ECHOES

Emeka leaned gently on the couch. It seemed the world was becoming an envelope of silence. His conversation with Agbomma has encountered some fifteen to twenty minutes of quietude. His mind roamed for a while and quickly drifted to the events of that fateful Sunday. “It’s already two years…..; how fast time runs….”, he reasoned. 

 

At first, the hospital environment was so dreadful that he felt there was no possibility of life for him after the first three days. How he made it alive till date remains a mystery to him, though he knew deeply, his story owes more than he could possibly repay to Agbomma.

His gaze strayed towards Agbomma whose steadfast attention to the washing of those Hospital cloths never allowed her notice she had been stared at for a considerable time. Convinced beyond doubts that Agbomma’s preoccupation with the present task made no provisions for conversation, his mind delved further into wondering. He remembered his life’s journey with Agbomma as a bosom friend. Their resolute academic efforts that saw them through WASCE, JAMB, post UTME and ultimate admission into the same department in one of Nigeria’s best universities. He thought about heir irrevocable vow to make Nigeria proud to the best of their ability. “Now Mma--his short form for Agbomma- has gone ahead, at least by two years,” he admitted.

 

His optimism received another boost recently from the words of Doctor Ken that come this time the following year; he “will be up on his feet without the help of clutches or humans”.

 

He took a glance at himself and wondered how the very chubby Emeka has paled into nearly a bag of bones.

 

The damage on his right leg has continued to show signs of healing progress even though, till now, he could not by any stretch of imagination, understand how a fellow human could make such a young boy pass through episodes of pain for such a long period of time.
His face became burdened and he tried to force back tears in order to avert a third admonition for the day from Mma and to save her that tormenting sequence of tear-shedding and subsequent emotional breakdown. Pictures of the unfortunate situations of that fateful Sunday have completely seized his mind now—the teeming congregation of Christians who came to worship God, the echoing exclamation from that Barbarian which was immediately followed by a blinding flash and deafening sound, the blurred images of children, teenagers, fathers and mothers soaked in pools of blood and his waking up in the hospital the following day with a severely damaged right leg. He remained grateful to Heavens for the efforts of those unknown Nigerians who pulled him out of the rubbles and ensured his admission into the hospital. How helpless his life must have been at the mercy of severe loss of blood after he passed out within the first few moment of the attack was totally outside the scope of his imagination. The major source of goose bumps that spread all over him was mental pictures of those lifeless children who never had the opportunity of another breath immediately the church was attacked. “What offence could those innocent young have committed to be paid back with death in the most gruesome manner?” he imagined.

 

It did not take more than four Sundays for Emeka to fully understand the country’s deep plunge into the den of insecurity. All the free hospital beds have been occupied by victims of subsequent blasts, most victims battling with conditions that grossly humiliate life. 

 

 

 

The signs are everywhere.  A deadly sect is on rampage, the nation has been held to ransom, cities have turned to bloody stages with fatalities climbing to five figures, hospitals are saturated with victims, church activities and social gatherings remain under lock and key, national events have been moved to the inner chambers and carried out in hushed tones. The roads have become death zones, the airspace loaded with ammunition, media houses turned target points, telecommunication companies counting losses to damaged facilities,  barracks have gone into hiding, NGO’s and multinationals battling with rubbles and Sundays turned days of nightmares. 

 

He wondered how long it will take for situations to get back to normal. Reluctantly, his hand groped for “ON” button the small transistor radio that Mma brought on her first visit to the hospital.

A chilly news headline forced him back to full consciousness. He could not fathom the rationale behind a government proposed dialog with a group that has brought the country to her knees and severely battered her image to the outside world. “What has happened to the repeated promises of bringing the culprits to book?” he shook his head in disapproval.

A feeling of rejection was beginning to overwhelm him; he searched for Mma for a possible conversation to bridge impending tears that have got his eyes laden. But Mma was already on her way to buy food for lunch.  In a desperate desire to overcome tears, he reached for his little book of poems, a collection he has written within his period in the hospital. Randomly, he flipped to the page of the 17^th poem of his book. The title was Echoes, written on one of those horrible days after listening to the screams of a primary four victim of the same merchants of death while receiving treatments on her wounds. Silently, he recited:

 

          Echoes
 

The night stretches

The day so lonely

In pains she groans again

Could someone hear her

 

With love she loved you

With trust she embraced you

Who has stained her with tears

Oh, pains of innocence

 

Hatred gained furry

Bitterness acquired violence

Poverty roars high

Who tames the wild

 

A Sunday like any other

Devil’s weapon unleashed on mortals

Humans ripped to shreds

Oh, innocent children in a pool

 

Who consoles the bereaved

Who heals the broken-hearted

Who speaks for the voiceless

Heavens, to thee we beseech

 

She believed in the promise

She devoted her childhood

In the same country she gave her best

She reels, half-alive, wrapped in scars

 

Recitation of “Echoes” offered less help than anticipated as sultry tears of despair came streaming down his cheeks.  In a blurred vision of tears-soaked eyes, he noticed Mma’s presence within close range. His attempts at pretence fell flat. Mma clearly witnessed the entire event and unavoidably, mutual repeat of those discomforting episodes bounced back.

 

Exit of the brief period of distressing episode gave birth to fresh mutual agreement; first, a mutual agreement on the selection of any poem to be recited at any time or an outright replacement of the book poems with his collection of his short stories.

Second, that copy of his JAMB Admission Letter which he pleaded to be brought to his hospital bed should be taken out of sight as that has tuned to agent of tears lately.

 

They made the best out of their lunch and immediately Emeka got himself immersed into writing a fresh Short Story.  This time, he sailed on his fervent hopes in Nigeria’s future. Mma scanned through the first few lines of the write-up, a full-scale imagination of what the country is missing with the likes of Emeka in dire conditions overwhelmed her. She was in perfect agreement with Emeka’s viewpoints but noted that, with such enterprising, young Nigerians minds forced into hospital beds, progress of the country is, but delayed.

©Ray EKE.