A person is what she DOES, rather than what she SAYS.
To know the real intent of a man’s heart, match the words to the man’ — Paulina Inyang-Simon (my late grandmother)
Six years (or thereabout) after my sojourn to Lagos, my uncle’s wife took me back to the village.
On Aunty’s command, it was towards my grandmother’s home instead of my parents’ that the taxi that picked us up from the motor park made its way.
By this time, words of how her nephew’s wife had treated me had gotten back to her, and my mother — who was said to be ‘very angry’ and waiting for Aunty to show up. But Aunty was nothing if not a master at self-preservation. And so instead of taking me to my father’s village where my mother was, she’d decided to take me to my grandmother village — which, incidentally, was also where she comes from.
Nne was not available when we arrived. Aunty did not ask to see another adult. Neither did she leave a message for my grandmother. Instead, she’d deposited me outside the house. ‘Left the child outside like ntak-ofong (rag)’, my grandmother growled when she got back.
It is our community’s custom for a guest, or anyone returning from a journey, to bring a gift to the mother of the home — or some snacks to be shared amongst the children of that home. These gifts are commonly called ‘mkpo uyong udua,’ — literally meaning the things from the market. This custom is so time-honoured that even if it is as mundane as a return from the village-square market (or the backyard market as it’s also commonly called), the returnee is expected to bring along mkpo uyong udua. This could be as ordinary as a packet of biscuits, some groundnut, a loaf of bread, or fried bean cake — akara. I remember my grandmother saying that Aunty had so little respect for our part of the family and considered us so insignificant that she hadn’t even bothered to bring along mkpo uyong udua for my younger siblings, or a ‘simple headscarf’ for my mother, whose child had served her free of charge for so many years. ‘I am glad my poor sister didn’t live to see what her son married,’ my grandmother had muttered as she led me into the house.
Aunty's unceremonial ‘dumping’ of me outside my grandmother’s home was soon to be the least of Nne’s problems. As she later recounted, she knew something wasn’t quite right the moment she saw me. It was evident that I wasn’t the same child that had left some years back. I had way too many scars on my face and body for a start, she said.
