only one I had ever wanted. That day, she had pushed a tiny raffia ring onto my finger and said, “Nnayi, your food is ready.” The other girls had giggled so much. I had eaten imaginary food, gulped fake water, and danced with my feet, just as I had seen Papa do whenever he had eaten his fill. Okwudiri had laughed, so much, and I had never stopped loving her.

“Azubuike came back from America two days ago,” she interrupted my thoughts.

“I see,” I answered, uninterestingly detached. Azubuike, her new man was the older brother of her rich friend Nchedo. She poured more Chivita into her cup and mine. 

“Tobe, you should come around more often. Don’t be a stranger,” she said. “I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

“Is that all you see me as?” I asked sweetly. 

She touched my lap again.

“I’m just joking,” I said, wearingly, forcing a smile.

For a brief, suspended moment, we sat in silence, lost together in our final, shared memories. 

Then I noticed her body stiffen. Her lips quivered, and her voice, once clear, became muffled as she pressed her hand to her stomach. A shiver ran through her, and her eyes widened with sudden fear. I couldn’t make out her words. She pressed her hand to her stomach, her body clenching tight. My tears blinded me, yet I could not leave her eyes. Then I saw the fear flash across them again as she collapsed onto the cement floor of my parents’ parlour. I fell beside her, stretching my hands toward hers, but I could not reach. She lay still and peaceful.

“Okwudiri,” I whispered, using what little strength I had left. We will meet to part no more in another new beginning, I thought.

And then, memory of Christmas 2005 replayed itself in vivid motion: Okwudiri running toward me from behind the lion fountain in Nchedo’s father’s compound. Only this time, she was not twelve. She was herself, tall, radiant, beautiful and in a flowing white gown. For a fleeting, perfect moment, everything I had ever loved, lost, and imagined was alive again.

Okwudiri 

It is written 

IV: Okwudiri

The moment she stepped inside Tobe's parent's house, she regretted her decison to come in the first place, feeling that familiar surge of discomfort. The door groaned as she pushed it open, its old hinges creaking in a way she had always hated. Inside, the house smelled of something dead and stale, a mix of dust, old wood, and decay that made her stomach twist. Every corner reeked of neglect and years of stagnant air. She only came out of politeness. Tobe had always remembered her birthdays, brought her gifts she liked, and this was her way of returning the favor, nothing more.

She looked at him as he slid onto the couch beside her. She noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, sharp, and unnervingly fixed on her. However, he masked it properly with a smile. 

"Oh my God Obianuju! What do you mean what is wrong with Tobe? She exclaimed and snapped at her cousin that morning as she confronted her. She didn't understand how it was that Obianuju could not see the bigger picture. 

"Obi, he is just too lazy, stuck, delusional, still living here with his parents and still clinging to the past he refused to leave behind. His mates are out there making real lives for themselves,  and here he is being a woman wrapper and pretending the world hasn't moved on" She added.

She had always wondered how he could spend years scraping by, content and happy to stay in the small, creaking house of his parents, unwilling to build a life of his own. She remembered the nicknames her friends had teased him with every time they saw the both of them together. They had laughed at him, calling him “Isi Nwa Eze” for his enormous head, and “Ntutu Nwoke” for his tangled mop of hair that refused any attempt at grooming.

She saw his life up close. The mechanic shop where he spent his days, working under a boss who rarely smiled. She had touched his hands countless times, and they were rough, rusty, scarred from work and weather. The harmattan had cracked his feet, dried his skin, and the sun baked him into something hard and worn. She had known him like this for years, watched him struggle and scrape by, yet she always wanted more for herself. A better life, security and someone who could guarantee her that. That was why she had chosen Azubike.

Azubike was the older brother of Nchedo, her best friend. The day she saw him, they had just returned to their family house for the celebration of the chieftaincy title conferred on their father by the Igwe. That morning, it was as though the whole town had poured into their enormous compound. Food and expensive drinks moved from hand to hand like water. The air throbbed with music from the Oriental Brothers International Band, their voices rising above the noise of laughter and celebration. Everything screamed luxury. Chief Ozoemena Nwabueze arrived in fleets of cars, and money flew through the air in careless handfuls, settling on the ground like fallen leaves.

She sprinted to their home a day before as soon as Nchedo called to say she was in town. Nchedo was now in law school in Lagos, after graduating top of her class from a university in London. She hugged her tightly that afternoon in the familiar room where they had played dress-up as teenagers. Everything in that room was gold and flattering, and during her sleepovers she had always imagined living a life like her friend’s.

Nchedo spoke fluent Igbo as well as the white man’s tongue, and each time she switched between the two, Okwudiri was fascinated by how her whole character seemed to change with the language. That day, they had so much catching up to do. She laughed until her chest hurt when Nchedo described her London boyfriend.

“Nne oo, ndo... I should be going now before Mama starts to look for me,” she finally said, in between laughter that refused to end.

Nchedo smiled knowingly and walked her to the gate.

“It’s already evening. How time flies when you’re in good company,” she said.

That was when Okwudiri saw Azubike for the first time in a long while. He had not changed a bit. He was still the quiet, handsome, composed boy who used to look at them from the rim of his oversized glasses whenever they interrupted his reading, then return his gaze to his book, seated in their home library, ignoring them as they ran between the huge shelves, playing hide-and-seek in the wide halls of the mansion.

He stood tall and polished, towering effortlesly. Whatever these rich people ate, she thought, it always showed in their skin, posture and confidence. He stood beside his father, Chief Ozoemena Nwabueze, in the wide front yard, bearing his likeness so clearly it was impossible to mistake whose son he was.

She greeted the chief shyly. He answered warmly and asked about her parents, his gaze resting on her with careful interest, slow and thoughtful, as if committing her face to memory. Then she smiled at Azubike, who was already looking at her.

The days that followed unfolded in her favour. Delegates and kinsmen of Chief Ozoemena Nwabueze began to visit her family house, coming formally to seek her hand in marriage. Everything happened so quickly that at times it felt unreal. 

She danced with her mother that night until her legs ached, moving in circles as her mother sang.

When Nchedo and her mother visited again weeks later to speak of plans and dates, Okwudiri could hardly contain herself. Her dreams of a better life were finally taking shape. She was going to become the wife of a U.S trained medical doctor.

At last, the future had chosen her.

“You never loved me, but you ate all of my money,” Tobe said, pulling her back from her thoughts. 

His voice was soft, almost careless. Yet, her stomach turned in disgust. For a moment, she could not speak. There was brief silence between them. Then he smiled briefly and something in that smile unsettled her even more. It was not warm and did not reach his eyes.

He laughed quietly after, saying he was only joking.

That laughter frightened her the most.

She said nothing. She only nodded, her throat tight and face stiff with a disgust she tried to hide. Every part of her wanted to stand up and leave. But her body stayed where it was, heavy against the chair. 

He stood up and went into the kitchen.

She watched him go, her heart suddenly beating loudly in her chest.

He had always known Chivita was her favourite. When he returned with a box of Chivita, she managed a small smile. His eyes were still on her. They were steady and unblinking and still the same way they had been since she stepped into the house.

He sat close to her and dropped the juice on the cracked table in front of them. Then he placed two cups beside it, carefully, as though nothing had happened.

"Azubuike came back from America two days ago."

She said it casually, like it was nothing, but it wasn’t. She wanted him to hear it and understand properly that things had changed, and that her life was already facing another direction. She wanted him to understand, without her having to spell it out, that she had never been meant for him. He had never spoken his feelings aloud or given them a name, but she had always known they existed. Even so, she had never seen him as anything more than a friend. What could have possibly made him think she would ever settle for a life like his? Was it a crime to want more for herself, to choose ease over struggle and certainty over waiting? She did not think so. She had only chosen a better life.

“I see,” Tobe said.

He did not look surprised. Just quiet in that way of his that is making her uneasy, like he was holding something back. Even though it unsettled her, she held on to what she had said. The boundary had to be drawn and he needed to know his place.

She lifted the cup to sip some more after refilling both their cups. The familiar taste of Chivita turned sharp and burnt her throat. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor. Pain, betrayal, and fear hit her all at once. The full weight of what he had done hit her. The life she could have had vanished in the blink of an eye, fleeting and unreachable. He had stolen it from her.

"How cruel… how could he… how could everything come to this?" she thought.

Her final thoughts were sharp and fleeting, full of regret and disbelief. She reached out, wishing for her mother, Obianuju or anyone to save her but no one came. She tried to speak and to scream.

"Mama...."

"Papa....."

 "Obianuju....."

She looked up just in time to see him beside her, tears streaking his bloodshot face, before he too collapsed. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the cruel gleam of the ceiling light, as if the old house itself was watching and singing Tọbẹchukwu's victory.