This is the third part of a four-part series. Links to the previous parts are at the end of the story.
Content Warning: This story contains descriptions of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and familial violence. Please read with care.
Soon after all that drama, it was time for me to write my JAMB exams and that season brought its own changes.
My exam centre was in a village far from the city, so I had to move in with the woman I mentioned before. Justin’s colleague, the Matron, remember? From April to August, her place became my temporary home.
It was during that time that I had a dream I will never forget.
In the dream, I saw my mother dressed in white, crying alone in a forest. She was sitting by a path used by people coming from the market and the stream. I was on that path, too, coming back from the stream with a bucket of water on my head and another bucket full of washed clothes in my hand.
Some friends walking with me pointed out my mother and urged me to find out why she was crying. I told them my mom and I did not have that kind of relationship, but they kept pushing so I gave in.
I set my bucket down and went to her. She refused to say a word about what was wrong. After a while, I picked up my buckets and left her there, still crying.
When I woke up, I could not shake the feeling. My dreams have always meant something to me and I do not brush them aside. So I wrote a letter, gave it to the woman I was staying with, and asked her to deliver it to my brother when she got to work.
She travelled to the city every day because her own mother was sick, so she agreed. In my letter, I told my brother about the dream and asked him to check on our mother.
I never got a reply. All the woman told me later was, “Your brother said he is traveling. When he gets back, you can come home.”
A visit that was supposed to last two weeks stretched into months. Whenever I asked Mrs. Chibuzor, the Matron, about it, she said my brother was fine with me staying with her.
By July, suspicion began to grow in my mind. I knew something was wrong. As a child who got beaten for the smallest things, I thought maybe this was another test to see if I had enough sense to know when to come back home.
So on the 2nd of August, I decided to leave. Mrs. Chibuzor left for work around 5 a.m. and by 10 a.m. I was gone. Her children tried to convince me to stay, but I did not listen.
When I got home and rang the bell, Pascal answered through the intercom. The moment I heard his voice, I knew I had made a mistake. He opened the gate, ignored my greeting and walked away.
I went to my room and found my mom sitting on the floor, leaning against a chair, dressed in white just like in my dream. My heart sank.
I asked her what was wrong. She looked up at me and said, “Your dad has passed.” I sat on the bed, stunned, and asked when it happened. “In April,” she said. “We already buried him.”
I was in shock. No one told me. I asked who performed the Ada duties, the rites every first daughter from Asaba must do. She said they got someone else to do it so they would not disturb my exams. These were exams I had already finished by the second week of April.
What she said next broke me even more. She told me, “Go to your brother and tell him you heard what happened. He should accept your condolences.”
I stood there, confused. My condolence for our father? When I questioned it, she slapped me and ordered me to do as she said. At that moment, I wished I had the courage to run back to Mrs Chibuzor’s house, that I never left in the first place, but there was no going back.
I found Pascal and did as I was told, but he looked at me in disgust and said, “Get out of my sight. Looking at you makes me lose my appetite.” Then he pushed his plate of egusi and eba away.
I went back to my room and waited for Justin to come back from work. When I heard his car, I ran to open the door. I could see the shock on his face, maybe even disappointment, but he hid it well.
He asked why I had come back. I lied and said I was tired of staying at someone else’s house. The truth was I wanted to prove that if this was a test, I had passed.
That night after dinner he called me into the sitting room and told me I would be traveling with him to Lagos the next morning. He listed the things I should pack. I was relieved. Anything to leave my mother and her first son alone together.
Before we left, my mother still insisted that I give Justin my condolences. So I said, “Brother Justin, I am sorry about the death of our dad. Please accept my condolences.” He just said, “Thank you. I appreciate it. Go and pack your things. We leave by six.”
By 6 a.m. we were at the park. He went to drop a notice at work about his sudden trip then we headed to Lagos and checked into Stadium Hotel. That evening he left around 8 p.m. and came back by 11 p.m.
The next morning he said we would visit some of his friends. I was glad. Anything was better than staying in that house.
We got breakfast, visited the famous Yaba Stadium and then went to see his friends. The women there welcomed us warmly and asked us to sit in the living room.
I could not help but notice the calabashes hanging on the walls. They made me uneasy. When I asked about them Justin said they were just decoration.
A man came in and spoke with Justin in Yoruba. Then he turned to me and said, “Your brother brought you here because you are a witch and you killed his dad.”
I did not hear anything else, just “his dad.” I asked, “His dad? Or our dad?” The man paused, spoke to Justin in Yoruba again, then said, “Sorry, I meant your dad.”
So now that the “dad” mix-up was clear, I remembered what he called me, a witch. I turned to Justin but he just said, “See, I am doing this for your good. Just do what the man says or I will abandon you here in Lagos and go back to the East.”
Abandon me in a strange city? I was crushed. I asked how I could be a witch. The man said it was because I killed our father. Just a day after my brother got my letter about the dream our father died. Poor me. Trying to care landed me in this nightmare.
He asked if I ever saw myself in gatherings in my dreams, eating things cooked with palm oil, beans or yam, and if I had, then I had been eating human flesh (yam) and drinking human blood (the oil).
He asked if I ever turned into a fish or flew at night, and a couple of other outrageous questions. I told him no, but it wasn’t enough for him. He said I could be doing these things without knowing.
A part of me wished I did all those things. Maybe then, they would have had a reason to treat me like this. But the kindness in me would not allow it.
Maybe my grandfather saw far ahead when he named me Omeogo. I never got to ask if he meant Omeogowebia (oh-meh-oh-goh-weh-bee-ah), which means “you were kind enough to come,” or Ome Ọgụ (oh-meh oh-goo), which means “the one who acts with kindness.” Either way, kindness has always shaped my life, for better or worse, because I don’t see any reason why these people are still in my life till date.
Back to that moment. They gave me cuts on my chest, back, arms, face and legs. They made me bathe naked in front of the babalawo who rubbed black powder on the wounds and gave us black soap and palm kernel oil mixed with strange herbs.
I prayed. I called on Mary, the Mother of Jesus. I recited the Litany and the Rosary. I called on the God of the Catholic Church, even though, at the time, I had already left for Winners Chapel. I spoke in tongues, sang every hymn I knew and whispered every Psalm I could remember.
But that day, it felt like God had left me alone.
To be continued…
This is the third part of this story. Read Part One and Part Two to keep up. Part Four continues here (link when ready). Stay tuned!
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