Till Tomorrow

Abideen David Amodu

It was a night of breeze and bliss as the cold air injected us traumatically. We quietly shivered in the hands of the cold night. The oil lamp was lit and warmed us. We took to talking about those years before my parents took a gourd of wine to their house. The moon came out this time to show its beauty, but we didn’t gather to see it in one of our clansmen’s compounds. We usually gather, not because we couldn’t see it from our individual compounds but because such gatherings are an extension of already-created and existing bonds. Our peaceful gatherings bring us closer to ourselves than our hearts. Big and round, it stood in the centre of the sky. The only mud bed in our hut received the two of us and held us close. The oil lamp was burning like it would not go out, but we were sure it wouldn’t last till morning. And sure enough, it did not.

Paou! Paou!! The sounds were going off continuously. Had the gods gone angry? Has somebody angered Amadioha? But this was not the sound of his rage. Unlike usual, the seemingly endless lightning bolts did not precede it. My wife, Ezima, had begun to quiver in fear. I fell with a heavy thud on my portion of the bed from my wife’s bosom after having ferociously enjoyed the night before. She smiled and hit my sweaty chest playfully while we both chuckled like newborns. Such plays were not rare among newlyweds, and we were not an exception. It was cold, but the heat of this feeling consumed us and caused the heat we felt in the cold weather. The oil lamp stood on the bare floor, looking at us as if Aladdin was about to appear. If it had life, maybe it could have jumped on our bed to have its own share and its own taste of the fruit of matrimony.

Screams of indistinct voices came through the air. We quickly recognised the voices of people we recognized—Okafor.Amadi. Unoka. Nwolisa. All our neighbours, almost all Ozo title holders We could hear the voices of everyone we knew gradually fade away until they were gone. We trembled.

‘Mama, papa, ke e bi no!?’  I could hear the child shouting, “Mum, dad, where are you?” Her cry was accompanied by the marching sound of heavy boots that resonated cacophonously in an unbalanced cadence. I could hear nothing but wails of anguish from a child. I quickly put off the lamp. Then, these footsteps began approaching. They moved so quickly and rhythmically this time. I and Ezima lay still like soapstones. “Okwudili, are we safe?” she asked me. I could not reply to her. We just lay there quietly.

Soon, everything died out. The women began shouting and wailing. We decided to see the women and know what was happening. “There is a war, and our boys and men have been taken to join the war to see the women and know what is happening.” Nwolisa’s wife, Obianuju, mumbled before retiring to her hut. She didn’t have a husband; he died four dry seasons ago after falling off a palm tree. All the men were gone except the old ones. All in one night, it was like a nightmare. The children have their fathers, the wives have their husbands, and the parents have their children. Someone you loved must be gone. until today, we still hope they return to our arms with smiles on their faces. Fifty years have passed since the war ended, and they still haven’t returned. Will they ever return?