Unwanted

By Henry Mazi-Njoku

UNWANTED is a story that brings to the fore discrimination and stigmatization towards people living with HIV/AIDS (PLWHA). Set in the bustling city of Port Harcourt, it narrates the story of three youthful girls and a young man whose paths are more intertwined than they can imaginemade stronger and weaker by their experiences of stigmatization. It is a tale of struggles, successes and human frailties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491889572

Henry Mazi-Njoku

Henry Mazi-Njoku is a writer, poet and art enthusiast with a predilection for quality and detail. His short story titled ‘Snake of the Niger Delta’ was published in an anthology of short stories titled ‘African Roar 2011.’ He has a yet to be published collection of short stories and poems. An alumnus of the prestigious King’s College Lagos, he resides in Port Harcourt, Nigeria where he divides his time between work, writing and organizing art exhibitions.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Shut up woman and let me think! the man barked at his terrified wife. Although nervous, he was trying hard to appear calm. Her husband’s reprimand was lost on her as she continued wailing uncontrollably while some young nurses looked on with concern and trepidation. One or two more experienced ones remained close enough to catch the frantic woman should she fall. Beads of perspiration covered her husband’s face like condensation on a cold glass of water. He raised his shaking right hand to wipe his brow but aborted the semi-reflex action halfway as he suddenly remembered that his hands were covered with blood. He wiped them on his light brown chino trousers and one of the nurses grimaced when she saw the ugly smear left by his stained hands, but the man couldn’t care less, for there was blood everywhere: splattered all over his white cotton shirt; smeared all over his arms, trousers and hands; pooled on the floor of his car; soaked into his wife’s buba and iro; and distributed over the hospital’s tiled floor like goat droppings—from the front of the upward-sloping ramp in front of the hospital right to the door behind where he stood, and beyond it. It was his daughter’s blood. Her life hung by a frayed thread in the emergency room and he had but a minute to make a decision which would mean life, death, or potentially a mixture of the two, for his daughter—his only child.

The clean-shaven doctor who had been standing close by in professional aloofness repeated the statement he had made to the little girl’s father when she was rushed in less than a minute earlier.

Sir, if we don’t give your daughter blood within the next five minutes, I’m afraid she will die. Unfortunately, the only blood immediately available is unscreened. You have to make the decision now so that we can either proceed or not.

You could see from the man’s pained expression that he would have given anything to have the cross taken away from him. He had never faced such a dilemma in his life; not even in the accident he had many years back when he had had to choose, in a split second, between running an old woman over or slamming his car into a fence. He had chosen the latter and escaped unscathed.

How long did you say it will take to get screened blood? he asked the doctor. He trembled like a victim of Parkinson’s disease as adrenaline surged through his veins. Five droplets of sweat lost their battle with gravity and fell from his face in quick succession.

I told you before sir, that it will take no less than forty minutes, and even that short length of time would be nothing short of a miracle.

And you say she stands the risk of getting infected with…

Blood-borne diseases like hepatitis and—

HIV?

Yes sir, that too.

And this unscreened blood is the only thing that will keep her alive until screened blood can be obtained?

Precisely sir, but only if the transfusion is done within three minutes.

Damn! My God… oh my God… God please see me through this, please God. Why O+ . . . why isn’t my daughter’s blood group AB?

The two men turned sharply to see the girl’s mother rolling on the floor while two of the biggest nurses around attempted to pick her up. Her husband returned his gaze to the opaque door of the ER, as if the answer to his question was buried inside the thick glass. Seconds later he looked at the doctor with fire in his eyes and said,

Do it doctor I can’t let my daughter die. Do it… now!

Very well sir, replied the doctor as he spun briskly and disappeared through the ER doors followed by a fat nurse holding a 500ml nylon sachet of blood.

CHAPTER ONE

It would never be the same again. The atmosphere in the house was so tense you needed a scalpel to slice through it. The air seemed to be trapped in invisible sacs suspended far beyond the reach of Amaka’s running nose. She could scarcely breathe. She shook and sobbed quietly as cold sweat trickled down from her neatly woven cornrows, forming a minuscule confluence in her eyes as it mixed with her tears and the salty mixture cascaded down her smooth cherubic face. She made no attempt to wipe away the sweat which stung her eyes. She welcomed the little pain; it did its own bit to distract her from the greater pain tormenting her. Besides she had read in one of those books on precepts that she found distasteful—even though they were now read by almost everyone that… you cannot heal without some pain . . . your tears are the drops of water that will form an oasis in the desert you have found yourself . . . when you are an emotional wreck, your tears allow the pent-up emotional tension to fade away. All that sounded like gibberish to her in her present disconsolate state; her tears were only drowning her in sorrow… heart-wrenching sorrow. Amaka was not one to be bound by precepts or conventions. She belonged to the school of thought that saw life’s infinite and often inscrutable lessons as best learned empirically. However, this was one lesson she would have preferred to learn vicariously: the death of a loved one. It’s funny how your emotions and psychological well-being fall precipitously and shatter into smithereens when life gives you a session of one of its most horrific lessons, she thought and smiled disconsolately.

Amaka had always considered herself stoic. But here she was in a sorry state of self-pity. She was in dire need of a shoulder to lean on and it embarrassed her to accept that truth. She was being sentimental and she knew it; she had switched off her phone for over 24hours. She had become reclusive; confined in her room and only going out for the family prayers last night. Her brother’s demise had bonded the close-knit family even more and they now prayed twice a day, morning and night. Her father, from whom she believed she had the most part of her DNA, was taking it in his stride but the lines around his eyes (which seemed to grow longer and deeper by the day) gave an insight in to the pain he was going through. Her mother, the mushy type who was one to wear her heart on her sleeves, cried at night, during prayers and broke down spontaneously other times in the day. If her family had a flag, it would not be flying at half-mast; it would be dipped in black paint, shredded and left on the floor in a heap. Her brother died in a most shocking manner. The real cause of his death was a closely guarded family secret. He was the only son, Amaka’s only brother, and a beacon for the family. He was loved by many, respected by more and was a beautiful sight for the eyes to behold; handsome even in death. His greatest fear was not to live long enough to achieve the greatness he so desired, worked towards and had the conviction that he would achieve, right from when he was at kindergarten. My time could be short, he often told his closest friends shortly before his death, with a lop-sided grin, and this cryptic message never ceased to befuddle them. The message became clear when he was found dead in his car on a cool, quiet Sunday dawn with a bottle of Valium by his side and an open diary on his lap.

He had taken his own life.

CHAPTER TWO

Amaka still felt like a hermit. She was still feeling lethargic though she had mustered enough strength to take a hot shower. It was about twenty-six hours since she had her last meal—if you could describe half a slice of bread and a few sips of coffee as a meal. She was not hungry either; food was just as tasty to her as cooked cardboard. Her taste buds seemed to share her grief as they were no longer sending any signals to her brain. Her olfactory organs no longer found her Givenchy cologne Absolutely Irresistible as the name suggested it was. The music of Dido’s Life for Rent wafted into the bathroom as she stared blankly into space with her towel wrapped around her body. She wondered whether the radio DJ was psychic or the choice of song was coincidental, because she actually felt like renting out her life at the moment. That would be better than ending it.

She walked out of the bathroom and sat on her unmade bed. She could hear the flurry of activity in the other parts of the house as family friends, relatives and neighbours came for condolence visits. She had completely ignored the uncountable knocks her room door had suffered. Her little wastebasket was half-filled with soggy tissue. Her room was untidy and this was quite unlike her. Amaka was a squeaky-clean person and this had always irritated her late brother, Opara. But Opara’s jibes at her compulsive cleanliness only served to make her even more compulsive and the result was the urge to clean her room no less than twice a day, and any other time her eyes met as much as a speck of dirt which did not belong there. Opara would never be able to call her "obsessive-compulsive Omalicha" anymore because he was lying on his back stiff as stockfish in that mortuary…

Amaka missed her brother so much that she had wondered a couple of times whether Mary, mother of Jesus, had felt as much grief as she was feeling lately. Why did you have to do it, Opara . . . why? She asked rhetorically for the umpteenth time. How long could she go on like this? She knew she had to live for him… she had to get past her grief and move on with her life. It would not be easy though, she had begun to flirt with the idea of seeking counsel. She decided to start by turning on her mobile phone. She fondled the chic Nokia N-93i lovingly; its beauty never ceased to make her heart melt every time she turned it on. It was a birthday gift from her close friend, Nkem, who was studying at Harvard University. She held down the power button and the large LCD screen came to life. Immediately the network bars were indicated, text messages started pouring in. There were three messages in all. She opened the first one and it was from Nkem.

Sweetheart I knw u must be going thru a lot of pain but pls txt me back as soon as u get this. I’m so, so sorry mi dear . . . Don’t u 4get I’v got ur back alwyz.

A large tear drop rolled down Amaka’s shiny cheek. Good old Nkem. The second message was from Bola, one of Amaka’s two best friends. It read,

Life sometimes has nothing but misery to offer,

Like we were given its breath at birth only to suffer,

Unbeknownst to it we will only become tougher,

And tougher still we would be when the roads get rougher.

Amaka dearie u hav 2 be strong 4 ur family, 4 ur frnds, but most of all 4 urself . . . flash me wheneva u nid som1 2 talk 2, ok? Luv u always.

More tears. More relief. Oh, what an idiot I am, Amaka muttered. She had turned off her phone when she had supportive, caring friends who were more than ready to help to ease her pain. If some people are destined to become friends by virtue of their compatibility, her friendship with Bola was a product of such a grand design. Amaka met Bola while moving into her off-campus room in Manor Suites. That was in her freshman year. Bola, also in her first year, had moved into the room beside Amaka’s a fortnight earlier. Bola was a sight to behold; even for girls. A little shy of 6 feet, Bola had velvet-smooth, shiny ebony skin; perfect set of glittering white teeth, jet-black hair and a build that was somewhere in between thin and slim. Her full lips, long eyebrows of the same colour with her hair, full and curvy hips accentuated by a narrow waist gave her a stunning Africana look that was more appealing to the eyes than glittering diamonds. Her beauty could be seen in the lust-filled eyes of many a bedazzled beholder. Amaka became nostalgic as she vividly recollected their very first encounter…

What a damsel I have as my next-door neighbour. Hi, I’m Bola. I stay in room C4, right next to yours. It’s a pity I didn’t come back sooner to help you move your stuff in and get settled. These dim witted Uniport boys wouldn’t let a girl be… sorry dear, what do I call you? Even pretty, dimpled Amaka was awed by Bola’s looks. My name is Chiamaka Amaka for short, thanks for your offer to assist me but I’m already done with the most arduous tasks. Please how do I dispose of these cartons and all this trash?

That’s the easy part, come with me. They had walked down to the security house, right beside the gate. Amaka could not help but admire Bola’s designer flip-flops. Nice footwear, Amaka had thought but did not say. Bola seemed to have no imperfections and Amaka had wondered whether the inner was as striking as the outer. Bola had rapped on the security man’s door with a small, delicate fist.

"Who be dat?" a gruff, drawling voice.

Oga Simon it’s me, Bola. Please I need you to do me a favour. The door opened and a stout, paunchy, balding middle-aged man stepped out and leered at Amaka like she was a prize catch that had been brought to him to savour. "Bola, every time you dey need favour… you never buy me the Star wey you promise me o!"

"Don’t worry Oga Simon, I’ll fulfil my promise soonest. This is my new friend Amaka, she just moved into room C3 and she needs to throw some things away. Please help us out, we’re very tired and it might start raining anytime soon, pleeaaase"

A silly grin broke out on Oga Simon’s weather-beaten face that Amaka interpreted (rightfully) as pitiful, hapless servitude. This Bola girl must have her way with people, especially men. Amaka intuitively concluded that she had just met a girl who knew that she held people spellbound by her beauty and did not hesitate to exploit that charm. Fortunately though, Amaka was on the right side and she couldn’t care less. "Na just because na you o! If sey na another person, I for don pursue am commot here sharp, sharp. This your friend na fine girl o! De kain fine girls wey dey this school eh… na only God go fit save man pikin o! Oya make we de go." And that was it. Thirty minutes later, with all the trash disposed of and Oga Simon three hundred Naira richer, Amaka followed Bola into her room as a light drizzle descended from the skies in delicate thin, vertical lines…

The ID of the sender of the third SMS read ‘Ada-cutie.’ It was from Adaobi, Amaka’s other best friend who completed their trio. It was a brief message, typical of taciturn Adaobi, a diametrical opposite of Bola. The message read,

Heard from Bola dat u’r not seeing anyone n ur phone has bin off for ages. I’m so sorry Amaka . . . pls take heart.

Amaka had initially thought of Adaobi as being naïve because of her unassuming nature, bashfulness and modesty… but looks are almost always deceptive. Adaobi, an alumnus of Federal Government Girls’ College, Owerri, had always been a bookworm. She was petite, cute with large, bright dreamy eyes but had the disposition of being completely unaware of her good looks. Adaobi had been sexually abused by her sister’s husband the very first time she had gone to spend part of her long holiday with them. She was just twelve at the time. The daughter of a former university beauty queen, Adaobi’s body seemed to be overflowing with oestrogen even before she reached puberty. At age twelve and 4 feet 8 inches tall, she already had firm apple-sized breasts, well rounded buttocks and skin so soft and supple you thought it would melt under the fiery gaze of lustful eyes.

Amaka’s mind was roused out of its wandering by the vibrations of her phone. It was a call from Chuka, Opara’s friend. Amaka stared at the pulsating screen of the phone until it showed ‘1 missed call.’ She would not take the call even if he took the pain to call back. Chuka was as close to the family as can be, but Amaka was not quite ready to talk to anyone. She loathed the idea of bursting into tears while listening to the consoling words of some sympathizer. She picked up the phone and saw the last digit of the digital clock on the phone’s screen change from six to seven. The time was only three minutes shy of noon. I would be relishing the end of Dr. Umeh’s verbose lectures if I were in school now, she thought and re-immersed herself in her erstwhile recollections of Adaobi’s shocking story…

. . . Adaobi had just concluded her third term in JSS2, giving her nine weeks of holidays. With the plans laid out for the long hols, she had expected it to feel like nine consecutive weeks of Christmas. The first week was spent at home with her family in their middle-class neighbourhood in Ikenegbu, Owerri. The next six weeks were to be spent with her newly married elder sister and her husband in Lagos where she would also get to visit her favourite uncle, Ken, who she fondly called Buddy-Buddy. It was her first time of travelling by air, and that would give her some bragging rights when school reopened.

The abuse happened after midnight on a Friday night when Adaobi’s sister, Urenna, was away in church for the weekly all-night service she never missed. Adaobi had been in the guest room, curled up under a blanket in a deep, dreamless sleep after losing a good portion of it in a bid to finish the Agatha Christie novel she had been reading. Moments later her life changed into Kafkaesque horror as she was plunged into a surreal state of consciousness. She was sure she was not dreaming, she said, but silently begged God to wake her up from the nightmare as her abuser knelt down beside the bed with his face in full view. The dull blue light emanating from the display of the VCD player in the room was more than enough to tell her that the broad forehead and short, thick neck belonged to Uncle Fred, Urenna’s husband… the same Uncle Fred whom her mother always eulogized as a perfect son-in-law. Her sister’s husband began sobbing and begging her to forgive him for it is the work of the devil, and at that moment she hated him… hated herself… hated the world and all its inhabitants who did nothing to prevent a closet-paedophile from raping his twelve-year-old sister-in-law.

Amaka knew that Uncle Fred and Urenna were now divorced, Urenna remarried and settled in Canada. What she did not know were the details of the outcome of the incident; how the family got to know about it, how they reacted to it and how Adaobi was able to get on with her life afterwards. She had not pressed Adaobi for more details of the nightmarish incident. Revealing what she had suffered was emotionally sapping and had left Adaobi lethargic for the rest of the day. The revelation had proved to be psychologically therapeutic as Adaobi was more cheerful the next day and this led Amaka to believe that emotional decompression might be more effective if done in little bits over time. The trauma had taken its toll on her friend. Adaobi did not have a boyfriend—never had one, never wanted one—and had a morbid fear of sex; she despised men deeply and expressed it through her outright snobbish attitude towards boys. Adaobi had told Amaka that she had never done as much as hold a guy’s hand since she was raped, and she shied away from the discussions about love and relationships that teenage girls indulged in with relish. Adaobi felt hollow within and still experienced nightmares from which she would wake up in tears from, often crying for hours. Amaka bristled at the thought. That vermin called Fred has marred what would have been a great teenage life for my dear friend. She felt her eyes well up with hot tears again and thought out loud, "if Adaobi could have any semblance of recovery from such a grisly incident, I can come out of this too." She laid down and was asleep in ten breaths.

It was 4:22pm. By this time there would be scantily dressed, garishly made-up girls and machismo-stricken boys walking along the tree-lined roads of the picturesque Abuja campus of Uniport, towards the south gate that opened onto the Choba-Aluu road. Lectures would be over in most, if not all departments, heralding Uniport’s buzzing night life. Amaka glanced at her wall clock again as her eyes reached bifocal coherence, sharpening the fuzzy images sent to her brain the first time. She had been asleep for… what?! Two… three… four hours! I must have made a quick recovery from insomnia! She instinctively grabbed her phone, which was in ‘vibrate only’ mode, to check for missed calls, messages, alerts. There were only two missed calls from Adaobi. Interesting coincidence. Amaka knew Adaobi would be in their room, tired and hungry, probably listening to a Marvin Gaye CD if there was power, and indecisive about what to eat for lunch. She also knew that Adaobi and Bola would have walked down to the park in school together and that would have had more than a few people wondering where the third member of the clique was. Both of them would have received enough Hellos to make one dizzy, and Bola would have returned all the greetings from the boys while Adaobi would have kept a straight face, ignoring all the guys but waving back some of the girls. Amaka dialled back Adaobi’s number.

"Amaka kedu? Adaobi spoke first, using kedu, Igbo for how are you."

My dear I would be lying to you if I said I’m fine but I just woke up from a four-hour sleep and that’s a huge improvement.

You mean you haven’t been able to sleep for some time now? Adaobi’s voice was soft and soothing.

Ada, that’s what the shrinks call the denial phase, right? There was a momentary pause between them as Amaka felt the familiar burning and wetness in her eyes that came with the secretion of tears. She squeezed her eyes shut to stem the flow but that was just as effective as using cello tape to stop the leak on a burst pipe—the warm, salty tears breached the corners of her closed eyelids and snaked down her face, following a trail formed by repeated crying. She clutched the pillow in between her legs and curled up in the fetal position as her muscles went taut from wracking sobs. Adaobi was quiet, at a loss for what to say to a friend who had lost the only brother she had.

Ada, I don’t know if I will ever get over this… why Opara? He had so much to live for! Suddenly the tears stopped and Amaka sounded angry, bitter… distant. She went on, Adaobi why should life take one up to the sky and in the next minute send one crashing down? Why? Adaobi listened quietly. Adaobi are you there?

Dearie I’m with you. Believe me Amaka, all will be well again… you will get over this. It can only happen once. Adaobi hoped she was saying the right words. She was not adept at comforting grief-stricken people. She tried again, You, your family, we… we’ll all be happy again. Time heals even the deepest wounds. Another four awkward seconds elapsed before Amaka broke the silence.

Ada, you know, this morning I remembered what you told me… you know, that… ugly incident that happened to you in your sister’s house, and I thought to myself that if you could get over that, being just twelve years old at the time, then I can definitely survive this. Adaobi did not reply. She was not peeved; she just did not have anything to say. Adaobi’s silence alarmed Amaka; she was not ignorant of Adaobi’s sensitivity to the matter and she felt like she had just scratched open an emotional scar.

I’m sorry Ada, I just felt—

It’s okay Amaka, Adaobi cut her short gently, "like I said, this is not the end of the world, don’t fight the tears, Inugo—you hear?" Amaka felt relief wash over her like a cold shower on a hot afternoon.

Thanks for understanding, Amaka replied.

How about mum, dad and Ijeoma? Ijeoma was Amaka’s little (and only) sister. Just fourteen years old, Ijeoma had been picked up from school a day after Opara’s death under the guise that she was being taken to see her big brother before he travelled out of the country for a function. Her principal and housemistress in Federal Government Girls College, Abuloma knew the truth but were complicit in deceiving her with their forced smiles. Ijeoma had been too excited to notice the sadness in their eyes and their sympathetic looks towards her father. Opara was well known to them as he was to many people. He was invited to the school as a guest speaker on their Speech and Prize Day some months back after he won the World Bank Prize for essay writing in the African region. He was the first Nigerian to win the competition and the youngest person ever—he was just 22. The girls had been awed by his youth, good looks and eloquence.

Perhaps they had expected to see a hoary-haired middle-aged man and controlling their excited screams, whistles and cheers had been quite challenging. The school authorities were told he died from cerebral malaria.

They are breathing, was Amaka’s reply to Adaobi’s question. How could she tell her friend that they all deliberately avoided each other’s eyes, with her father’s perpetually red eyes betraying the fact that he had been crying. Her mum and Ijeoma did not bother to hide their waterfall-like tears. Ijeoma is really taking it hard and that makes it almost impossible for mum to contain her grief. Aunt Njideka has been very helpful though; she has been taking care of the house. Aunt Njideka was her mum’s twin, and only sister. Most of the meals she had prepared since she came had gone uneaten.

Virtually everyone in Uniport has heard about it since it was announced on NTA last night. Strangers walk up to me to say sorry and ask after you, Adaobi said. That World Bank Prize made Opara something like a national hero. Consequently, Amaka, and by extension her family and close friends, had become more popular. He passed away when the ovation was loudest.

Thank you so much Adaobi, I feel better now having spoken with you.

It’s okay my dear, please try and catch some sleep and don’t starve yourself, alright? Promise me. Adaobi could sense Amaka’s despondency; she knew Amaka had not been eating.

I promise I won’t, Amaka replied, hoping she would be able to force some food down. She needed it. Her stomach was in knots. Adaobi… ?

Yes?

Please don’t discuss Opara with anyone. Can you do that for me?

Certainly… How many people do I talk to in school apart from you and Bola?

Thanks dear. Tell Bola she can call me anytime and she should also keep Opara’s demise to herself, okay?

I will. Do take care of yourself and your family, I’ll call you tomorrow.

Thanks, Adaobi. Take care of yourself too. Amaka promptly ended the call, lest they went on with the goodbyes for another five minutes. She brushed her hair, dragged on a pair of jean shorts while still seated and tied a wrapper round her body. The mirror was left out of the brisk dressing ritual; she could not bear to see her reflection. She took a cursory glance round her untidy room. It would remain that way for now. As the second-hand of the wall clock crawled towards the number ‘12’ the radio DJ started blabbing something about the time being seven minutes before the hour of five and going on a commercial break. Amaka unlocked her room door and trudged out. She looked much better now than she did hours earlier—like tarnished stainless steel polished with lime. She would head to the kitchen to nibble on some crackers, then to Ijeoma’s room to see how her kid sister was doing.

Moments later the air-conditioner stuttered and went mute like a comatose patient taken off life-support, extinguishing the low hum, which had filled the room earlier on. The ceiling fan began decelerating and the radio was silenced like it had been told to shut up. Electrical power was cut for the third time that day; ‘NEPA’ had struck again.

CHAPTER THREE

Sleepy-eyed women, with wrappers encircling their rotund waists, fried yams, sweet potatoes, plantains and the viscous paste of ground beans (mixed with other ingredients) fried to make akara. Their daughters or helpers, or both, each hand clenched tightly above the other, waist bent and legs arched, moved the pestle in a circular fashion, fast enough to vibrate the mortar and