Some days I sit and reminisce about the things that are and could have been.
Nne Chike was what I called her when I was either calling her bluff or plain pulling her legs. Other times I called her nma in the traditional way Igbos called their mothers, grandmothers or any woman considered motherly.
“Hoa! Naijiria biko nu ooo biko nu” she yelled out one evening just after watching the 6pm news. “ Nma oginni kwa, what is it?” I asked, curious as to why she had screamed. Then she began to recount tales from the civil war and how she had survived and its effect on Nigeria of today and ndi Igbo at the time. She mentioned how the ‘umuokorobia’of today who were but thick liquid in their grand father’s loins were about wars. There and then she asked me to kneel down, close my eyes and pray that we do not encounter another war. I half heartedly said a prayer to her hearing and urged her to continue the story as I threw in a quick “chukwu agaghi ekwe, God will not allow it”
Children were dying of kwashiorkor, salt was …