DEFINING MY COUNTRY IN PRESENT TENSE || Fiction || Sandra Uche Delumozie

DEFINING MY COUNTRY IN PRESENT TENSE

Aku felt the dawn had broken too soon when church bells signalling a nearby Catholic Mass chimed. She checked the time on her mobile phone, stretched, and yawned before falling back asleep. Suddenly, a piercing cry echoing like a gust of wind swept the sleep from her eyes. As she rolled over in bed, the phrase “there is no peace for the wicked” occurred to her—fitting her current state. She curled up under the duvet, racking her brain for the source of the unusual noise. When the sobbing persisted, she hissed in frustration and tossed aside her duvet.

The morning breeze scattered debris against the windows, creating a whistling sound that matched the rhythm of the sobs. Aku slipped on her fancy slippers and, without hesitation, crept closer to the direction of the noise. The hallway was dark and narrow, the walls closing in around her as she stumbled along. But she kept moving, her curiosity overpowering the urge to go back for a torch.

The sounds led her to her children’s door, where she stood, nervously fiddling with her fingers. “Obika and Agbo, those two never fought,” she muttered. Peeping through the half-open door, she saw Agbo on her knees, sobbing and pleading with Obika not to die. In what seemed like a rush of blood to the head, she tried to make sense of Agbo’s distress. Obika, unfazed, stood with a stern expression, watching his sister.

“Agbo, you wan kill me?” he hurled and feigned that he uttered the words on a whim by covering his mouth. Aku pushed the door, and it creaked, swinging open. As she stepped inside, Obika’s intense gaze left her at a loss for words.

“Mama, won’t you say anything?” Obika broke the silence, sniffing at Agbo.

Aku sighed and took a seat. “Agbo, what is the matter?”

Agbo rushed over, almost tripping over herself as she clutched at Aku’s knees. Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her voice was thick with sorrow as she pleaded through her tears. “Mama, please ask Obika not to die. He’s my only sibling.”

Aku’s gaze flicked from Agbo to Obika. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked with a tone that weighed heavily on Obika.

“She… she woke up shouting, and…” his voice trailed off. He used the key word signs his nursery class teachers had taught him, but he faltered. As shame dawned on him, past moments of courage came to mind, easing his tension. Looking his mother in the eyes, he volunteered to drop out of school to support his sister, despite his love for learning. His mother echoed him in a voice hoarse with emotion, hailing him like the flautist of a king.

“Obika!” Aku’s call jolted him back to the moment. He inhaled deeply, wiped his eyes, and confronted the uncomfortable situation. “Maybe she had… she had one bad dream like that,” he stuttered, turning away. A man must preserve his dignity.

A thick silence fell over them as they struggled with their inner demons. Surmising what the issue could be, Aku opened her mouth to bring calm to the tension, but her voice sounded like a missile rebounding against her chest. Gripping her chest, she spoke in a trembling voice, “Is it the dream where your late father went out in his mask outfit and never returned, and Obika did the same?” She paused, hoping Agbo would refute the nightmare so that the tension would pass.

“Yes, Mama,” Agbo replied, hiding her face in her hands as she drooped her head. A gust of terror washed over Aku, and she sprang out of her seat, brushing past Agbo. She anguished over the fact that Agbo had the same dream for three nights in a row, and Agbo’s dreams often blurred with reality, making it difficult for her to distinguish between the two.

“Wipe your tears and begin your morning chores,” Aku finally found her voice, piecing herself together as she tried to recover from the emotional blow. She sensed that the recurring dream was an inauspicious omen, but she shelved her worry till full dawn and went back to sleep.

Agbo and Obika did not return to sleep; they sat outside discussing the rising cost of goods, anticipating the upcoming nationwide protest against bad governance and hunger. Agbo jotted down a list of essentials for the protest and then made a list of ingredients for their planned breakfast of Jollof rice.

“And there are zero tomatoes?” Obika remarked, glancing at the list.

“What do you know? A sachet tomato is on the list,” Agbo retorted, dusting the list. She sat so high her legs dangled, prompting her to scrunch down in the chair and scuffle her legs until they could brush her slippers.

“No fresh ones?” Obika asked, raising an eyebrow. Agbo patted his shoulder.

“We just can’t afford them anymore,” she said, pulling on her slippers and standing. Obika quickly joined her, cautioning, “That could lead to some kind of poor health, sis.” Agbo paused, scrutinising Obika as if he were one of her CEP program study materials. Then she giggled and asked, “Haven’t we endured enough hunger already?”

“Na wetin, make cucumber and carrot stew dey reign now. Our countrymen are finding new ways of doing things. Make we folo the moving train,” Obika said.

“No way, I refuse to accept that,” Agbo replied vehemently, turning to leave, but she paused after a few feet. “And what are you still doing there?” she asked him. “You better prepare and go to work so we will have something to eat against the compulsory Mondays’ sit-at-home.”

From the footfalls, crinkling plastic bags, and the squeaks of chairs echoing from Aku’s room, Agbo and her brother got wind of the fact that Aku was up. They sprang into their Sunday morning groove of sweeping, dusting, and arranging the house and compound.

Aku moved in and out of their sight, observing them with a sense of mild curiosity. She wandered onto the balcony, stumbled on a bucket left behind by Obika, and hissed in annoyance. Turning to depart, she heard some plinks from the tap washer dripping water due to wear and recalled she had planned to replace it. Her shoulders slumped—she couldn’t afford it—and she sighed. She grabbed the neglected bucket, rinsed it under the tap, and took some water before heading to the bathroom.

Obika shambled off the hallway, ran into her, and apologised. She warned him about his reckless attitude and requested some hot water. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“Mama, the remaining gas na for the rice Agbo will cook,” he explained. Agbo nodded in agreement.

“I understand, but this morning’s chill…” she shivered as her teeth chattered.

“Alright,” Obika said, nodding. “I know wetin to do.” He put a kettle of water on fire and, once it was warm, carried it to Aku.

“This will do.” Aku snatched the kettle from him and poured its contents into the bucket of water she was carrying.

Agbo returned from the market by the time Aku finished bathing. She had come back empty-handed, waiting outside and whispering with Obika when Aku caught them.

“What’s going on?” Aku asked. “Why aren’t you cooking yet?” She spread her hands, confused.

Agbo sighed, explaining, “Mama, the new rice price exceeds our budget. Goods prices have increased again.”

Aku’s face wrinkled into a tight frown. “It’s okay,” she said, turning away. Agbo and Obika noticed she wore two wrappers instead of her usual one, a sign that she was headed out, and questioned her destination. She informed them of her plans to consult an Afa, a seer who would help interpret Agbo’s dream.

“Until we can grasp the meaning of Agbo’s dream, Obika, steer clear of your father’s stuff and anything mask-related,” she warned, tugging on her earlobe. Obika gave a nod.

She sighed and called Agbo. “Return the money I gave you for the breakfast preparation and go to Mama Elendu’s shop for a quick errand.”

“Quick errand? Mama Elendu?” Agbo asked, staring blankly at her. Goosebumps rose on Aku’s skin, recalling the brutal scene of Mama Elendu’s return the previous Monday. The whispers that circulated that day returned to her like a prodigal child: “Unknown gunmen,” “unman gun-known,” and “ungun-known men”—phrases often confused.

Aku knew Mama Elendu’s killers weren’t truly unknown: nowadays, a person’s enemy just had to wait for them to step out on a Monday to strike, knowing that the secessionists—sometimes referred to as the “unknown gunmen”—would bear the blame. Yet she stayed silent.

Many unspoken fears burdened people, much like stuffed, padded bras. The government must recognise the widespread suffering, hunger, and disappearances plaguing the people. Daily price hikes, kidnappings, and mysterious deaths were rampant, with no consequences. The upcoming week-long protest against bad governance was crucial—something she had stressed to her children.

“Please, everyone should prepare and go to work. I just remembered that Mama Elendu has passed.” She turned to Obika. “Off you go; Agbo will bring your brunch to your worksite.”

“Brunch?” Agbo and Obika groaned in unison. Aku sighed. “An indefinite strike is looming for the lecturers. But I’m unsure what the non-teaching staff like me are waiting for. We desperately need a pay raise, yet we remain owed,” she said, snatching the cash Agbo was holding and tucking it into her wrapper. “I must go to the bank to rectify some issues before I can withdraw our last funds to pool together for the rice. You know how banks are these days; it’ll take a while.”

“Mama, what if we prepare something else?” Agbo spoke suggestively.

“What else can we make? Yam? Have you forgotten it’s considered a luxury now? Or is it spaghetti, which can’t keep the stomach full for long? We both know our funds won’t stretch to make soup and buy eba.” She untied and retied her outer wrapper. “Agbo, go and wash all the dirty clothes and stop grumbling. Obika, don’t make me repeat myself.”

Aku hadn’t seen the Afa again since returning that evening, and Agbo was busy rushing to prepare the rice. The next day was sit-at-home, and Agbo hadn’t experienced that same dream again. Two days later, Agbo and Obika engaged in enlightening the starving masses who were unknowingly lured into protesting the upcoming nationwide End Bad Governance and Hunger initiative. Aku, dressed in two wrappers, stood in the doorway, contemplating whether to visit the Afa now that Agbo’s nightmare had ceased. Agbo and Obika began peeling the cassavas they had been contracted to process; they asked her if she was headed to see the Afa. Tilting her head, she wavered for a moment, then waved them off, saying, “Yes, I’m visiting the Afa.”

Arriving at the Afa’s shrine in the remote part of the neighbourhood, Aku dropped some Naira notes into a horn-shaped gourd at the entrance before stepping inside. Though the surroundings were tidy, freshly shed feathers wafted around her as if in welcome. Various relics and colourful gourds lined the narrow, steep path leading to the shrine’s grotto. As usual, Aku whispered a prayer, covering herself with the protection of Jesus’ blood and crossing herself before removing her shoes at the threshold. Inside, she found the Afa—an older woman with long, twisted dreadlocks—sitting cross-legged. Behind her hung a large mirror among grim murals.

Upon Aku’s entry, the Afa smiled and commented on her generosity, leaving her uncertain if it was praise or sarcasm. As she hesitated, about to check how much she had given, the Afa winked and asked if she’d forgotten Lot’s wife. Aku wondered why a spiritualist like the Afa would know and allude to the scripture but didn’t enquire further. While the Afa gathered scattered cowries from the floor, tossing them in her palms and muttering incantations, she fixed her gaze on Aku.

“You’re not generous for the size of your offering, but for giving from an empty pocket,” she said, strewing the cowries in between her lap. She peered into her lap and declared, “I have found the answer you seek.” The fatty flank of her right arm brushed the empty calabash beside her, and she grabbed it and drank from it. Her cheeks bulged, and she spat water in between her legs. Aku waited for the Afa to offer her a seat, but the Afa was indifferent. She then asked if she could sit opposite the Afa.

“I don’t advise whether people should sit or not; the urgency of their situation dictates that choice,” the Afa replied, glancing around as if disturbed by something unseen. “Since you’re generous, I will share the answer you seek.” Lowering the calabash beside her, she gazed up. “Woman, what took your husband’s life?”

As Aku settled on the floor across from the Afa, she flinched at the statement, mishearing it as an accusation: “You killed your husband.”

“I didn’t kill my husband!” she retorted. The Afa chuckled, shook her head, and said, “What took your husband’s life is now threatening to take your son.”

Aku parted her lips to ask questions, but the Afa interrupted.

“Leave,” she bellowed. “Do not overstay your welcome.” Aku made to rise to her feet but hesitated. As she felt the Afa’s icy glare on her, fear overcame her, propelling her to her feet. She did not glance back until she arrived home. Obika and Agbo were still outside, peeling the cassavas when she returned. They greeted her, but she neither acknowledged them nor responded. Strong winds from a gust front blew ominously, displacing the cassava leaves. Aku stormed into the children’s room as if she were a heroine charging at some monster. Minutes later, she emerged, arms full of the placards and posters Agbo and Obika had prepared for the peaceful nationwide End Bad Government and Hunger Protest scheduled for August 1. She tossed them on the ground and stomped on them, causing Agbo and Obika to jump to their feet in shock.

“Mama, what are you doing?” Agbo asked, mouth agape.

“I’m doing what I regretted not doing four years ago when your father left for the End SARS protest and never returned.” She tore some posters. “We didn’t leave Lagos for the village after your father’s death just for you to meet the same fate here.” Silence fell. Obika bit his lower lip while Agbo rocked.

“Does my dream imply that… Obika might… face the same fate?” Agbo spluttered.

“That’s the Afa’s prophecy,” Aku replied sarcastically.

Stunned, a surge of fear overran Agbo and Obika. Silence. Obika rummaged through the placards on the ground and pulled out the green-white-green tricolour flag stashed within. He dusted off the flag and puffed on it. The white band was thick with grime, and the green stripes were dusty. Obika hissed.

“See our flag. Something wey I washed and ironed carefully.” He cocked his head with difficulty and added, “Agbo is still here, Mama. Agbo will go if I cannot go. We need someone to represent our voice. Things don hard.” Agbo grabbed the flag from him and nodded.

“He is right, Mama,” she echoed. “I’m still here.”

Aku frowned at their suggestion. “No, no, no,” she squealed, shaking her head. “Agbo doesn’t deserve to die, either.” She coasted towards them, coaxing them with gentle taps on the shoulders. “Please stay indoors that day, my children. As the saying goes, those who do not know history…” She scratched her head, struggling to remember the adage’s conclusion.

“Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it,” Agbo chimed in. “My nightmares didn’t involve me, and the Afa never mentioned me. I can go.”

“That may be because I didn’t ask the Afa about you,” Aku shot back.

“Then you’ll have to inquire from her.” Agbo took the flag and placards back inside. “That’s the only way I’ll change my mind.”

“Who do you think you’re sending on an errand? Am I your subordinate?” Aku growled. “You go to the Afa’s place yourself. You know the way. That’s the only way I’ll allow you to leave this house on that day.” Agbo peeked out the window before hastily donning the slippers she had left behind.

“I’ll go right away!” she snarled.

Aku turned to face her. “Go where? Out at this hour and in this weather? You’ll return at midnight? Don’t you know that kidnappings are rampant? People are hungry and angry. If you’re caught on the street at night, they’ll demand millions in ransom—money I don’t have, even if I had to sell myself and your brother.” Agbo let out a sigh and turned to head back inside when she spotted a girl her age walking down the street.

“Mama, isn’t that a girl like me going out now?” she pointed out. Aku frowned at the girl.

“Isn’t that Abisi, a newcomer to this area? Do you want to follow the path of someone so inexperienced?”

Obika coaxed Agbo inside, honouring their mother’s wishes, not so much as content. The next day, Agbo was up with the larks, tackling her chores before cruising up to the Afa’s shrine. The narrow, steep path that led to the grotto appeared oddly unkempt, and no fresh plumage was littering the floor as usual. Agbo treaded unsmiling; the austere air around the shrine demanded it. Aside from the occasional chirping of rare birds, the shrine had always been serene; however, the eerie silence today felt oppressive, issuing an unsettling chill. The shrine and its surroundings had this dreadful aura that sent chills down one’s spine, and it was unusual to sense it lacking in this aura today. There were no horn-shaped calabashes or gourds at the entrance to drop money. Upon stepping inside the grotto, Agbo found nothing of the Afa—only a distressed teenage girl aimlessly wandering.

“Where is the Afa?” Agbo couldn’t help but ask.

“They kidnapped my aunt,” the girl replied.

“So sorry, dear. But I’m referring to the Afa who stays here, not your aunt.”

“They have kidnapped my aunt,” she repeated. “She is the Afa.”

“They kidnapped the Afa?” Agbo exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. The girl nodded affirmatively and added, “They’re asking the gods for three hundred million.”

Agbo turned away, suppressing a chuckle. As she walked home, she reflected on her lucid dream, where she informed Obika and Aku that the gods’ eyes had been plugged.

Sandra Uche Delumozie is a Nigerian writer, poet, and educator whose work explores themes of identity, resilience, and human connection. A graduate of English and Education from Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. She has been published in Kalahari Review, Afrihill Press, Illino Media, Storyhouse, Artingarena Magazine, and other literary platforms. Sandra was longlisted for the Quramo Writers’ Prize in 2024, and her writing has appeared in the NSPP Anthology as well as several other notable collections. She is passionate about storytelling that interrogates culture, emotion, and personal truth.