APC, PDP Bicker Over Anti-gay Law As Italian Based Activist Urges FG To Reverse Anti-gay Law.

The issue of gay right is now a topic in Nigeria’s forth coming general elections following allegations by President Goodluck Jonathan of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) and his supporters against his main challenger, Gen. Muhammadu Buhari of the All Progressives Congress (APC) who he claimed assured western nations of his preparedness to support same sex marriage if he wins the elections on March 28. President Jonathan, who spoke through his campaign organization, said General Buhari made the pledge to secure the support of the western countries to win the election. Spokesperson of the President Goodluck Jonathan campaign organization, Mr. Femi Fani Kayode, said four western countries extracted a commitment from Gen. Buhari to support a legislation enabling same sex marriage. Amid the flurry of apparently election fuelled allegations, the gay support claim by the Jonathan camp seemed the most serious. Still, Fani Kayode, reputed for making unsubstantiated allegations against political opponents, refused to give the names of the four countries he was referring to. Gen. Buhari, seen by his supporters as a a no-nonsense former military leader, whose brief administration in 1980s waged campaigns against indiscipline and corruption, has not given any hint suggesting he would condone same-sex relationship already out-lawed in Nigeria. In a related development, a Nigerian born gay activist who had to leave the country following stringent anti-gay laws in Nigeria has called on the federal government to revisit and reverse their policy on Lesbians, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) people in the country. Emmanuel King Oduh, a 31-year old native of Isselu Uku in Delta State said due to what he described as the harsh legislatures against same-sex relationships in Nigeria, he had to flee for his life and as well as discontinue his education due to the stigmatization he was getting from both his family and society. “I left Nigeria due to my homosexual tendencies, which, as is well known, can not be publicly manifested in Nigeria,” he said. The federal government had in January 2014 signed into law a bill that criminalises same-sex relationships even against pressure from western countries. The Act stipulates penalties of up to 14 years in prison and bans gay marriages which it describes as amorous relationships as well as categorizing it as illegal any membership of gay rights groups or any kind of support that will promote LGBT activities in the country forcing so many gay people who have been living in underground existence to either leave the country or remain in the closet. Before the law was signed into law, homosexual activities or sodomy was punishable by jail term but the new law now gives a maximum sentence of 14 years, a development that faced strong criticisms from western countries as well as renowned Nigerian authors like award winning Chimamanda Adichie calling the law “un-African and goes against the values of tolerance and live and let live that are part of many African cultures.” Speaking to National Daily from Italy where he now resides, Oduh said that though he knew he was attracted to persons of same sex while he was a kid, he did not engage in any homosexaul relationship until he was admitted to study at Kaduna Polytechnic in Kaduna State where a man that helped him secure admission introduced him to active same sex relationship.

In 2005, I went to visit my brother in Kaduna from Lagos State where I grew up because I wanted to enrol into the Kaduna Polytechnic at that time. I was 21 then and my brother introduced me to his friend who promised to facilitate my enrolment. Along the line, he made advances at me and we started a sexual relationship. From then on, Evans, started introducing me to other gay individuals and at a point I slept with a high ranking lecturer in the institution who promised to make sure I secured the admission. My relationship with Evans lasted till 2006 when he left for the United States and by then, I had become familiar with so many people within the homosexual communities. When I finished my Diploma program, I returned to Lagos ,” he said. He continued: “I continued having relationships with several partners until some people in my area at Ikeja, Lagos noticed that I was always in the midst of gay individuals and informed my family. The stigmatization I got was hell and was beaten, scolded and at times beaten up by my family members. I had to get some work and remained behind the closet though I secretly met my partners,” he said. But with the new law passed in 2014, Oduh knew he needed to be careful as he was already a known homosexual in the area and with activities of a militant group, the Odua Peoples Congress (OPC), which had in the past administered jungle justice to some persons who committed crimes as minor as stealing being burnt to death, they made it clear to him that he was a target. “I decided to leave Nigeria at that point and left after my friend who I met online helped arrange papers for me to join him in Europe. I have since been advocating for gays rights in Nigeria and pleading with the Nigeria government to reverse the harsh laws on people like us. Imagine the number of Nigerians that are going into exile from their country just because of their secual preferences. Right now, I have seeking to remain in Italy and cannot come back home because of the situation. I hope that they will have a rethink and allow LGBT persons to come back home and help in the rebuilding of our country,” he said.

Strength of a Woman

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?" “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I have never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime. Excerpts from the novel, A Season of the Sun by Ahaoma Kanu to be published by AuthorHouse (USA)

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?" “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I have never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime.

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?" “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I have never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime.

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?" “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I’ve never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime.

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?” “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I’ve never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime.

The breeze was just as I always loved it and the road had improved a bit, compared to the last time I plied it. As I stole a glance at Nneka, I noticed a little sweat had formed on her forehead as she sat dosing beside me. Then, I suddenly realised how selfish I was to be enjoying the highway breeze, and depriving my children the chill of the car air conditioner. In that instance, I rolled up the windows and turned the air conditioning on. A peep at my rear mirror revealed Somtoo, Chukwuma and Ebere, my house help, ensconced in dreamland. I always wondered how children could sleep peacefully even in noisy environments. Waving that thought aside, I pushed in a Don Moen worship CD to flavour their rest and sang along... ''Heal me Oh Lord and I will be healed Save me and I will be saved....'' The song brought back memories of pain, loss and fear, though it also made me smile at how I had been healed. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by my cell phone, and I reached to adjust the phone on the car phone kit, checking the screen. The ever-smiling face of George flashed on. I would never stop being surprised and thrilled by technology. “Hello Honey,” I answered, my headset hanging on fine. ‘‘Hi Dear. Did I spoil anything?” George asked. “No.” “Where are you at the moment?” he went on. “Almost home, I'll be there in an hour or less.” “Have you gotten to the Abia Tower yet?” “No, I guess it’s still some couple of kilometres away.” “Are they sleeping?” He quipped, sounding concerned. “Sure. Why?” I asked deliberately. “I haven't heard anybody ask you who’s calling,” he replied with a burst of laughter, “and I can hear some kind of ‘jazz music’ in the background.” “They are all sleeping very peacefully,” I said again. “I'll be through by the 28th and will leave Abuja the next day. I figure I will be home by Sunday morning”, George explained. He always made a point of giving me a detailed description of his schedules. “That would be nice; the kids would love to start the New Year and new millennium with their Daddy around. You know you’ve already spoilt the Christmas,” I accused him playfully. “Honey, you were supposed to be my mouth,” he retorted, sounding hurt. “Calm down boy, I did explain. They do miss you though,” I related. “I'll make up for the Christmas,” he promised. “Better do,” I warned. “I'll call you later; I know you’re not concentrating on your driving as we’re talking. Rather, call me when you get home.” “Okay,” I replied. “My regards to my in-laws.” “Alright dear, bye,” I replied, a slight flush of pleasure forming on my cheeks. “See you. I love you,” George finished. “Love you too,” I replied, smiling. And I truly did. George is my husband, my pillar, my strength and my best friend. Nobody could equal what he is to me. Just listening to his voice is enough to make an ordinary day special. I’m always proud to have him as a husband. With thoughts of him on my mind, I stepped on the accelerator and sped to my destination. *** *** **** **** **** My arrival at the village was accomplished after an awful two hours, no thanks to the many illegal checkpoints mounted on the way by the Police. These so-called officials would stop at nothing to extort money from innocent motorists, asking questions ranging from motorists’ vehicle particulars to where they bought their wristwatches. Even having a complete set of particulars for one’s car does not guarantee that an individual will not part with some money, popularly referred to as Roja. Some of these law enforcement agents sometimes go as far as inventing imaginary car particulars just to find their ‘victim’ wanting, after which money would be demanded as penalty. I had my share of delay owing to such bottlenecks, but we finally got to the village in peace. The children were awake as we passed the Abia Tower, with the words “'WELCOME TO GOD'S OWN STATE” boldly inscribed on the monument. “Mummy, will you take us to the War Museum?” Nneka asked. At six years old, she is my youngest child and my only daughter and always anxious to squeeze out every detail of the stories her siblings told her. “I will, Darling,” I replied. “Let us go to the Ojukwu Bunker. I heard it’s more fun than the museum,” Somtoo said from the back. He is the eldest child and, at the young age of 10, he was already the almighty decision maker of the three. “No, I want to go to the museum,” Nneka cried. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she gazed at me hopefully, knowing that I would certainly be on her side. “We went there last year! Let’s go to the Bunker.” This time it was Chukwuma, the second of the three and by far the most reasonable. “Mummy, I want the Museum. Somtoo and Chukwuma talk about it always because I’ve never been there. I want the museum.” By now she was crying and I knew it was time to help her out. “Don't cry sweetheart, I will take you to the museum. Maybe Uncle Okechukwu will take the boys to the Bunker.” That settled the matter and peace reigned again in the car, but not for long. “Yes, we will go to the Bunker, look at Ojukwu’s pictures and see his bedroom.” It was Somtoo again, trying to make the Bunker sound more appealing so Nneka could change her mind. “Daddy called today,” I announced, deliberately side tracking Somtoo's strategic plot. “When is Daddy coming to Grandma's village?” Nneka asked, now very excited. “He promised to be home on Sunday,” I replied, relieved that the topic had shifted from the museum and bunker to Daddy. “Why wouldn't Daddy be home on Christmas day, Mummy?” Chukwuma asked. A tricky question this was. If I handled it wrongly, I knew I would be facing a barrage of questions from every direction in a minute. “Daddy has a lot of work to do, so he tries as much as possible to finish all of them before he comes home,” I explained, wishing they would accept the explanation. “Christmas and Boxing days are public holidays. Daddy should not be working on public holidays,” Chukwuma said matter-of-factly. As he was the most reasonable and sensitive of the children, it was his job to let me know when I was arguing ineffectively. I knew his probing would continue if I did not give him a more solid reason for his father's absence. “Yes, you are correct my dear. But Daddy wants to finish all the work so he can have more time to stay with us next year. That is why he works on these public holidays,” I finished. “Will he take us to the park when he gets home?” It was Somtoo this time; he seemed to be thrilled with outings and events. On matters like this, he was less of a problem compared to his brother. “Yeah he will,” I replied, letting out a sigh of relief that the session on Daddy was over. “Doctor is back, Doctor is back!” someone shouted as I parked in front of the compound. The next few minutes saw people trooping in to welcome us. I felt proud to be home. They came in different ages, sex and sizes; the old, the young and the children. They all came to welcome us home. “Dokita, how you dey?” “How is our husband?” “Nwa mu, kedu ka imee?” “Look at how big Somtoo has grown to be. Doctor, what are you feeding these children?” The questions came pouring in; not that they needed answers. That was just their way of expressing happiness in welcoming one of their illustrious daughters. I tried as much as possible to greet all of them. I hugged some of the elderly women and bowed a bit to the older men as I held their hands. As the kids gathered, I instructed Ebere to share two loaves of bread among them. For them it was such a rewarding gift and they seemed very happy to receive it. Then I heard Nneka crying as one of the old women carried her up and made to kiss her. Poor girl, she was not used to the crowd and was ignorant of their affectionate gestures. Somtoo got busy, pointing out those to be given their chunk of the bread, while Ebere obeyed dutifully. Chukwuma just watched the proceedings, with his hands in his pockets; watching him, I could not just predict what he would be when he grew up. “Aunty Ngozi, welcome!” It was Oluchukwu, one of my cousins who helped my mother out in the village. “How are you Oly?” I called her by her pet name. She was about 15 and I noticed she now wore makeup. “I am fine, Aunty”, she replied. “Where is Mama?” I asked her. I knew my mother was not around the moment the first person called out my name and she did not make an appearance. She had this special way of welcoming me in style each time I came to the village; I would have had to watch her display some dance steps before hugging me. To be sincere, I missed that welcome at that particular moment. Only the two of us understood the history and significance of that welcome. “She went to the farm to harvest coco yams,” Oluchukwu said, breaking into my thoughts, “She should be on her way back by now.” I wanted to ask her why she didn’t accompany Mama to the farm but could see the answer on her face and the tight jeans she wore. Evidently, she was beginning to feel like a big Chick and big Chicks don't go to the farm. “Please come and help us take our luggage into the house,” I said to her before going inside the compound. Our compound was a big one. The main building stood at the centre and it housed everybody in my extended family. The hut was at a corner to the left. It still puzzles me why old folks still prefer such huts to the comfort of modern living houses. I had insisted on pulling it down when the construction was going on, but my mother vehemently refused. Her reason was that it was the meeting point of our ancestors. The yam barn and goat pen were at the back of the thatched hut while the rest of the land was converted to a vegetable garden, with tall palm trees adorning the background. A little to the right, not very far from the barn, situated the graves of my father, my eldest brother and my first child. I strolled casually to the backyard, which was my favourite part of the house, and felt the gentle tropical breeze caressing my face and lifting my skirt a bit. I could hear the birds singing along with the whistling of the palm trees. Carefully, I examined the tree of my dead child; there was this traditional practice in my village of planting a fruit tree with the soil dug from the grave of departed ones. I was told that it was a mark of continuous remembrance for the dead and it was believed that they protected us through the fruits of the tree. I planted a mango tree for my dead child. When I looked up at that moment, I saw three ripe mangoes up there. It was as if my folks left the fruits for me. I examined the other surrounding trees and caught a glimpse of a squirrel doing some acrobatics up a palm tree. I laughed. These animals are very sensitive, they know when there is peace and when there was war. As I stood transfixed at that sight, flood of memories played through my mind: the good old days, the ugly months of war and the hard days that followed the inglorious surrender. I muttered a Rosary. I knew my being alive was an act of grace from God and intercessions of the Blessed Mary. How can I tell the story of a young child, who saw her father die, witnessed the mob execution of her brother and sister-in-law, watched the malicious murders of hundreds of her ethnic people and was raped on end? I couldn’t imagine how I went through those experiences. So I’ve kept on dismissing those dark days of my life as nightmares. However, as much as I’ve tried to pretend, the scars still hurt and the tears still flow... It’s just that the anger is no longer there. I overcame that a long time ago. Staring at the graves brought back old memories. I could see the sunset in the evening; I could still hear the cockcrow at dawn and smell the smoke. I still remember the faces of those soldiers who defiled me, with the blue sky at the background. It was an experience I would not wish my worst enemy. I’ve never revealed this part of my life to anybody, not even to my husband or children. But now I know it is time I told the story of how I passed through that period of agonizing trial and came out victorious – the story of how an unfortunate refugee became an outstanding doctor. I believe my story would be a source of hope and strength to somebody, somewhere, sometime.