On Christmas evening, Oma sent another message, the same kind she had always sent, baring her sorrowful heart to him, of how she felt in his absence. She asked him for the umpteenth time when he would return or respond to her messages. She wasn’t expecting a reply, though. He never replied anymore. With every message she sent, her faith in him waned like a candle gradually burning out.
Two years and counting, yet, no reply from Chris. It was as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. Oma kept going back to the last one he sent in April to perhaps check for oddities in his written words. There was nothing. No matter how carefully she read between the lines, there was no off statement, nothing to indicate that he wasn’t ever going to come back to his ‘baby girls’ in Nigeria. The long letter ended with him wishing Steph a happy eighth birthday, and as usual, what came after that was some money. Oma remembered it.
She had wanted a video call with him, so that he could properly wish his daughter well, but he was going to be in a very important meeting with the professors at his school. Oma had taken the disappointment in good faith and scheduled the call for the following week.
So, after she didn’t hear from him for a week, including during the scheduled time to make up for Steph’s birthday, she bombarded him with WhatsApp messages, none of which he responded to. He was last seen online at 1:00 a.m. on the 19th of April, a day after Steph’s birthday. What could have been the issue? It was unlike him not to reach out. That hadn’t happened before. The closest to it was when he got into an accident on his way home and was admitted to the hospital. He had called the next day, a video call, smiling at them, saying it was nothing, that he was fine. Oma panicked when she saw his left leg, bandaged and hanging from above. When he spoke, it was with so much enthusiasm that they wouldn’t have suspected that he had been hit by a car if it wasn’t for the video call. That was the only time. The only time.
Oma had failed at defending him whenever she met with her parents and they inquired about her husband. Her mother had been the most worrisome and dramatic, suggesting in her loud, desperate voice that maybe Chris had left her for a white woman. Her father, after a year and a half, had lost his patience and threatened to deal with Chris if he found out the truth, and if that truth happened to be that he was cheating.
Every other person who heard the news acted erratically in the same way. Only a few people thought, maybe, he was in a very sticky situation and couldn’t reach out. For one year? Two years. What if he were dead? Even if it were to be so, Oma must be notified one way or the other, and he would be cremated, shipped, depending, for a customary burial. Oma refused to believe that maybe he was dead and amongst the many unidentified bodies.
During the first two months of his ghosting, Oma’s elder sister, Oby, had done some computer checks on Chris using the facilities of Unity Bank, where she worked.
Oma called the school where he was doing his master’s programme, and they equally had little information on his whereabouts. He hadn’t notified the school of his absence, even after the meeting. Oma had also found out that the meeting was true, but Chris didn’t show up for it. The layers of trust she had built started peeling off. She had hyperventilated on hearing the news given by the school and suddenly developed asthma.
She had started brooding over his fidelity, harbouring doubts and suspicion like everybody else, and one by one, line by line, she scrutinised every message he had sent over the years. Those were the days she cried and beat her chest while locked up in her room. In those days, she couldn’t be left alone with her daughter. Oby had to come over and get hugged and slobbered on every day for one month. Those were the times she reached out to her parents the most, needing their comfort and support. Those were the times she took to praying often and visiting the Pentecostal church at the end of the street. Those were the times she landed herself in the ICU because her lungs and heart almost failed her. Those were trying times, and all through them, not a single message from her dearest came in. Those were her worst moments because she had no answer to give her daughter other than that her father was very busy and couldn’t call. For two months?
After six months, she began getting uncalled-for pieces of advice. Move on. That was what everyone she knew suggested. What would she do? Had she suddenly turned to Penelope, whose virtue and fidelity would be tested on how well she could wait out her husband’s absence in loyalty and perseverance until his return? That was ridiculous, she thought. Her situation was more real than a myth. What if Chris never returned?
Two years and counting, she had no idea what to make of her marriage. They weren’t divorced. He was just missing, and she didn’t know what category of missing. Two years and counting, she looked at the family picture hanging on the dining room wall and held back from crying. He had a hand around a happy Oma and another around a three-year-old Steph in her flowery dress. He was grinning. Oma had asked him to give it his best smile. She was fed up with his half-smiles, and he was all teeth immediately. Oma laughed and said, “Not too much.” He reduced the grin, and it was perfect — their perfect little family captured in one shot. A year later, he won a scholarship to study in the US.
It was bad news for Oma. But, for Chris, his dreams had come true. Oma had been supportive of him to pursue his dreams, but deep within her, she prayed that somehow his dreams would see things in a different light and choose Nigeria. She had casually said that it would mean a lot to the family if he studied abroad.
When he waved the admission status in front of them, Oma’s heart jumped. The day she dreaded had come. She wanted to tell him that it was a terrible idea, but thought otherwise. She didn’t want to be that killer of dreams. So, she asked him what it would cost to have the entire family over in the US. He blew the costs out of proportion in his excitement and ignorance. However, he did placate them. He would make sure to reach out to his baby girls. And Oma thought a man wanted his freedom at some point in his life. It would be selfish not to let him. He said he would call. She could bear it for four or five years.
Her husband had long been due to graduate and return home. He had told her some time ago, before he disappeared, that he was rounding up and making the necessary preparations towards returning home. What went wrong? Did he have an alternative plan? Was he up to something? Where was Christopher Okike Dimkpa? Where on earth?
She sighed and called out to Steph, who raced down the stairs in her sweater and leggings. They grabbed what they needed — two medium-sized coolers, plastic plates and spoons, water cans, and plastic bags.
It was going to be a feast as usual at her parents’. It was Christmas. Rice and chicken season, sliced carrots and green beans, salad cream and green pepper, and cabbage. Lots of food and drinks to take home. Oma wouldn’t have to bother cooking for a week, courtesy of Mom and Dad, and, of course, Oby, the one sister who had refused to “get romantically entangled with anything that had a penis.” Exactly her words.
She had had terrible relationships. Oma wasn’t judging her for thinking like that. She wasn’t like her sister. She refused to react to her sister’s constant comparisons of the fleeting relationships she had been in and her marriage. Oma knew what it meant to be loved by a man. Chris loved with all his heart. She knew what a happy marriage was. It was nothing like her sister’s past relationships. How could she then give in to that careless stereotype that all men were the same?
“Let’s put them in the booth,” Oma said, and Steph aye-ayed her, comically. She watched as the girl filled her arms with the containers and hurried to the front door. Her daughter was happy to be finally leaving this drab house.
In less than fifteen minutes, they were inside the stuffy vehicle. Oma dunked the phone in the case beside her. The windows were rolled down, and the dry, harmattan breeze wafted in. She ordered Steph to use her seatbelt as she rolled the car out of the house onto the streets. The phone in the case buzzed when they hit the busy main road. She glanced briefly at it and focused on the road. When they got held in short traffic, Oma looked at it again. It was a strange number. There had been a lot of scammers trying to swindle her using her husband’s name or her sister’s name. They called from Unity Bank, the States, Denmark, wherever, and Oma had paid them no attention after the last incident in which she had almost fallen prey.
A woman with an American accent had called. She lied about being married to her husband. She said that if Oma wanted more information, she should be quick to comply. Oma had freaked out but was wise enough to reach out to Oby, who, after a little investigation, discovered that she was a fraudster. Oma wondered where these fraudsters got their information from.
She replaced the phone in the case and turned to look at Steph, who was busy on her tablet. Her phone rang two more times while they waited in traffic.
It was past six o’clock by the time they arrived. The familiar wooden front door of her parents’ humble bungalow creaked open, and her mother came out, dancing. Oby, who had opened the gate for them, was now returning. She was still in her smart work outfit — a monkey jacket over a white long-sleeved shirt, trousers, and heeled boots. She cat-walked and swung her handbag gaily as she approached Oma, who blushed.
“Every time, work,” Oma teased and went to hug her sister. Behind them, Steph had collided with her grandmother.
“My dear, it’s this office party. I just had to attend it before they query me,” Oby said and twirled around. She was tall, but was an iroko in those heels. She was slimmer than Oma, who had more flesh and curves.
“You look cute!” Oma said.
“Look at you, getting fatter,” Oby said, and they both laughed.
They crowded into the small sitting room. Oma’s father occupied his favourite couch, the one directly in front of the TV. His stomach protruded from underneath his white singlet, and tufts of white hair decorated it. He had managed to shave some off his chin and scalp. He wore those tiny glasses and peeked at all of them as they filed into the house.
Boisterous chitchats and the smell of jollof rice saturated the air. They milled about the dining table, gaping at the delicacies. Oma’s mother was at it again, showing off her cooking expertise. This time around, she baked chin-chin and buns, and made zobo drinks. Every Christmas dinner came with its special dessert. Last year, there were ice creams and ring doughnuts.
“Who remembers salty ice cream?” Oby joked, recalling the last Christmas dessert-turned-disaster, and everyone laughed. Oma’s sister was the funnier child. She knew how to lighten up a tense atmosphere, how to strike up a good conversation and keep it going. Oma was the more serious one.
They settled into the chairs around the table, prayed, and began to eat. The rice was always good, Oma confessed. She noticed Oby tackling her meat first, and they laughed about it.
“Hmm, I haven’t eaten a gooood food in a long time,” Oma said.
Her mother looked up. “What have you been feeding my grandchild with, eh?” she asked, and turned to her granddaughter. “Tell me, Stephanie, what did you eat this morning?”
“Ah ah, Mummy,” Oma said, shifting in her seat, “I feed her o.”
“I’m asking my grandchild. Talk to me, nwa.”
Shyly, Steph spoke, “Cornflakes…”
Oma’s mother put her hands on her head dramatically. “Ishi ni ni? Corn what? Don’t you ever eat rice and beans?”
“Sometimes… we buy food,” Steph said, gladly, thinking she was salvaging the situation.
Oma covered her face with her palms. “Mummy, I cook sometimes,” she whined.
“Sometimes, like every two weeks?” Oby sniggered, and Oma glared at her.
“My dear Stephanie,” Oma’s mother ignored them and faced the child. “That’s why you’re here, to fill your belly before you go back to eating cornflakes and Golden Morn.”
Steph nodded nervously.
“Oma, how are you?” her father asked. “Oby has been disturbing us here since. Would you like to swap places with her, so that we can take care of you and Steph more?”
Oby made a face at him. “Daddy, it’s remaining small now and you’ll just sell me off. Nawa o! Oma, the hot cake,” she said in mock praise.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Oma smiled.
“No,” her mother said. “Say it. I’ll consider it. That’s how Oby has been talking in this house since with all those office jargon, ‘I’ll look into it. I’ll see to it.’”
They all laughed. Even Steph, whom Oma doubted understood the joke, laughed too. Maybe Oma would consider it. Her child was happier at her grandparents’ place. After dinner, they sprawled out on the sitting room floor, sipping cold zobo and talking heartily. It was the therapy Oma needed. It was another Christmas night where she momentarily forgot about Chris. She smiled all through the conversation and into her sleep. Another Christmas without Chris. Another Christmas with the Diogus.
Oma awoke to the doorbell ringing the next day. Someone should be getting it already, she thought. It rang continuously, and when it looked as if everyone was still turning in their beds, Oma stood up. The room was still a bit dim, so she shuffled around for the switch. When she turned it on and squinted at the wall clock, she was surprised. It was still very early at six for someone to be at the door. It could be the neighbours wanting one thing or the other. She walked out of the room and bumped into her mother, who was also on her way to the door. Oma greeted her.
“You slept fine?” her mother asked.
Oma nodded, feeling like a child again. She put an arm around her mother’s waist as they matched towards the door. Her mother peeped through the window and shrugged at Oma, which meant that she didn’t know who the visitor was. She opened it a fraction and Oma had to crane her neck to see the person. It was a local farmer whom neither Oma nor her mother had seen before. The typical straw hat was held in place on his head, and the strings knotted under his jaw.
He extended something to Oma’s mother immediately he saw her and greeted, “I boola chi.”
“I boola,” she responded to his greeting, and warily asked, “What’s this?” as she took it from him. She turned it around in her hands and exchanged glances with Oma, who, in turn, looked back at her father, who had sneaked up on them. Oma mouthed her morning greetings to him.
“Are you Diogu?” the man asked.
They all said yes, including Oma. This was her family, too. If this were a surprise lottery from a faraway cousin who was now a business mogul or a prince, she should be a part of it.
“I was sent from the mailing centre to deliver this parcel to Obiageli Diogu,” the man said.
“It’s me!” Oby rushed forward, pushed them out of the way, and snatched the parcel from their mother. It was flat, light, and wrapped in a brown paper. Oby began to tear the wrappings off as the man retreated to his bicycle parked a few feet from the door.
“Daalu,” Oma’s mother thanked the man, and then said to her husband, “Daddy, you forgot to lock the gate.”
“Oby, weren’t you the one who opened it for Oma?” he said to Oby, who replied that if he had done his usual night rounds, he would have found that out.
They waited patiently as Oby tore off the brown wrapper, revealing a cream envelope. Their eyes took on an expectant glint.
“What’s that?” Oma’s mother asked.
Out of the corner of Oma’s eyes, she saw Steph shuffle sleepily into the sitting room, rubbing her eyes. She had snuggled in between her grandparents throughout the night. Oma had looked into the room on her way to get water from the kitchen around midnight and smiled.
Oby raised the envelope for all to see. It glittered at the four corners.
“Open it na,” Oma whined. “Why are you wasting time?”
“Calm down,” her sister said. She unlatched the flap and retrieved two things — a picture and an invitation card. Their heads knocked together as each person tried to get a glimpse first.
“Hey! A nwuola m eee!” Oma’s mother screamed when she held the picture in her right hand.
Oby stood aloof, brooding over something. Oma’s father grabbed the picture, and when he saw it, he gnashed his teeth in anger. Oma was scared, running from her mother to her father to see what made them react like that. She took the picture from her father’s loose fingers and stared at it, stunned. It was her turn to ask, “What’s this?”
“Is that Daddy?” Steph cornered her, standing on her toes to peep.
She had seen it too. It was Daddy, quite all right, but with another woman. It wasn’t making sense the way the woman was perched on his back, arms wrapped around his neck, laughing. Her husband was smiling too. All teeth. Too much. She hadn’t seen him smile this way in a while. She hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time. Her eyes brimmed quickly, and without permission, the tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced over the picture and asked again, “What’s this?”
Oby began to read the invitation letter. Oma picked bits of the information, unable to fully comprehend:
A wedding reception. At Roosevelt’s Park. 11 p.m. Colours of the day: purple and white. A royal wedding. Courtesy: Parents of both parties. RSVP.
Was Oma’s marriage to Chris all this while a lie, a hoax? Chris was an orphan who had lost his parents at a tender age. That was what he had told her. He had shown her pictures of his parents when he was little and when they were still alive. She had believed him. Now, “parents of both parties?” What was that supposed to mean?
Oma’s heart thumped so hard that it resounded in her ears. She had to beat her chest to release the tightening she felt. Everyone rushed to her and their voices were all jumbled as they each tried to say something at the same time. They led her to lie down on the longest couch.
Uchendu weds Queeneth.
Her heart fluttered, nearly jumped out of her mouth. Uchendu? She had been lied to for ten years? She couldn’t even whimper. She felt like dying.
“Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!” her mother kept shouting.
“Ha, ha… God!” Oby said.
From where Oma lay, her sister and father’s rage was palpable. Oby, who hated men, not to mention men who cheated. Oma’s father, who loved Oma and would destroy anyone who tried to destroy her.
“We will crash that wedding o! We must!” Oby was shouting at the top of her lungs.
Oma had never imagined that one day, it would be her crashing someone’s wedding, exposing someone’s evil deeds in front of multitudes. It was all surreal. It wasn’t Nollywood. It was her reality. What she watched in the movies had befallen her.
“Let’s go.” Her father marched into the room. Her mother wailed at Oma’s feet. Oma was now lost for words. Steph sat quietly, sniffing and rubbing her small nose, and taking in everything on the brink of tears.
Oby didn’t want to hear that Oma wasn’t going to go with them. She dragged her younger sister up and pushed her inside to get dressed.
“I don’t want to hear anything, joor!” Oby said, anger flashing through her eyes. In that moment, she resembled Oma’s father, who was strong-willed and determined. “Make sure you’re prepared before I get out of my room. Make sure!”
Oma had to dress up. She was similar to her mother. She easily let matters slide. She easily gave in. She easily cried and fell sick. She could easily… die. But she didn’t want to die.
“If I hadn’t done my background investigation, we wouldn’t have caught that fool!” Oma could hear her sister scream from her room.
Oma was too weak for this drama. She found herself sitting at the edge of the bed, clutching her chest, trying to slow her breathing. With the little strength left in her, she pushed her legs into her jean trousers and rested for a minute before she squeezed into a white polo. Her heart pounded. She was scared. Why had Chris done this to her? Were they not good enough together? Was she not a good wife and mother? He could have just told her how he felt about the marriage. It would have been an easier pill to swallow. Why go to this extent?
Oby barged into her room at exactly 9:47 a.m., dragging her to her feet by the arm. Oma thought she would be aggressive, but she did the unusual. She hugged her.
“We’ll handle this, OK?” she said to Oma. “You just watch. You’ll be glad you joined us for this. You don’t have to do anything. Just watch.”
They all converged in the sitting room, including Oby, the leader of this activist group, and Oma’s father, her assistant.
“What’s the machete for?” Oma’s mother asked soberly, indicating the weapon Oma’s father wielded in his right hand.
He grunted. It was just a prop for the occasion.
“We’re not going to be violent, Daddy. We’re not going to send heads rolling,” Oby made it clear, and Oma’s father grunted some more.
Everyone entered Oby’s jeep.
“Shouldn’t Steph remain at home?” Oma’s mother asked. Steph was in a moody state, on her grandmother’s lap.
Oby shook her head. “There’s no one to stay at home with her. What if Chris has an alternative plan to get his daughter and vamoose again?”
There were a few mutterings about that. She was right. Who knew what Chris had in mind?
Oma couldn’t believe how her husband had turned into a fugitive. She would like to personally ask him some questions whenever the opportunity came. Why had he gone rogue? Why had he lied that day about the meeting with the professors? Had he hatched this plan all along? Was he a psycho or just plain evil? Did they birth him and evil together? Why had he chosen her to perpetuate this evil?
The engine roared to life. Oby hadn’t been to Roosevelt’s Park before, so she opened Google Map and looked it up. Oma’s father had a little idea of where the place was and gave vague directions. Oma was in a daze throughout the ride to the park. She sat squeezed in between her family and still couldn’t feel or hear them. She was merely floating above the complexities, detached from anything that portrayed itself as real. As soon as Oby hit the brakes, Oma was all sobered up and back to earth.
They parked across the road. Roosevelt’s Park was in full view. The gates were wide open, and people milled into the place in their lavish attire. Oma looked at her awkward family. They seemed like a dysfunctional bunch, dressed as if they were emerging from the farm, while everybody else looked beautiful.
They were there for a mission. Oma felt bad about being a part of the mission, whether it was the best thing to do or not. Would it make it any easier on her to see Chris getting married to someone else? Was this even worth it? Wouldn’t they all just make a fool of themselves?
Roosevelt’s gates were covered in glittery white-and-purple ribbons and balloons. Chris’ favourite colour was green. Had he also lied about that little thing? Oma fought back tears as they all undid their seatbelts and readied themselves to go in. Oby said they had to barge in at the right time, when man and wife would waltz towards the altar to say the vows. It would serve Chris right.
They alighted. Oma held Steph to her right and her mother to her left. Her father clung to his machete. Oby led the way. A gun would have suited her perfectly. They defied the security men and barged into the building, exactly when Uchendu and Queeneth were about to make their sacred vows to each other. It was such a disturbing entrance because the crowd screamed, and the priest had to pause in the middle of the statements. The couple turned in the direction of the mad family, and what was written on their faces was shock.
“Everybody, calm down. Calm down,” the priest shouted, but his voice was muffled by the uproar.
Murmurings spread across the crowd. The once bubbly atmosphere was immediately turned into a disconcerting one. The groom appeared horrified, and when his bride tore away from his grip, he chased after her.
Queeneth, Oma noticed, was light-skinned and beautiful. Her innocent face had morphed into what Oma saw as mistrust and pain, exactly what she felt when she didn’t hear from Chris.
Queeneth approached Oma and her family, wanting to know why they had ruined her day. She was red with embarrassment and anger. There could have been a better way to deal with this other than involving an innocent woman. But what made her think Queeneth was innocent? What made her think that she and Chris hadn’t planned this all along? This woman could be Chris’ old lover. The pity she initially felt for her turned to spite.
“Why? What’s the problem?” Queeneth demanded, tears rolling down her pink cheeks.
Her husband-to-be came down to join her, and Oma kept staring at Chris, the man she had married. He looked at her vaguely, as if he had never seen her before. It broke Oma’s heart. Oby took it upon herself to explain the situation in a brazen way.
“My sister here,” she said, pointing at a sober Oma. “She was abandoned by this man!” She pointed at the groom, whose jaw dropped.
“Your husband-to-be had been married to my sister for ten solid years before he disappeared,” Oby fumed.
The guests shouted. Queeneth put her hands to her mouth.
“This is Stephanie, Chris’ daughter!” Oby pointed at Steph, who was crying.
“Chris?” Queeneth asked, bewildered and turned to her husband, who was already shaking his head.
“This… this… must really be a misunderstanding,” he stuttered. The groomsmen, the bridesmaids, and the priest closed in on the scene.
“I have evidence, Chris. You can’t deny it. You can’t just leave your family like that!” Oby screamed. The groom looked about helplessly. All eyes judged him, even his bride.
Oby showed them the pictures of Chris, Oma, and Steph. So many of them. It was Chris. The man in the pictures looked exactly like the groom. Everybody believed this. But what disturbed Oma was that Chris didn’t even glance at her, as if they had never been married. His eyes were always on a distressed Queeneth in her overflowing wedding gown. Something was wrong. As crazy as it seemed, the man that they said was Chris wasn’t her Chris.
…
She awoke with a start. The sound of the doorbell had pierced through her sleep, fragmenting her dreams. She threw the blanket away and sprang up from the bed, her mind and heart racing in anticipation. Could it be him? Could it be today?
She slipped into her footwear and hurried to the living room, where Steph stood at the front door attending to the visitor. Steph opened the door some more, and he surfaced. Her dearest! Oma pushed through and threw her arms around him, but drew back in disappointment when she saw Queeneth approaching from behind him. Oma fell onto the seat, whimpering, hugging herself, the sleep now finally clearing from her eyes. Of course, it wasn’t Chris.
“Mummy, that’s Uncle Uchendu, not Dad,” Steph said, her cheeks red.
“That’s all right, Steph,” Uchendu said, taking the girl’s hand while Queeneth smiled warmly at her.
Oma could see through the couple. She could read them. They pitied her. They feared that she might harm Steph during one of her fits. It made them mumble amongst themselves. She didn’t like them. She didn’t especially like seeing Uchendu. His presence constantly reminded her of Chris’ absence and spiked her emotions.
When she opened her mouth to speak, it started with an outburst of raucous laughter and then, whimpering. The story was always next in line, and her eyes twinkled with hope whenever she told it. It was a story they all knew, experienced, and heard her say whenever they came visiting, but she wouldn’t stop. The story was her muse, her life. Chris lived through every word of it. She felt his presence whenever she told it. So, she laughed, and they thought she was mad. They didn’t believe in her vision. They didn’t believe Chris was still out there.
It was already five months after the catastrophic wedding incident that led to the uncovering of some difficult truths. The story was still fresh in her memory, appended to her brain, and inscribed on the tablets of her heart. She retold the story of how Uchendu had turned out to be Chris’ twin, separated mischievously at birth. When he vehemently refused to accept that he was Chris, even after seeing those pictures, people became curious. How could he possibly deny those vivid pictorial evidence of his double lifestyle? How could he be so adamant and audacious? This confusion led to further probing. Something must have gone wrong somewhere. All his relatives were in shock too. They affirmed that he was innocent. However, they wanted to prove it too.
When the issue of being a possible twin came up, he had to go back to his foster parents, who had always withheld some information from him. It was high time he knew his history, his backstory. That was when he realised that he wasn’t brought out of an orphanage home. He was stolen from a hospital and hidden in a bush. His abductors planned to use him for some fetish practices, but his parents, being farmers who regularly tromped through bushes, found and rescued him. Having found out that he was a twin and the man in the picture was his brother, he demanded to know his brother’s history. What was his story?
Uchendu went to the hospital where he was allegedly born to further investigate the situation. That was when he discovered that Chris was the twin who was left behind. Their biological mother had been lied to that the other twin was a stillbirth, while, in fact, he had been sold out to the highest bidder for other purposes. They had run DNA tests and confirmed that Uchendu’s brother was Chris. The news spread across the vicinity like wildfire. It was a shocking revelation to all.
Chris’ disappearance was still a story left hanging and uncompleted, accompanied by an ellipsis. What was next? All efforts to find him had proved abortive. All pathways led to dead ends.
And Oma told all this to everyone and sometimes to herself. She occasionally found herself laughing and tearing her hair until she wore herself out. And when it looked as if she was recuperating from the past, she would be thrown back into it. The fits would continue for a while. It was a season.
During that period, there was no end to what she could imagine. Oma could let her imagination run wild. She could imagine that Uchendu was Chris, or she could imagine that the twins had both known each other, hatched a master plan over the years, and decided the perfect moments to execute each action point. Chris’ disappearance was part of the plan, and she was just a pawn in their game. But to what end?
She could also imagine that Chris was her sweet, innocent husband who had planned to surprise both his daughter and Oma by making an entrance on Steph’s birthday and then announcing the conclusion of his master’s programme, killing two birds with one stone. But something had gone wrong along the line. That would explain his absence at the meeting with the professors. She wanted to believe it was something Chris could do because he was full of surprises. She just wanted to cling to an explanation.
The whole thing remained an ironic twist of events — one twin got kidnapped at birth, and later in life, the other twin disappeared without a clue.
It was a mixture of a fairy tale and a bad dream. A fairy tale because she was still living with clouds over her head, waiting for him to magically appear. A bad dream because she had to wait. The ellipsis was there to remind her that the story wasn’t over. Chris was still out there, dead or alive. She wouldn’t be able to sleep well at night knowing that even in his absence, his presence lingered on, in the three dots, and in the page that would soon be flipped… ♦
Precious Chidinma Osuagwu is a fiction writer and storyteller. Her passion for fiction writing has led her on a journey of creativity in which she shares with the world, out of her treasure trove, the collections she has magically pieced together. When she’s not studying, researching, or dreaming up plots for her next big story, she loves to watch movies and give reviews. She also enjoys a great deal of travelling.
