them that his mother had died.
My father mimicked each animal saying ‘sorry’ to Tortoise.
Every day, Tortoise would bring out the rope from where he had hidden it, and climb up to the sky to give his mother some food to eat. One day, Fox noticed that Tortoise was always going out with some food. He became suspicious and followed sneakily behind him. He watched Tortoise climbing up to the sky.
When Tortoise finished feeding his mother, on his way down, he saw the other animals gathered at the bottom of the rope, waiting for him. In panic, he started climbing back up. The animals noticed that he was trying to escape and started pulling the rope. They pulled so hard that the rope broke and Tortoise crashed to the ground.
‘Tortoise landed on his back,’ my father concluded. ‘Till today, his shell is still cracked in several places.’
The scene faded. Another took its place.
I was having breakfast with my parents. My father went to check who was thumping our front door so loudly on a Saturday morning, like a landlord being owed a year’s rent. Five of his sisters poured in, each of whom aspired to a higher standard of obesity than the previous one. As soon as they were seated and all the pleasantries over, the eldest sister began.
‘Pauly, we’re very unhappy with the way things are. How can we come into our eldest brother’s house, and instead of the noise of children running about the place, everywhere is so quiet?’
My father did not respond. The second eldest sister took over.
‘Like Ada was saying, we’re very worried. You’re not getting any younger. You don’t have to wait until all your hairs have turned grey and all your teeth have fallen out before you decide to do something about the situation.’
She handed the baton back to Aunty Ada.
‘Pauly, we understand that you’re busy with your job at the Ministry. You might not have the time to sort things out for yourself, so we’ve decided to help. We’ve found two girls in the village that you can choose from. They are chubby and have very strong bodies. We want you to come down to the village with us and have a look at them so that you can decide which one to choose.’
My mother received the pronunciamento with silence. A woman who could not produce children deserved whatever treatment she received from her in-laws. So far, her only saving grace had been that my father was standing firmly by her. My father, on the other hand, reacted with ferocity. He slammed a fist on his knee, sprang up from his chair, and clenched his teeth till the two white rows almost merged into one thin, white line.
‘I’ve heard what you people have to say,’ he said. ‘Now would you please get up and leave my house.’
He spoke in a low voice that still managed to startle everybody. But Aunty Ada recovered quickly. She jumped out of her chair, stationed her hands on her waist, and poked her face into his nose.
‘Paulinus!’ she barked. ‘It’s not today you started allowing this, your education, to confuse you. No matter what, every man needs children to carry his name. Every man! God forbid, but what if something was to happen to Kingsley? That means your name vanish forever. Is that what you want?’
My father roared like King Kong.
‘Leave my house right now! All of you . . . get up and leave! Get up and leave! Now!’
Another scene.
I had accompanied my father to inspect the work-in-progress on our village house. The workmen were laying the foundation. Towards evening, he took me on a stroll down the dusty village path. It was the same route he had trekked daily to the mission primary school as a child - barefooted because, back then, children were not allowed to wear shoes.
‘This tree is called Orji,’ he said, pointing at a tall one with a mighty trunk. ‘That’s from where we get our kola nuts. This one is Ahaba. It makes the best firewood. This one is called Udara.’ He smiled. ‘Whenever it was udara season, I and my friends used to wake up much earlier than usual so that we could pick the ripe fruits that had fallen to the ground at night, on our way to school. We always had to wait for the fruits to fall by themselves because they are never sweet when you pluck them.’
Soon, it was time for us to go home. I was