Memory Lane…
I’m standing in my Kitchen, crying and playing Mercy Chinwo’s ‘obinasom’. These are not tears of sadness. They are tears of recognition. I recognize the hand of fate. Igbo people say ‘chi onye na-akwara ya uzo’. If you’ve lived a life of grace even when you have no idea of the concept, you’ll understand my story.
I wonder how many times my parents cried while raising my brother and me. Every time I come close to understanding their struggles, I cry so much. It’s easy to think the older generation was clueless. My parents are people who with much less information and opportunities than I had tried to dig themselves out of very difficult situations.
I was born with a silver spoon. My parents nicknamed me ‘nwanyi ukwu’. We were the typical middle-class family living in a nice flat while owning properties and building the perfect house to move into. I remember the flat. We had pastel green walls, white lace curtains and white protectors. Potted Plants dotted our veranda.
In the afternoons, our veranda served as a lookout for kids being dropped off from school and in the evening, it was an informal gathering spot for the aunties. Aunty Chizo (May her soul RIP) favoured Ugba with beef and Guinness Stout. The way my mother cooked beef, the meat was tender on the inside and chewy on the outside. You could chew and suck the juice and it will still be tasty. My mother loved to cook and entertain.
We enjoyed the gathering of the aunties. I was not old enough to understand what they gathered for. For me, the kids got to hang around so it meant company to me. Life was good I guess. Weekends were spent at Concorde Hotel and Snacks came from Unit 1. My parents were in their thirties.
My mother ‘retired’ early but it was very short-lived. Good fortune is no one’s relative. Sometimes it moves around. It chose a tough time to move out of our home.
