Mountain of Yesterday

By Tony Nwaka

Amina and Udoka are caught in the religious riot that engulfs the city of Maiduguri. Their home and many others are destroyed, leaving a trail of tragedies. With the assistance of a kind stranger, Udoka relocates to his homestead in the East.
Back home at Ubo, he must adhere to the traditional practices of his people or face the wrath of the community. This brings about friction at which point they are cut off from interacting with their extended family members as penalty for disobedience. When the unexpected happens and Amina becomes the central figure of opposition against the forces of tradition, a vicious battle erupts. Human willpower is locked in deadly confrontation with a deeply conservative society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Nwaka
• Release date: Mar 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370415779

Tony Nwaka

Tony Felix Nwaka is a Nigerian writer and public policy consultant. He has held various positions in the public service of Delta State of Nigeria. He studied History at the University of Lagos and Nnamdi Azikiwe University. He is also the author of ‘Lords of the Creek.’ Tony lives with his family in Asaba, Delta State of Nigeria.

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To my beautiful daughters, Onyebuchi, Anuoluwapo and Gbemisola.

Acknowledgements

My profound gratitude goes to Clifford Eluem, my friend from school days. Cliffo, as we fondly call him, never fails to rally round me in moments of difficulty. I am grateful for the information he provided me. I also cannot forget my ‘core brother’, Afam Obiago. There is no doubt that I benefitted immensely from our numerous moments of sober reflections. Very few persons can replicate the flourish of his cerebral power. For Paulo, my brother, I honestly do not know how to effectively capture in words the immensity of his affections for me. When your brother is widely known to be your friend too, do you really need to say more? May God continue to bless my dear brother, Paul Uwechue. I thank my uncle, Dr. Frank Ubido, for the consistency of his advice. He provided valuable insight into varied forms of cultural practices and agrarian traditions across Ibo speaking communities. I must acknowledge too Mr. Daniel Osammor. He has been a brother indeed. My gratitude also goes to my Facebook friends. I truly appreciate their encouragement and advice. I cannot end this list without mentioning my other two sources of inspiration. One is the Freedom Ministries International, my local church in Asaba, Delta State of Nigeria. Indeed, it has been a fulfilling experience at the House of Freedom. The other is Efioanwan Edem, who took time to edit this work. She is truly a master of her vocation. Thanks, Fifi. I shall continue to count on your support and guidance.

At the expense of sounding immodest, I take full responsibility for all that is contained herein, and ultimately give God the glory for the magnificence of His benedictions.

The surest and indeed the only method of learning how to bear bravely the vicissitudes of fortune, is to recall the calamities of others.

Polybius (ca. 198-117 B.C.)

One

I had spent the Tuesday sorting the pile of envelopes in the mailbags to the point that my stomach was beginning to grumble. For the umpteenth time I flashed a look at the letter lying on the stool beside me: it was a note of commendation I had received earlier in the day as the best staff for the month of October—the third in a row. I could not help but recall the words of Amina, for indeed her prediction had come true once again.

Several times she had said I would make it a third time. Truly, there was this peculiar thing about her sense of perception. Initially, in the earlier days of our union, I had taken the manifestations of her hunches as some kind of coincidence. But over the years, the consistent accuracy of those projections had left me with no option but to surrender to the power of her intuition. I looked up again at the clock, knowing that working hours officially closed by five—barring the overtime that occasionally came with days of heavy workload.

I stood to tidy my table and called on one of the staff to help sort out the remaining mails. My briefcase was a few meters away—in the excitement of the hour I did not notice it had remained unlocked all day. I reached for it and went to sign off for the day. The rain had begun to drizzle. With my umbrella, I stepped out of the office and headed for the bus terminal.

My house was a three-room bungalow in the low-cost district of Bulum-Kuttu, on the outskirts of Maiduguri. That was the much I could afford as a public servant on grade level 10. I had barely finished rapping on the door when, five meters away, the window curtain was shoved aside and Amina peeped through the louvers.

You look excited today, she said.

Shortly, the door was unlocked.

I walked in and tossed the briefcase on the blue cushioned chair.

Hmmm, my dear, guess what? I said.

She smiled and fixed an anxious stare on me. What? she said. I grabbed her bulky frame and tried to lift her off the ground, but I could not go far. The patches of dampness on my white caftan etched some wet circles on her gray maternity gown.

My darling, I won the award for best staff again, I exclaimed.

"Wow! What a record you’ve set there . . . Nagode, Allah. We thank God for His grace. You see? Didn’t I say you would win for the third time? She ran her eyes all over me. Aha, at least it’s good to see you look cheerful again," she said and dropped the book with her on the white refrigerator.

In the last few weeks she had mentioned that I was beginning to talk less. She said I was getting increasingly withdrawn into myself, my fair skin was looking a shade darker, I had missed my regular weekly haircuts and white strands of hair were becoming visible in my usually dark moustache. I never was on the plump side, but she said it did appear to her that I was losing some weight.

She had hinted that the noticeable changes about me were indications of the prenatal anxiety of an overly expectant husband. Her advice was for me to worry less lest I broke down when I least expected. Although I had taken those comments with some indifference, her exceptional sense of discernment suggested her observations should not be completely discountenanced.

With her right palm open, she feigned a frown and looked in my eyes. Ehen, what about the ten naira? I remember you said they’d pay you ten naira if you made it three times in a row.

Of course, you know, the money won’t be available until some weeks later. Remember I’m yet to even be paid some of my overtime allowances. P&T will tell you it’s subject to availability of funds, I said in a pitiful tone and settled into the cushioned chair.

That’s OK. At least they’re the ones owing us. They’ll surely pay up some day. More important is the honor, my darling, She said and smiled again. Her soft voice always rang like a soothing balm unto my soul. She took my left hand and squeezed it in a consolatory gesture.

Sure . . . for sure, dear, I spluttered as I stood from the chair and headed for the kitchen.

Since Amina’s pregnancy began to bulge, I had taken every opportunity to prevent her from preparing the meals, for in about sixty days she would be delivered of our first child. But most times, by the time I returned from work she would have made ready the dinner. The sweet aroma that wafted into my nostrils as I entered the kitchen stirred my imagination about the sumptuous delicacy for the evening and, of course, my expectations were not disappointed. It was vintage Amina.

The pot on the gas cooker was steaming with yam pottage, garnished with shrimps, pumpkin leaves, carrots and goat meat. On the kitchen table was a calabash of kunun zaki—she had made me fall in love with the drink. Although the beverage was normally made from millet and spiced with ginger, and red and black pepper, she had a way of giving it a peculiarly delightful taste. I smiled and reached for the porcelain plate in the cabinet.

When I was done with the meal, I lounged in the chair next to the black and white Sony TV and put the dial on Nigeria Television Authority. NEPA, the power providers, had been quite generous in the last two days. The constancy of supply had enabled me keep tab on the daily sports review; it was my favorite of all their programs. However, this day the experience was not particularly inspiring because Rangers Football Club, my team, was languishing near the bottom of the Division One League table.

I believe it was my preoccupation with the disappointing fortunes of my darling club that made me not pay attention to the news that came after the program. I switched off the television and went to join Amina in the room.

* * * * *

I arrived at work on Wednesday morning and headed for the Inventory Unit. It took a while to walk the hundred meters from the bus station to the post office; a herd of cattle was crossing that part of Ahmadu Bello Way, in the heart of Maiduguri. Wednesday was usually the least busy day for me, but I had to contend with the backlog from the work of the previous day.

There was no way I could have singularly managed the overflow of work if I had not engaged the services of the two young men who were posted to the office on national youth service. I asked for the record of undelivered packages and walked toward the stack of parcels to reconcile same with the figures contained in the papers before me. After I had satisfied myself with the entries, I signed off on the mails and returned to my office.

Much of the day was spent updating the stamp receipts for the month and exchanging banter with colleagues who stopped by to congratulate me on the award. It was not till five that I departed the post office for the bus station. The weather had been friendly, being a mild day. I then walked into the bus shelter to await the Volkswagen Kombi buses that plied my route.

I must say that there was a compelling attraction I felt to bus shelters. I had realized long ago that apart from beer parlors and hair salons, there were few other veritable sources of gossip and rumors like a bus shelter. On this day, I had barely settled in when snippets of conversation began to stream in from two corners of the shelter.

I was still savouring the wisps of information gathered in the little time I spent at the bus shelter when we got to the junction of my street. It was my regular point of alighting from the bus on my homeward journey, and I had barely stepped out of the vehicle to head for my street when, all of a sudden, all hell was let loose.

A burst of gunshots sent people scampering in all directions. For a moment, I remained rooted to the spot, numbed by the pandemonium. Then I surged in speedy escape from the climate of blood and horror. Further down the road, gun-toting men in black masks were jumping into a Peugeot 404 pickup, knocking down more souls as they zoomed out of the bus terminal.

I got home, scurried into my room and locked myself in. I had never seen a tragedy of such scale. In the last ten days there had been varied accounts of two such incidents in other parts of the city. I remembered the report of the previous day. Unfortunately, my fixation on the football league had made me pay little attention to the news of security breaches that came after the sports program. Now this one had happened before my own eyes, coming less than a minute after I had stepped out of the bus. Shocked and confused, I lay on the bed wondering who would be the next victim of the widening destruction.

Udoka, are you there? Amina asked as she knocked on the door.

I guessed she had watched from the dining table, where she usually busied herself with the black Singer sewing machine, as I stamped into the house. I had taken along with me a copy of our house key that morning so as not to stress her by calling her up to open the door when I got home.

The flourish of excitement over the previous day’s award had tempered her worries about what she saw as my increasing moodiness. But the mood in which I breezed into the house this day must have left her in no doubt that a major disaster had occurred.

Udo . . . Udo. Open the door, she yelled and banged on the door.

Woman, let me be, I muttered.

What’s the matter that you’ll lock yourself up in the room? Please open the door, she said.

I’m OK. I’ll be fine.

Look, Udoka, if you don’t open up I’ll scream for people to bring down the door.

I unlocked and drew the door open. Still in the blue caftan I had worn to work, I brushed past her and went to my regular cushioned chair in the living room. She walked behind me and I could hear the rustling of her flowing green bubu as it swept the length of the red rubber carpet. She took the next seat and fixed a gaze on me—an impassioned look that craved nothing but the unabridged account of my encounter.

I honestly did not wish to scare her with a description of the gun attack I had just narrowly escaped, but the fright in her eyes as she stared at me was too compelling for silence. In a weary tone, I managed to narrate the experience to her while she listened in shock and disbelief.

Do you now agree with me that we have to leave Bulum-Kuttu? she said.

She had sensed the looming danger a long time ago after some Islamist groups threatened to unleash mayhem on Christians in the town. She had advised that we relocate from the place.

It had all started as a seemingly uncoordinated and isolated assault by unknown herdsmen. With the benefit of her Muslim background, she had speculated that those initial attacks may have been carried out by a splinter group of the notorious Maitatsine sect. Dismissing her fears, I had said that the skirmishes were simply the temporary rumbling of a ragtag gang which would quickly fade away. How wrong I had been. Death kept inching closer and closer. Amina’s hunches had come true again.

Yes, my dear. You’ve been right all the while. I’ll need to start processing my transfer . . . you’re right. The situation is just worsening by the day. But, you see, my problem is the time it’ll take to get approval for the transfer. You know how these things are with Post and Telecommunications Department, I said.

Yes, I know. But at least you can begin the process tomorrow. Put in your request for transfer, she said.

I had mentioned it to Mallam Labaran, though. He told me the only place I could be transferred to now would be in the rural areas. He said P&T wants to strengthen the poorly-staffed offices in local communities.

Oh, I see. Is that the reason you’ve been hesitating to push the request?

No, no. It’s not as if I wouldn’t want to serve in a rural area. I’m just wondering how you’ll adjust to life in a local community.

"Walahi, Udo, at the rate things are going, I won’t mind living anywhere as long as we get out of this place."

It’s all right, dear. I’ll speak with him again tomorrow.

You just have to take it seriously this time, please, Udo . . . ehh?

Do we have a choice any more? Of course I will.

Two

Thursday morning. The zinc roof had begun to drip with the drizzle from the rumbling cloud. Amina was on her sewing machine, her favorite R&B music streaming from the tape player beside the TV set. I patted her on the shoulder.

"Sai anjima . . . see you later," I said and began to head out the door with my briefcase and umbrella. I was in my blue caftan and brown rubber sandals. Indeed, a friend had observed that if there was anything that spoke to my modest status as a mid-level public servant, it was my rubber sandals. My collection was mostly of blue, brown and black colors.

Although they were affordable and convenient, I was not unmindful of curious eyes fixating on my feet. But I had gotten used to such embarrassing stares because coping with the economic pressures of the times was of considerably higher priority than the fleeting allure of style and fashion. The charm of elegance was the least to occupy my mind, particularly on that day.

I had struggled all night with the thought of living in the village, for it would be like returning to Ubo, my homestead. An environment I effectively left in my teenage years. Even though I had managed to put up a three-bedroom apartment in Ubo, I only visited there during festive periods. I had not been to the village in two years, and it had been five years since I last took Amina there: she never felt comfortable in the midst of my kinsmen; they kept asking her to give them a child, as if conception and childbirth were things she could easily decree into existence.

I got to work at the usual time of eight, sauntered about my office for a while and walked out the door. Mallam Sirajo Labaran, my supervisor, worked two offices away.

Good morning, sir, I said.

The song of Dan Maraya Jos, ‘Wak’ar Karen Mota,’ filtered from the small transistor radio on the stool. He was in black suit, gray tie and blue shirt, and had his eyes fixed on the file on his table. He kept a moustache and a clean-shaven head like me, but I always felt his shave was better.

He looked up and pointed to the two chairs by the desk. How are you doing, Udoka. You’re looking worried.

"Sorry to bother you this morning, sir. Walahi, I really wish to pursue my transfer," I said and pulled out one of the chairs. My gaze swung to the left as the papers on the file cabinet rustled in the wind coming through the open louvers.

Why the sudden decision? Have you finally made up your mind? Oh, OK. Is it because of the killings in your area yesterday? he said. His eyes had begun to scan me.

Yes, sir. I’ve thought it through. I’m ready to move now, I said.

He looked at me with sympathy. I can understand, Udoka, though I still believe the situation hasn’t gone as bad as it seems. I’m sure it will soon be over. I wouldn’t want you take any rash decision just because some hoodlums have gone on the loose. You’ve lived in this city for twenty-five years. This is your home.

I know, sir.

Why not first apply for leave? I’m sure some calm would have returned by the time you’re back, he said.

Thank you, sir. Anyhow, let me just move. I’ve not seen my people for some time. Let me even use the opportunity to stay with them for a while. At least, if I’m going to be transferred to a rural area, the earlier I begin to experience it again the better.

But have you considered the condition of your wife? Are you sure of getting proper antenatal care for her in the village?

I think we can manage, sir. There are some primary healthcare centers a close distance from Ubo. I understand they offer antenatal services.

It’s OK, if you say so. You know I’ll always want the best for you. You can turn in the application. Allah ya kiyaye.

"Nagode . . . thank you, sir," I said. Slowly, I stood and left the office.

By five I had closed from work. I was the last person to board the Danfo bus that was headed in the direction of my neighbourhood. As the vehicle weaved through the heavy evening traffic, I realized I had left my umbrella in the office. It had dazzled and shone all day in sharp contrast with the gloomy wetness of the early morning.

Yet, I could not help but recall the discomfort on the face of Mallam Labaran as I presented my application for leave. In the last few weeks, I had met him on one or two occasions to express fears about the worsening insurgency in the ancient city. I guess the postmaster had taken solace in the fact that I had never really presented the issue with great determination.

I knew Mallam Labaran would not wish to lose my services, for he never hesitated to tell people I was his most hardworking officer. But I believe that the expression he saw on the face of his loyal officer that morning clearly underscored the seriousness of the conversation.

There was no doubt that I had enjoyed working with him. He had not only encouraged me to acquire a national diploma in accounting and statistics, he had ensured my appointment was regularized to reflect the higher qualification. He never treated me as a subordinate but a younger brother. To many, his slim and tall frame always struck a note of resemblance between us. The only difference was his dark skin which, interestingly too, many had easily dismissed as pigmentation variations within the family.

The vehicle pulled up at Mararaba Danza bus terminal where the killings had occurred the previous day, a pole away from Hunkuyi Street that led to my house. I stepped out of the bus and was about heading toward the street when I noticed that people were rushing out from that angle. The bus had sped away. I stood transfixed to the spot.

In the stampede I could hear gunshots ringing further down the street. Some voices in the on-rushing crowd were yelling that a church had been razed, while other people were shouting that houses were on fire. It quickly occurred to me that I had left my pregnant wife at home.

My eyes scanned the place. I glanced at my red briefcase, tightened my hand on the handle, looked up and bolted into the street. While people were rushing out of the street to safety, I was the lone figure plunging in the opposite direction. I could hear some urge me to beat a retreat, but I kept meandering through the mass of fleeing people. Dust from the dirt road swirled in the air. I could be gasping for breath but death would stay her appointment for now; I had become inured.

By the time I looked up again a cloud of smoke was billowing ahead. My heart thumped.

The worst has happened.

I took the left turn to the house, virtually oblivious of the hands that tried to pull me back from harm’s way. It was real. My house was on fire. I shut my eyes in anguish. Then I gaped and moved closer to the inferno, screaming, Amina . . . Amina . . . Amina.

There was cold silence. I was the only one now in the vicinity. Lost in thought, I could only hear the ominous crackling on the roof as wooden frames splintered into the raging flames.

I ran to the backside of the house. There was still no sign of life. Looking through the burning window, I could see my book shelf melt away. The books I had painstakingly gathered over the years had turned into a heap of ashes. I dashed again to the front of the house, my eyes flashing across the area. I noticed that my brown bungalow was not the only building on fire. Two other houses in the street had been set ablaze. Then it dawned on me that they all belonged to Christians.

No one is there. Leave now . . . run . . . run . . . run. They’re coming this way again, a voice roared from behind.

I turned and saw my Muslim neighbour, Lateef Adebambo, bolt out of his house. Further down, gunshots boomed. The sounds were getting closer. Adebambo’s three-room bungalow was intact, but he had gathered the few personal items he could and was running out of the area. I reluctantly began to make my way out of the place, casting backward glances at the ruin that was once my abode.

I took the right turn and moved aimlessly on the adjoining street. My Yoruba neighbour had hinted that no one was in the house. My spirit began to come alive again. But I needed to be sure of what he meant. Was he simply saying I should stop wasting time, risking my life on a futile search for the dead? His voice continued to echo in my head, being a straw of hope to which I clung. Could it be that Amina is still alive? Yes, she is alive. She must be alive. I tried to reassure myself as I gritted my teeth.

Adebambo had disappeared from the scene as fast as he said those words. He had been a very friendly neighbour, but I must say that courage and firmness were not the greater part of his virtues. There was no way I could now locate him to give clarity to his message. If Amina was alive, where could she be?

She could not have sought refuge with her parents, as they had long disowned her for marrying me. Even if I were to assume that the sight of her pitiable condition may possibly temper the fury of her father, I would not delude myself about the reaction of the extremists that may be hovering around the man. They would easily make mincemeat of her.

I had walked some distance before I remembered the police station. It had always been the point of convergence in times of upheavals like this. But I also recalled that it was sacked and razed four years earlier in one of the vicious onslaughts of religious zealots. I could only wish this was not a recurrence of that tragic experience.

I fastened my grip upon the briefcase and paced toward the bus terminal. The streets were still virtually empty, only smouldering wreckages of the rampage littered the way. Every now and then someone would emerge from the corners of the disparate buildings and disappear from sight. I got to the bus terminal only to see that it had been deserted. No vehicles were coming from either side of the road. I would have to walk the long way to the station.

* * * * *

I arrived at the police station in about thirty minutes. Hundreds of displaced persons were gathered in front of the place. They fretted about the available space, carrying the much they could retrieve of their personal effects. It was about the size of a football field. Boxes, mattresses, television sets and domestic appliances of all sorts dotted the place. Aged men and women moved about the arena, while wailing infants clung onto their mothers as they competed for attention with the restless babies strapped to their mothers’ backs. Armed police men had formed a cordon around the burgeoning crowd.

Few meters away from where I stood, a distressed mother squeezed out the last drops of water from a sachet into the mouth of a thirsty toddler who kept crying for more. A little further from her, a teenage boy was struggling with the ropes he had fastened around a goat and fowl. I beamed a quick glare around the area and realized it would take a more meticulous effort to pick out Amina from that multitude.

I hurried toward the office building—a long line of offices whose blue-yellow-green identity had long given way to an ugly patchwork of faded colours. A uniformed officer of burly frame passed through the counter lid, and was heading out of the door.

Hello, Officer. Good evening, sir, I said.

He threw a stern look at me and continued his movement.

Yes?

I am Udoka Ndukwe. Could I speak with you for a moment, please?

The officer glanced at me again and walked past, going toward the exit. My friend, can’t you see this is not the time to talk? he said.

I turned and struggled to keep up with him. Sorry, sir, I’m searching for my wife. Her name is Amina.

Have you looked at all the people gathered outside?

No, sir. I’m just coming in. Was thinking you had compiled their names.

He stopped.

Look there, the officer said as he pointed toward the crowd. "My men are doing that now. You can see that