Ofuruche.
That was the name my father called me, not the name on my birth certificate. Nanichibuchukwu was my name, which meant “Only God is God,” but my father, in bitter grief, chose to call me Ofuruche, “One who has been forgotten.”
For truly, in my father’s heart, I died with my mother the day she chose the cowardly exit. It didn’t help that everyone else saw her spitting image whenever I walked into the room. I had never seen a picture of her because my relatives thought that having her pictures around the house would bring Isiọjọọ, bad luck. They never said her name out loud, either, only in hushed whispers so I wouldn’t hear, and my father couldn’t care less. What she had done the day of my first birthday was Alu, an abomination.
…
“Nani…”
“Naniiiii…”
I looked away from the mirror towards the now-opened bedroom door that accommodated my aunt Nnenna’s plump frame. If the width of the door were an inch or two smaller, she would have to enter through her side.
“I’ve been standing here for the past two minutes, ogịnị ka ị na-eche?, what are you thinking about?”
“Oh, aunty, Ewela iwe, I didn’t see you there.”
I tried to smile a little, but her suspicious gaze made it an impossible task.
My aunt always weaved English with Igbo while speaking, she said it was a way to ground herself in her cultural roots, and you had to reply to her in the same way or totally in Igbo. I didn’t mind her frequent intrusion into my personal space, she is my mother’s sister, the closest I would ever be to having a mother.
“Just negodu this girl, are you coming out or not? You’re not even dressed. Or don’t you want to be part of the ịpụta nwa mgbede?”
The way she pronounced girl sounded more like geluuu. The Igbo language has a way of affecting your English.
“Oluchi has gotten ready oh. You should see how she keeps adjusting her mgbájí and rubbing nzu all over her face. I told her that it is enough before her face would look like Mmụọ…”
“Aunty, I was about to start getting ready when you entered, ana m abịa biko, I’m coming please.”
I had to cut her off; if not, I’d spend the next ten minutes listening to her narrate every little thing that had happened.
Aunty Nnenna made her small resignation sigh that sounded like a hiss but was more settled in the throat. She closed the door.
Today is my Iru Mgbede. The day I come out to society as an adult, a woman. You would think this was back in the primitive days, but no, my father became a traditionalist after my mother died, and although we live in Lagos, he somehow found a group of traditionalists who still practiced cultural rites together.
I stood up from my vanity mirror and walked over to the closet to get ready. Taking out my akwete fabric, I tied it like a wrapper, from my chest down to my ankle. I put on my Mgba Olu, Mgba Aka, and Mgba Ụkwụ, which was the easy part, the part I struggled with was the Mgbájị. I didn’t know if I should wear it from my legs or pass it through my head. I ended up passing it through my head like a shirt.
My beads rattled as I walked out of my room, down the stairs, and into the parlor.
Oluch was the first to look up. She’s Aunty Nnenna’s daughter, my cousin. On seeing Oluchi, I burst out laughing. Her face was literally covered in Nzu, and her hands had Uhie all over them.
“Oluchi, Gịnị na-eme, what’s going on?” I asked between laughter.
“Abeg, Abeg, don’t start. This is a once in a life time event, I might as well dress very well.”
Oluchi was not like Aunty Nnenna; she either spoke fluid English or she spoke pidgin. She hated speaking Igbo because, in her own words, “it would mess up her pronunciation.”
“Hapu Oluchi, I’ve already told her that her make-up makes her look like Mmụọ. I’m glad you came down early, but I thought you would tie your wrapper around your chest and waist. Nne show small skin, you’ve become a woman now.” Aunt Nnenna piped in from the comfortable couch she was rather sinking into than sitting in.
“Both of you don’t know fashion.” Oluchi said after giving both of us a yinmu.
Taking in the living room I’d lived in my whole life, the white walls, the glass side stools rimmed with gold colour, the white sofa, also rimmed with gold colour. The wide space, high ceilings, and the fake lion’s head that stared at you from the mantle. A typical rich Igbo man’s taste.
“Ebee ka nnà m nọ?, where’s my Father?” I asked, specifically looking at Aunty Nnenna.
She pretended not to hear my question.
Oluchi came to the rescue, “Oh, he already went ahead, he said we should be coming.”
“Ngwanu, let’s go.” Aunty Nnenna said while standing up.
She picked up her bag from a side stool, rested it on her arms, and began walking towards the door. Oluchi grabbed my hands, intertwined her fingers with mine, and gave me a small smile. This was what Oluchi had done since we were four years old, whenever my father would choose distance over connection. She had the emotional intelligence of a grandma.
I returned the smile, although my heart ached, and we both stepped out of the house to see Aunty Nnenna rev the car and signal for us to get in quickly.
Hi guys, I hope you enjoyed today’s episode. I decided to tell Nani’s story in chapters, and I’d love to bring you along with me.
Please leave a like and comment if you enjoy reading this. I’m also thinking of writing this consistently, so please stick around. I love you guys.