The Day Akunne Died

I left home at the age of 9. I had passed the entrance exam and I was very excited. For me, I didn’t know much of what it meant, I was simply excited that I passed an exam that was touted as impossible. There were about ten of us who had gone from Ukpo to take that exam at St. Dominic Savio Seminary, Akpu. I came out a lone wolf.

Apart from the time that I went to take the ‘Gifted Children’ exam at Awka, that would be my first experience of going very far from my mother. Yes, I was always around her. During long vacations when my siblings would be angling to go on holiday to the city to one of our uncles or aunties’ places, I never went on any of such holidays. I never wanted to be away from my mother. I was tied to her apron strings. You may call me ‘Nwa mummy’ if u like.

But this was different, Father Obi was a god. We trusted him and would always want to be around him. It was the thought of becoming like Father Obi that made me want to become a catholic priest. Father Obi was simply a god. At least, he answered our prayers and made our dreams come through. Everybody loved him. Traditionalists, Anglicans, Odozi Obodo, Catholics, chief Priests; everybody simply loved him. For him, there were no Jews or Gentiles, pagans or Christians, Catholics or Anglicans! All Father Obi knew was humanity. When he finished morning mass at the parish every morning, Father Obi would wear his white soutane around town joining every gathering he met. The early morning ogogoro drinkers who would gather in shanties to have early morning shuts of ‘kai kai’ always looked out for him. He would grace their gatherings most mornings and join in their boisterous jokes and laughs. He would pay for one round of the shut for everyone present and they would all rush the hot smattering drink from the same shut. They loved him. Those of them who never went to church would go on Sunday knowing that Father Obi would look out for everyone and would visit them individually after church to know why they had missed Church on Sunday.

The Chief priests were not different either. From the ‘kai kai’ shanties, Father Obi would begin a morning round to all the shrines in town to commune with the Chief Priests and their gods. At each groove, he would break cola nut with the chief priest and have a hearty conversation with them. Sometimes, he would stay till noon. Every bazaar, all the shrines in my town were duly represented. The Chief priests adorned in their practice regalia and accompanied by their acolytes would come to church dragging a fatty goat along for a thanksgiving offering to Father Obi’s god. Our harvest Thanksgiving Sundays were non-denominational, the whole town irrespective of one’s religion participated. Father Obi’s demeanor and humility made him the supreme court of my village. Everyone irrespective of religion or denomination would take their case to him trusting that he would mete out justice, and he did. Most cases taken to him would terminate on his table. Father Obi was a god, I decided to go to the seminary to be like him.

I passed the entrance exam and was enrolled in the seminary at Akpu. I was 9 and so were many of the boys who became my class mates. The experience was dry. The first few weeks were choky. I was a village ranger prior to joining the seminary. Together with many of my friends, we traversed all the bushes within my locality enjoying wild fruits and hunting rodents. I was a miniature unclassified ‘fulani herd boy’. The regimented life of the seminary became my biggest torment and it wouldn’t take long before I became sick and craved for home. Visiting days were once a month. Mother never missed it. She would visit and urge me on. I saw the helplessness in Mother’s eyes, she wanted me to stay. She wanted one of her children to have a good education. It was difficult back home. It was a norm to send out the boys to Onitsha, Lagos, Aba or even Cameroun to go and serve one of the relatives who had made it in business as ‘nwa boyi’ as soon as they finished primary six. Mother wanted one of her Children to go to school. Being the last of the pack, the lot fell on me. I could not afford to break Mother’s heart. If staying on and enduring the novelty of my new life would make a mother happier, I was determined to make her dreams come through. And so, I stayed.

The first few months were days of weeding. Many of the boys who could not bear the oddities of their new lives left after nights of endless cries sponsored by hunger and relentless worms that were determined to tear through the walls of our large intestines. To douse the worms, some of us would steal out from the hostel in the dead of the night to go in search of the ‘fruit of the womb’. Anything that would abate the hunger or at least give a temporary relief. Some connected big boys would steal into the procurator where the raw foods were stored and make away with enough quantities of garri that would last them a few nights. Some of us who were new and less connected would simply resort to the lemon orchard and eat sour grapes and lemons to our satisfaction. Sometimes we emerged hungrier.

Akunne Andrew was my bedmate. Our hostels were nicely structured. We didn’t have bunks as was obtainable in most secondary school hostels, we had single 3 by 6 beds that were pushed together in twos. The person whose bed was joined to yours became your bedmate and the person you shared adjoining space with became your corner mate. And so Akunne Andrew was my bedmate. It was my second year in the junior seminary. Akunne was my classmate. He was mostly taciturn and seldomly said much. Akunne was smallish and had very sleek little frame. He was intelligent. Because he was taciturn, we hardly had anything to discuss. He was a very neat boy who had his uniforms always ironed and neatly starched, a practice I was too boisterous to imbibe. He was a respecter of space but I was a little tilted towards the converse. Akunne Andrew did everything the way it was supposed. Our only disaffection came from me tapping his water and throwing my stuffs carelessly on his neatly tucked bed. With his tiny but sharp voice he would tell me “Emma, alikirom ifea ina eme”. Momentarily I would feel bad and apologise.

The most terrifying day of my seminary experience was the day Akunne died. I had the premonition the night before. I didn’t know what it was but it was a very restless night. About two days before his death, Akunne was rushed home to his parents. He had erratic health. This time, the infirmary in the seminary could no longer manage it, they had to take him home to his parents so he could receive a more robust medical care. It was normal to ask the parents to come pick up their wards for medical attention, we thought it was the same for Akunne. We didn’t see it coming, I didn’t know that would be the last time I would see him.

We had just finished our lunch and the auxiliary was about to say the prayer after meal when the rector entered. He asked everyone to get seated. He stood in the middle of the refectory with the bell in his hands and for a few seconds could not muster any words. Eventually, when he did, dead silence fell in the refectory. “Andrew Akunne is dead, let us observe a minute silence for him”. Initially, I didn’t understand what it meant. Boys grew cold and I could see the consternation on the faces of many. What was the rector talking about? The thoughts were still racing in my heart when I heard the rector say “May the soul of Akunne Andrew and souls of all the faithful depart”. The tears came. It was then I understood that I would never see Akunne again. Immediately after the prayer, I walked melancholily to my hostel. I could not settle in my bed. I stood gazing at the space I had shared with Andrew. Not long enough, the hostel master came in with the sacristan. They lit a candle and stuck it by the edge of our bed. That was the beginning of my end. I lay down on the bed for a siesta. The hostel was dead quiet, nobody coughed and nobody chatted. It was dead quiet. The tears kept drooling. I cried myself to sleep but the moment I felt a touch of sleep, numerous images flooded my sight. I startled up feeling a presence I could not see. I knelt by the bed and started to pray for Andrew but every time I closed my eyes to pray, I felt a shadow standing over me. The afternoon was grotesque. I was grateful the moment the regulator rang the bell signaling the end of the siesta. I quickly rushed out of the hostel and threw myself among other young boys who were headed to the small chapel for the 3 o’clock divine mercy prayer.

When it was time to sleep that night, they lit another candle that would burn through the night. I prayed that Mother would come and carry me. Every time I closed my eyes to sleep, I would see Andrew standing over and staring at me. I would jolt up and cry loudly within. I could not sleep, I could not close my eyes, I could not even look into the dark. Whichever turn I took; I felt the silhouette of Akunne staring straight at me. It was not until the fourth night when the candles stopped that I made peace and spoke goodbye to Andrew. That night in my dream, he came wearing our day uniform. He didn’t say a thing, he simply walked to the corner where he would normally chain his bucket of water. He stood over it a while and fished out a tiny key from his pocket. He handed it to me with a deep smile and turned and left. I woke up in the morning and felt a deep relief. That was the last I saw of Akunne even in my dreams.