Scars without a wound

I miss the warmth of my bed as I drive down the road through the ever-green glades of my homeland, the cold air causing a crackle down my spine. I perceive the smell of burning food, an acrid aroma of charred beans that wakes the silent beasts of my stomach. It makes me think of Naza and the nights we had beans for dinner. She always called it "Try Beans Thursday" with a grin of resolve resting on her oval-shaped face. I had protested at first, but in the end, she would win, and I would find myself chowing on the staple food like hungry lions do to flesh. Hunger is a cruel mistress indeed and after all, unbeknownst to her, I have come to miss our Thursday nights. Those nights were never this cold, and the food smelled divine. I crave beans more just thinking about it.

We weren't served gourmet meals in the camps for sure. No, it was usually plain mashed potatoes with nothing on the side. No one ever complained openly because it was better than the starvation and rats our predecessors had to endure. Rumour at the base had it that we were low on funds hence the lack of nutrition for the 'Freedom fighters', as the newspapers liked to call us. Others said it was a part of the training, an ancient philosophy of taming the stomach to train the mind and body. I choose to believe the latter.

'Believe'. Such an overtly diffused yet strong word. It means to think something is true. To think, not to know, that is the trick of it. No one actually knows anything. Sometimes, we might pretend to know, but it's all speculation without facts. No one knew there would be another war because we believed there was peace after the first. No one knew we would win it; I don't think anyone believed we would, either. But that's the point, no one ever learns anything, and that obscurity gave us the impetus to march on against our country of birth.

I think about some synonyms of the word “believe”; faith and hope. Also, powerful words that kept us training arduously at night. They were a luxury of our minds we possessed yet couldn't afford. Aside from the khakis on our backs, they were our only personal property. Despite the string of landmines that welcomed our contingent beyond enemy lines, I still had faith I would return a living soldier. The cherry taste of Naza's lipstick gave me hope to wake up every morning. But most of all, I believed I would be there to hold her and our baby when it finally came. I am not sure of that anymore.

The sun has almost risen to usher in the birth of a new day. I can feel the crisp morning breeze dry up the cluster of perspiration under my arm, the tingly sensation forcing me to twitch slightly at the wheel. I like the feeling. It reminded me of my childhood when life was innocent. When the air didn't reek of fear and gunpowder. When the sand of the earth still reflected a brilliant gold at the touch of the sun without the ruddy smear of death. They weren't times of peace but of quietness. When our ancestors resigned in silent submission to preserve the national concord for their descendants. They were the wiser generation.

But those were days of a bygone era. Today, however, is a more accurate time, a promise, and for the few who survived the darker days, it's a gift. It's left for us to trust that the label we see now matches the package.

I'm suddenly interrupted by the continuous ringing of my phone. Its Naza. I ignored it at first, testing the little patience she had. She never calls anyone twice, even when it's essential. So, I'm entirely nonplussed and almost sure it isn't her when it rings again.

"Hello, angel," I hear piercing screams and crying in the background and the sound of flummoxed breathing. It isn't Naza.

"Madam, he isn't picking up." The breathing materializes into a frustrated chunter. The screaming voice in the background yells something inaudibly. That's Naza.

"What's going on there, Baby? Are you alright?" I am getting worried as I feel the nervous sweat settling at the small of my back.

"yes, Oga," I recognize the voice. "can you hear me now?"

"Dorcas, of course, I can hear you," I caution myself from barking at her because she was like family. "what is the matter?"

"it's madam. Her water just…" she pauses abruptly, contemplating if a man would understand what 'water' means. "I…I think the baby is coming."

"Bloody bastard! Please give me the phone, Dorcas dear." Naza painfully bellowed again in the background. "Hello, idiot."

"Naza, baby," I don't know what to say. "how are you feeling?"

"how do you think?" she was being mean, but I didn't hold it against her. She is alone and in pain. It is only fitting I feel some of it, too. "you know, when next you want to put a woman through this and be absent during the process, give her a heads up first."

"it's not my fault," I resist the urge to laugh at her coruscating wit. "I still have something to take care of."

"what is more important than the birth of your son?" I'm glad it's a rhetorical question because I don't have the answer. "yes, it's a boy." An odd rope of dead silence hitched both ends of the phone line. She wants me to reply, to tell her there's nothing more important than our son. I wish that was the case.

"so, what are you… we going to do now." I hope she overlooked that.

"I have called Dorcas's sister, the midwife." I'm a little relieved; she has a plan. "I’m having a water birth."

"Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"what other choice do I have?" she retorted. "Every hospital in town has been closed down because of the stupid war you were fighting." I want to tell her it's not stupid, educate her on the need for a second war, and narrate the doleful tales of brave men who fought for freedom in extremism. But now isn't the time. "hello, are you still there?"

"oh…Uhm…yes," the sigh in her voice proves she knows I had drifted off. "I just want you both to be fine."

"then come back already."

"I can't."

"why? I thought the war was over."

"it is, but I still have …."

"…some things to take care of, I know," her voice grew into a sob, and I couldn't tell if the occasional sniffles were due to the infant's kicking or my absence.

"tell you what," I need to give her something to hold on to, some hope. "I've already crossed state lines. Expect me in, say, the next one hour."

"Really," she tries to hide the relief in her voice, but her elated breathing gives her away. "how are you go…" the line dies, and I realize I'm still driving at 60mph on the highway. I resolve to concentrate on the road, but It's nice to hear her voice again, even if it is breathy, angry, and in pain. It isn't her fault; she is having our son. Yes, he was ours, made by and for the both of us, and she has him without me. I begin to understand how hard it must be. I wish I was there to hold her hand as she lies crookedly in the water tub, to whisper sweet words in her ear and let her pinch my skin till she is relieved of all pain. But I can't do all those things from here. I need to be there.

"Just another hour Naza," I think to myself, channelling her spirit. "Please wait for me."

---

The two-storey detached house feels familiar as I stand outside, patiently knocking on the black metal gate. I have been here before, but I can't remember when. I recognize the untidy patch of fallen leaves from the towering masquerade trees decorating the outside garden. There are also myriad-coloured chrysanthemums planted there for decorative effect. The house is tall for a domestic building, as I can see many features outside the calabash brown fence. The first thing that catches my eye is the bright blue roof at the top, camouflaging with the azure sky. The walls are painted in warm chestnut, and the pillars are a creamy white. There are also visible green stripes at the top from years of algae and moss accumulation, a testament to the resilient age of the building. I strive to recall when I must've come here before, why even the aroma of freshly baked goods escaping from one of the windows wasn't a novelty. Then I suddenly realize it, like a wave of apprehension washing over me. I haven't been here before, but I've known vivid stories about the joys of growing up in this house. The vivid memories of a brother in arms told to us to pass the time and lifted our spirits in the dreary confines of the camp. It was a very detailed story, with the reality of it just like I imagined. I could always tell from the way he spoke how much he wanted to be back home, but the war happened, and he didn't have a choice; none of us did.

I knock again, hearing a door open and close from inside. Someone is home. I comport myself, adjusting my uniform jacket and setting the neatly folded flag and clothes firmly on my left arm. I hear noisy footsteps approaching and feel nervous tension liquifying through my pores.

"Afamefuna, is that you?" I hear a female voice calling from the other side. I don't answer. "My son, for a second there, I was worried you won't find the bui…" a middle-aged woman opens the gate to meet my drooping eyes. She is shocked to see me and doesn't hide it. There is a long silence between us as her pale eyes observe me from head to toe, holding on to every ounce of hope she can devise but still fearing the worst. Then she briefly eyes my hands and my empty Beemer. They both tell the same story; I came alone.

The woman falls to the floor, erupting in a piercing scream. I wonder for a split second who is louder, she or Naza on the phone. They had both screamed in pain, the former being pain from death and the latter from new life, which didn't sound very different to me.

I kneel next to her on the cold interlocking floor giving her the last and only property her son had owned. I don't try to pacify her because she deserves a good cry after the news she just received. She takes just the T-shirt from me, giving it an affectionate sniff. Then, it is suddenly over. She becomes a different person, cheerful and gleaming with hope again. The scent of her son feels just as tangible as his body, and it makes all the difference for that moment.

She insists that I come into her house, and after much persuasion, I reluctantly agree. The living room is quite homely with a tasteful décor of cheap luxuries. I sit comfortably on the black leather sofa and steal a glimpse of the news headline on the flat-screen TV hanging on the centre wall. It reads:

BIAFRA ATLAST

"The victorious Biafran Freedom Fighters finally reunite with their families after eleven months on the battlefield."

I see some men in uniform, welcomed to their homes with hugs, songs, and elaborate feasts. I silently hope there are no potatoes in the buffet, and this thought brings a grin.

"It's really a party out there, huh," she notices me smiling as she walks in with a tray of freshly baked Akara balls. "I was watching it when I heard the knock, so I thought…" she collapsed on a small armchair.

"Look, madam," I started, in an attempt to cheer her up ", for what it's worth, your son was a remarkable soldier and excellent human being." She gives a crooked smile, attesting to the fact.

"do you need something for that? It must really hurt," she says, looking at my face for the first time. I realize she is talking about the massive scar on my right cheek. I touch it, but it's not bleeding, so I tell her it is okay.

"you know, it's because of your son that this is just a scar and nothing else."

"How did he…" she choked slightly under her breath. "I mean, do you know?"

"Yes, I was there," I begin a brief monologue, turning off the Television. "It was like every other day in the field, moderately sunny with the clouds being a gunmetal grey from all the ruins lifted off to the sky in smoke. We were winning the war at this point, with more territories occupied by us and more streets littered with corpses bearing Nigerian names. Our commander decided to seize this opportunity and ordered us to march on beyond enemy lines. Our contingent was sent to a forest in western Nigeria to ambush the town and besiege it." I take a deep breath as the image gets more apparent in my head. "we were at the frontline, Afamefuna and I. We had become fast friends because of his personality and eyes. You see, my wife also has hazel eyes."

"Yes, he had the prettiest eyes", she said, beaming at the memory. "his pet name was Anya Maramma." We laugh in unison.

"and he was brave too. Really brave," She nods. "I remember the sound of rifles echoing like war drums as we danced to its beat. Every day was just as scary as the last but he never for once showed fear. It was because of this unwavering bravery, I'm afraid, that he died."

"tell me everything, please. I promise I can take it," I notice her abject curiosity, like a child mesmerized by a treat she shouldn't have.

"The shooting spree intensified, and I could hardly see anything but smoke and tree trunks. I didn't think to change position to get a clearer shot. I kept on shooting, hoping to get it over with as soon as possible. Then the grenade…." I swallow deeply. There is always a lump in my throat every time I get to this part.

"what happened with the grenade?"

"I didn't see it fly, didn't know when it fell on my feet, but he did. I remember feeling a sudden push by his hand, ramming my face directly into the tree bark. Then there was a fatal explosion with Afamefuna in the middle of it," I hear her squeal, still holding on to the shirt. "I tried to help him, but he didn't let me. Ignoring my bleeding face, I noticed he was awfully deformed. There was a shattered fleshy mass where his legs once were. The side of his face was bloody white showing his bare skull. His eyes shone a pale grey as they reflected his grief of an impending end. It was an affecting sight, but I couldn't look away. That was supposed to be me, lying there, coughing blood with every breath, but he saved my life," She sobs now, and I wonder if, for an instant, she wished it was me instead of her son. "he said to tell you he was sorry."

"for what? " she asks, breathing in the clump of mucus blocking her airways.

"for all the times you went to the carwash when he refused to wash your car. For all the times he forgot to say how much he loved you and all the doors he slammed on your face. For all his choices you weren't in support of and most of all, for all the hugs he wasn't able to give and all the stories he couldn't come back to tell," I move closer, consoling her as she weeps uncontrollably. "Your son was a hero. Although he was killed in the war, I know that he died in peace." She comes in for an embrace which I give. It is the least I can do for Afamefuna. We talk for a while as I finish the baked treats. She had made them for him, but I was the closest she now had to a son. After a minute, we exchange phone numbers, and I go on my way, leaving her alone to her thoughts.

I also begin to think on my way home to Naza. I think about death and its sting. Although the victim hurts for a while, he is the one who is truly free and happy. Now the people he leaves behind are the ones who suffer. Death is like a scar for the mourners, a scar without a wound. It is healed by the memories, but it still hurts, and the mark it leaves remains and always will. Although we try every day for the memories to be enough, there is only so much that the bandage of time can cover. All that is left to do is live with the scar until it becomes a part of our being. And then it won't hurt anymore, but it will still be seen.

These are my thoughts on the wheel as the sun got hotter and the destination got nearer. I notice a peculiar itch on the side of my face which I scratch. I realize it's only my scar, and I feel a sense of sweet relief flowing in my lungs for some apparent reason. Peace.

---

I walk through the open door in haste, almost ignoring the small crowd of people sitting in my living room. Their first reaction to my arrival is a thick, short silence as their eyes x-ray me from my hat to the dusty leather of my boots. I notice them staring, and this brings me to a halt. I can almost read their minds, tell the depths of their inner thoughts. They are not all happy to see me, only surprised. They thought I had died in the war, and now it was like they were staring at the face of a ghost in all its scarred glory. I enjoy this moment, so I don't lower my gaze. Then someone in the crowd, my brother, erupts in applause, which causes a resounding ovation in the room.

"Odogwu nwoke, where have you been?" he walks up to me, vigorously shaking my hands. His excitement was genuine. "we watched the news; everyone came back except you."

"I had something to do, I told Naza," I remember the reason for my haste. "where is she?"

"Upstairs, with the midwife," He said, pouring me a glass of water. I exhale deeply at the fantastic taste. Whoever said water isn't sweet hasn't been to the battlefield. "She is the one we are all here for."

"Can I…"

"Sure, they'll definitely let the husband in," he pats me on the shoulder like in the old days "She'll be happy to see you."

I run up the tiled staircase leaving the rowdy party of guests in his hands. I hesitate to knock as I reach the bathroom door, hearing inaudible chatter coming from inside. I haven't spoken to Naza in months, and now, with only the smooth ebony door between us, I don't have the right words. Someone opens the door. It's Dorcas. She is visibly dumbstruck but doesn't make a fuss about my arrival. Then I barge into the sight of a sweaty Naza pushing out the soaked infant head from under her. She looks at me with a straight face, an invitation to sit at her side.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, kissing her distressed face.

"It's okay," she keeps my right hand in a tight grip and sobs. "Don't leave me like that again."

"shh…shh… I won't, I promise," I pat her sweaty sheened hair and kiss her again as her breathing gets louder. Then the midwife calls for the last push. It's noticeably easier, with both our strengths, and in no time, the cries of a baby echoed in the room.

I notice her eyes gleam with pride as they wrap him in a swaddling cloth and clean him up. She smiles at me briefly, then rests her head tiredly on the porcelain edge of the tub. The midwife put the boy in my hand after Naza breastfed him. I hold him carefully, feeling his infant bones' fragility in my palm. He is mine.

"what would you name him?" The midwife asks with elated curiosity, but I don't know. I look at Naza for help, but she doesn't know either. The baby coos, playfully touching the rough edges of my face. I see his tiny eyes reflecting the glow of the yellow sun.

"Afamefuna!" I cry, "My Afamefuna."