Call Me Onyi. III
Broken Dreams.
So so sorry for sending this chapter late again! Omo, distractions here and there, but I truly apologizeđ. I promise to do better with the last two chapters,okayyy?đ And I hope my use of Ibo is okayâhad to rely on ChatGPT for help since all my Ibo-speaking friends were asleep when I was writing.đ
Genuine question btw, is it Ibo or Igbo?
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fictional and inspired by various lived realities. Any resemblance to actual persons or situations is purely coincidental. This story delves into themes of identity, self-discovery, and resistance, and may contain emotionally charged dialogues.
Itâs been a year since the mango tree became my sanctuary.
Not the imagined one from my storiesâthis was real, its roots cradling me like old hands as I scribbled in my notebook. Here, behind the school fence where the shouts from the football field faded to murmurs, I could finally hear myself think. Sometimes I wrote. Other times, I just sat, learning the rhythm of my own breathing, getting acquainted with this new version of me who dared to want things.
One hot afternoon during breaktime, as I sketched a scene about a girl who traded her name for wings, I heard my name.
"Onyi."
I looked up to see Miss Didi, the new Literature teacher, standing over me. She always smelled of lemongrass and something sharperâdefiance, maybe. Or hope.
"I heard you switched classes last year." she said.
I clutched my notebook tighter, the half-drawn wings I drew on the book cover staining my damp palm. "Yes, ma."
She didnât ask why. Didnât mention my father or the rumors surely circulating among staff. "Come and see me after school, oh? Bring whatever youâre writing."
"Ah, ma, itâs not finished," I admitted, my heart fluttering.
"Good." Her smile was so bright, I felt my heart warm up. "That means itâs still alive."
Miss Didiâs classroom smelled of chalk dust and possibility.
"Read it aloud," she said, pushing a bowl of groundnuts toward me.
"Now?"
"Yes, my darling, unless youâre waiting for divine permission."
My voice shook at first, then steadied as the words took flightâa story about a river that refused to flow backward, no matter how the villagers cursed it. When I finished, Miss Didi was quiet for a long moment.
"You have a voice, Onyi," she said finally. "But talent needs witnesses. Will you join the writing club?"
"My fatherâ"
"Isnât here," she interrupted gently. "You are."
I traced the edge of my notebook. For the first time, an adult had looked at me and seen choices, not commandments.
"We meet in the library. Wednesdays and Fridays. Come if you want. No attendance, no grades. Just room to grow. I know youâll like it."
Omasirichi cornered me by the well while I was fetching water later in the evening.
"Youâre embarrassing this family," she hissed, but her eyes were red-rimmed. "Do you know how Papa talks about you now?"
I thought of Miss Didiâs classroom, of stories. "Do you know how little I care?"
Something changed in her face. "Youâre so selfish, Onyinyechukwu. I do everything right, Onyi. Everything."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. What could I say that wouldnât feel like betrayal?
"And still, itâs you they watch. Itâs you Mama cries about all night. Itâs you they worry will ruin everything. Why? Onyinye has to be the doctor. 'Omasirichi nwere ike á»ga nwỄỠma á» bỄrỄ na á» chá»rá».'"
The bucket creaked as it hit the bottom of the well. She didnât bother pulling it up.
"Just... donât forget the rest of us when youâre off chasing whatever it is youâre chasing."
Then she turned and left.
Miss Didiâs writing club met in the libraryâs storage room, where sunlight fought through dust to paint gold on the floor. It was nothing like I expected. Some days, all we did was read, and on others, we wrote. No stuffy classroomâjust seven of us sprawled on the library floor, passing a bowl of groundnuts around.
"Today," she announced, "we read while listening to this."
From a battered tote bag, she brought out an old radio and played a strange tune. Iâd later find out it was Beethoven.
As the tinny melody played, Ebubeâthe boy whose fingers were always paint-stainedâleaned over. "Youâre the science-to-arts girl, right? Brave."
"Stupid, maybe," I muttered, scribbling on my notepad.
"Same thing sometimes." He grinned, sliding me a charcoal pencil. "I heard you draw too. Try using this. Itâs messy. Like truth."
When my turn came to share my piece, my voice shook:
"The girl wanted to name herself, but the world kept handing her heavier ones..."
As I read aloud, Miss Didiâs eyes gleamed, and the others listened to me with so much attention, I couldnât believe my eyes.
"Your piece is competition material, Onyi.â Ms. Didi said as she handed me a form after the meeting.
âInternational Youth Writing Prize. Winner receives full scholarship to study creative writing abroad and publication in Farafina. Deadline is in six weeks.â
When I confessed I didn't think I was good enough, she snapped her fingers.
âMba, mba. Itâs not your job to decide that one. Your job is to write."
I shouldâve known Mama would find the competition form.
She burst into my room holding it like a dead rat, her wrapper hastily tied.
"Onyinyechukwu! After a year of allowing this your art nonsense, now itâs to go abroad for more?"
The words hit me like a slap, sharp and familiar, and for a second, I felt the air thicken with the weight of a memory. This felt like dĂ©jĂ vu, like that time sheâd found the transfer form in my bagâthe same storm in her eyes, the same disbelief flooding her voice.
I didnât have time to respond before Papa appeared in the doorway, his reading glasses still perched on his nose, looking over them as though he had only just noticed the chaos.
"Kedu ihe á» na-eme?" he asked, his voice low and measured as he peered at the paper in Mamaâs hands.
"See oh, see" Mama snapped, shoving it into his face. "Full scholarship to study 'creative writing'! As if weâre raising a child to be a professional liar!"
Papaâs face was unreadable as he adjusted his glasses and scanned the paper slowly. The silence in the room thickened with every word.
"You want to use my own money, Onyinyechukwu, to fly overseas and study writing, ehn?"
"Itâs a full scholarship, Papa," I said, standing up, heart hammering in my chest. "á» dá»ghá» mkpa ego."
He looked at me like I had just insulted him.
"Even worse! So, theyâll say I couldnât afford to train my own child! That my own daughter ran away to tell stories like some... some akỄká» night radio presenter! Chineke nna!"
Aunty Ada materialized behind them, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
"I warned you people oh, didnât I?" she said, her voice thick with resignation. "You people shouldnât have allowed her to stay in that arts class at all. Na from there, all this madness take start."
Her eyes, sharp and knowing, fixed on me. It was as if everything that had happened in this house had led to this one moment. She knew this was coming.
Father adjusted his glasses again, the frustration on his face growing,
"Tell me, Onyinye," he began, voice colder than Iâd ever heard it, "is this what you want? To throw everything away? All the struggle and sacrifices just so you can tell stories?"
Aunty Adaâs voice cut through the air like a blade. "You see what your tolerance has done? Now she thinks this is a real future. A future with nothing. You people spoiled her oh, you know."
"Onyinyechukwu, this is not what we planned for you," Mama said, voice shaking now, softer but no less forceful. "Your father worked hard for you to have a future that doesnât depend on nonsense like this. You didnât even say lawâcreative writing kwa?"
I couldnât understand why they couldnât see it. I wasnât running away. I wasnât abandoning them. I was only trying to be more than what they wanted for me. I looked at themâthree people I loved, whose dreams I was expected to inheritâand the looks on their faces made it feel like I was betraying them.
I didnât know how I could choose between my own dreams and the weight of everyone elseâs expectations. But as I stared at the form, I could almost hear Miss Didiâs words echoing in my mind.
"Talent needs witnesses."
I could feel my pulse quicken, and I knew then that I had to make a choice. I wasnât just choosing for me anymoreâI was choosing for the little girl inside me who had been quieted for so long. The little girl who wanted to spread her wings, even if it meant leaving the familiar behind.
Aunty Ada. She wasn't always like this.
She was the one who had raised Omasirichi and I when my mother went on her long business trips, a constant presence in the houseâwatchful, careful, and unyielding. But there were times when I wondered what it had cost her to take on that responsibility. And what dreams she had given up in the process.
The first time I understood Aunty Ada, I was elbow-deep in chores, washing plates, when her voice sliced through the kitchen window.
âYou think I enjoy being the wicked aunt that these children think I am? That I woke up one day and chose this life?â
Through the windows, I saw her leaning on the veranda rail, talking to her friend, Aunty Ngozi. Moonlight caught the hospital bracelet she always woreâToBeMother Clinic, 2014ânow faded but never removed.
âI raised those girls like they were mine, Ngoziâ she said, voice low but heavy. âFed them, bathed them, helped them learn A for Apple, B for Ball. All while their mother was gallivanting from one business deal to the next. And not once did anybody say âDaalu, Adanne.â Not even small âthank you.ââ
Aunty Ngozi murmured something, maybe about how Chineke sees all things.
âAnd still,â she continued, âI was expected to shrink. When Aunty came back, I was to fade. I became âthe aunt.â Aunty Ada, biko help us iron uniforms. Aunty Ada, please wake them for school. Like I wasnât the one who kept that house breathing.â
She let out a dry, bitter laugh. âAnd all this was in between my Tobe wahala oh. Ah, Tobe didnât beat me, no. Not even once. He just... wiped me away. One thing at a time. First, it was my job at the bank. Then my friends. Then my laughâhe said it was too loud for a wife from a proper home. O sá» m na my own joy was embarrassing.â
Ngozi sucked her teeth. âYou don try oh, Ada.â
â And when I left?â Her voice broke slightly. âThe same women who pitied me began to whisper. âBut he didn't beat her,â they said. As if silence canât break bones. As if forgetting who you are isnât another kind of dying.â
She went quiet.
Then in a lower voice, one that barely reached me through the window: âI gave up everything. Including the small small writing I was doing. Ihe niile. And I still came back here. I mothered children that werenât mine, put my life on hold, swallowed every last thing I wanted. And what do I get in return? A child like Onyinye, ever since they gave birth to her, looking at me like Iâm standing in her way. Like Iâm the villain in her perfect little book. ỀmỄaka a, they donât know what it costs to disappear for the people you love.â
I dropped a plate. The crash startled them both. By the time I looked up, Aunty Ada was already walking back inside, her face unreadable. But not before I saw itâthe way her fingers brushed her flat stomach, soft and fleeting, like a prayer sheâd long stopped saying.
That night, after everything settled in my mind like dust in a still room, I found myself staring at the form again. The words on it seemed to mock me. Full Scholarship. Creative Writing. As if the universe was laughing at how desperately I wanted thisâhow much Iâd convinced myself that I deserved it.
But as I sat there, replaying Aunty Adaâs words in my head, it was like something clicked. I remembered the weight of all the sacrifices sheâd made, her silent pain buried beneath layers of duty. And it hit meâno one would ever understand what it cost to chase dreams that donât fit into the mold they expect of you. But thatâs exactly what I had to do.
I could feel the heat of Mamaâs anger, the hurt in Papaâs voice, and Aunty Adaâs bitter laugh still echoing in my ears. They all had their own versions of what I should be, what I should want. But tonight, I wasnât interested in their dreams. I needed to fight for mine.
I picked up the pen, I had no illusion that this was going to be easyâonly God knew the cost of my freedom, but it didnât matter anymore. I signed the form.
Glossary:
Omasirichi nwere ike á»ga nwỄỠma á» bỄrỄ na á» chá»rá».
-Omasirichi can go die if she wants.
2. Kedu ihe á» na-eme?
-What is she doing?
3. á» dá»ghá» mkpa ego.
- No money is needed.
4. Daalu, Ada.
- Thank you, Ada.
5. O sá» m na...
- He told me that...
6. Chineke meh
- God oh(expression of shock/sympathy)
7. Ihe niile
- Everything
8. ỀmỄaka a
- These children
9. Mba, mba
- No, no (strong refusal)
10. AkỄkỠnight
- Storytime.(derogatory reference to storytelling as trivial)
This is actually... like... Just wow