Chika

AKUNUBA (WEALTH)

I remember the day you woke up, violin in hand, and decided you wanted to do music.

You could sing, and the teen’s church instructor assured you that you were the light of the world. And so you went on to sign up for a talent hunt—barely coasted through the auditions, then dropped out anyway.

“You have talent, undeniably so,” the judges said. “But you could do with some refining. It was nice to have you on the show…” You hung your head, but soon enough your mama looked her proud son in the eye and reminded him he had exams to pass.

Not that it mattered—you’d always been top of the class anyway.

So what if you didn’t have a music career?

Your big brains would be the ticket out of the trenches for you and yours.

You sniffled and accepted the ice-cream bribe. Walking down the mammoth halls swarming with parents and peers, you reckoned that all was well again.

I remember your toy remote contraption—half actual remote from the TV, and half cardboard, sticks, and glue. ( Your dad threatened you’d get sent to boarding school if you touched the TV remote.)

Yes, that one.

I remember when it worked, and no one had to suffer through the “go bring me the remote” pandemic again for a time.

One controller push, and this car remote with bottle caps for wheels moved around the small living room in your otherwise squalid family house.

Mama cheered.

Your annoying big sister smirked—half proud, half sneer.

So those hours wailing over wanting to watch the documentary channel paid off in some way?

You could see it in the reluctant way she admired the boxy, things-will-fall-apart-soon contraption as it crawled to a stop by her feet.
Even your dad—oh so manly, of all the men of the house you’d ever come across—had a proud glint in his eyes.

Until the day it stopped working.

Smallie, the last born, had rolled onto it in her sleep.

Now the entire house was less than pleased with you—both the remote and their temporary remote fetcher were gone. “This stubborn boy, did I not tell you not to touch that remote?”

Who else but your dad would spearhead the attacks?

That meant three weeks of kitchen duty—and a biweekly sermon on the cost of electronics in the market.

I remember when you would sketch and draw the next dress Mama would wear to her August meeting. Proudly, she’d hand them over to her tailor, who would then proceed to botch the design.

But Mama, content with just wearing some semblance of what her daughter designed, would prance like a peacock. “Ada, my fashionista!” she’d start. “See your mother na—negodu nma!” (Look at this beauty!)

You’d wince—half cringing at the criminal rendition of your precious designs and half proud that something you conceived from observing the onion bulb came to life on her rotund features.

Who knows? One day, proper stick-figure models would strut your designs on the runway for all the world to see.

A girl could dream. A girl could dare.

I would be remiss to forget the first time you won a spelling bee, a Bible verse recital game, and a scholarship—all in the same week.

Oh, star child! Have you forgotten?

The neighbours’ kids got an earful each time you passed by: “Does he have two heads? Why can’t you learn from your mate?”

Do you remember?

Or have you forgotten where you hid the fifth talent?

Have you forgotten where your wealth lies, my son?

— Auracl.