Fading Face

By Jonah Igwe

After his father’s death, gifted Nnamdi must grow up fast and succeed with his studies to make a better life for himself and his mother. His long-term friend, the beautiful and graceful Udo, has always been by his side. They promised to stick together and share a future. However, his ambition and the lure of distant opportunities threatens to drive a wedge between them. Soon she could become just a fading face in his memories. Is he willing to give up his old love for new fortunes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Africa Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005590598

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First Published in Great Britain in 2021 by

LOVE AFRICA PRESS

103 Reaver House, 12 East Street, Epsom KT17 1HX

www.loveafricapress.com

Text copyright © Igwe Jonah, 2021

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

The right of Igwe Jonah to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To my wife, Chidimma

Blurb

After his father’s death, gifted Nnamdi must grow up fast and succeed with his studies to make a better life for himself and his mother. His long-term friend, the beautiful and graceful Udo, has always been by his side. They promised to stick together and share a future. However, his ambition and the lure of distant opportunities threatens to drive a wedge between them. Soon she could become just a fading face in his memories. Is he willing to give up his old love for new fortunes?

Chapter One

The dark clouds were still sprinkling drops of water on the quiet town after heavy rainfall that afternoon as Nnamdi, and his mother trekked home from the farm.

It was a chilly day in Umuchi, and wet blades of grasses watered their skins as they walked on the narrow bushy path that led to the small-town square. The early rains had muddied the way and mud stuck to their feet with every stride. Here and there, they brushed their flip-flops against the grasses to remove the soil.

Nne, the rains came early this year, Nnamdi said, pushing the tall grass away from the path with his right hand. He wrapped the well-balanced bundle of firewood on his head with his left palm.

Yes, Nnam, it is good for the town, replied his mother. Our lives depend on the farms, and the farms depend on the rains.

He sighed. But you know the rains disturb our classes at school.

The councillor promised that government would fix the roofs soon, his mother said as they came closer to the town square.

Nne, the promise is a recurring one which the government never keeps, he answered.

At nineteen, Nnamdi was tall and trim. Some people described him as handsome because of his perfect features and dark skin, which was unusually smooth for someone who worked on a farm. His short, dark, slightly curled hair and turned-up nose gave his oblong face an exotic appearance. His suave manner and good looks made him an object of obsession for many young girls in the town.

He took after his late father in appearance. The elders often mention how closely he resembled the late traditional healer of Umuchi, especially whenever he wore his father’s clothes which now fit him. His name, Nnamdi, meant ‘My father lives’ and many could not agree more.

A middle-aged woman, his light-skinned mother, Akunna, still wore her black wrapper and blouse as required by tradition to show that she was mourning her dead husband. She would wear it for one more month to complete a year of mourning. Her glossy black hair was still short, and she always covered it with a black scarf. Her hair had been shaved when her husband died as a mark of respect for the dead.

His mother, who looked young for her age, had been working ridiculously hard to raise him to be a responsible man like his father. Her brothers-in-law, Nwafor and Obiajulu, were also helpful and considerate, making sure that she and her son lacked nothing they could provide.

Nnamdi’s movement slowed as he became tired from the earlier farm work. His energy drained with each step he took. He’d spent the day clearing the farmland for the coming planting season. He’d expended so much energy trying to cut down a grape tree. His mother insisted it was removed to allow the growing crops to get sunlight and feel the rains.

When his mother looked back, fatigue told on his face.

We’ll soon get home, Nnam. We’re almost at the square, she said, encouraging him.

Using both hands, he adjusted and balanced the load on his head to ease the discomfort it was causing him. He smiled at her. The two were silent for some moment until they got to the square.

Under the drizzle, some people, male and female, stood in two lines under the big African star-apple tree.

What is happening there? asked his mother, turning to look back as if to make sure he same the same queues.

We shall find out, he replied as they moved closer.

A man and a woman sat behind a table on the podium with pens in their hands. There were papers and a laptop on the table. Their faces looked strange to him.

They are definitely not from Umuchi, he told his mother.

One of his classmates, Udo, was there too.

Finely shaped Udo exuded natural beauty and solid feminine grace. The nineteen-year-old was tall and chocolate-skinned, with a well-formed hourglass figure. Her simple dresses were quite fitting and revealed her delicate curves.

Her constant smile, tender stares, calm and mature manner were so enthralling that all who came across her were quickly captivated. Like everyone else, Nnamdi had been enchanted by her. She was his closest friend at school, and although many of the other boys in her class had made advances, she chose Nnamdi.

Nnamdi walked up to her and dragged Udo by the hand from the queue to a corner.

Why are you lined up there, and who are those strange faces? he inquired.

The councillor brought them from the city to register new voters for the next elections, she explained. Go and drop your firewood at home. Come back and join us here.

Yes, Nnam. Make haste so you can be registered too, echoed his mother, turning and walking homeward at once.

He sighed and wobbled behind her. Coming back to join the queue would certainly sap the little energy he had left in him. Still, he could not refuse an opportunity to spend some time with Udo, even if it meant standing in the line.

Udo was last in the line, and when Nnamdi returned, he eagerly queued behind her. Those who returned from the farms joined the line behind Nnamdi. As the queue became longer, the spaces among them became tighter, and those behind pushed forward. This caused them to squeeze against one another.

Udo held his hand and squeezed it. Nnamdi’s eyes glistened in excitement. He was grateful he listened and came to register.

Fagged out, he returned home later in the evening after completing the registration at the square to an unsaid reward. His mother had prepared his favourite delicacy. Whenever he worked extremely hard, she served the eggplant stew eaten with cooked yam.

She once told him that his efforts at the farm made the pain of losing his father about a year ago bearable. He always looked forward to the food. But he was excited to eat because he was sure to be served a generous portion of the roasted grasscutter his trap caught in the farm the day before.

When he began eating, his mother drew closer and sat beside him.

Nnam, do you remember that the ceremony for your right of passage to manhood is in a fortnight? she asked.

Yes, Nne. I have it in mind, he replied.

Having turned nineteen a week before, his mother had informed his father’s kinsmen that it was time to initiate him into manhood. She bought the items required for the ceremony, including a male goat, two roosters, and twenty kola nuts.

The goat was tied to the orange tree in front of their house, and Nnamdi kept fodder he’d cut from nearby bushes for it.

His mother planned to buy the remaining items, four kegs of palm wine, on the last Nkwo market day before the event.

She smiled at him as she spoke. Her smiling face was illuminated by the light from the lantern which hung on the wall.

At last, her son would be eligible to fully inherit her husband’s farmlands and sit among his kinsfolk to decide on issues concerning their extended family.

Nnam, you must now inform your cousins about the ceremony, she continued. You will need them to help you in making the one hundred mounds on your father’s piece of farmland close to the Umuchi stream.

I know, Nne, he answered as he took a bite from the piece of yam he had dipped into the soup.

It was customary for any boy performing the rites of passage to make one hundred mounds on his father’s farmland. This was seen as proof of his ability to care for himself and his future family since he must cultivate the land to feed his household.

However, given the challenging nature of the task, a boy’s brothers and cousins were allowed to help him fulfil this all-important task on the appointed day.

***

The square was agog on the day of the ceremony.

Though it was Orie, the most important market day in Umuchi, the market did not hold as it would have interfered with the day's activities.

The rains seemed to have given them a break. The weather was bright, with the evening sunlight filtering through the leaves of the big udara trees. Occasionally, the wind blew, making the leaves dance and rustle.

Ndi Egwu Umuchi played melodious tunes. As the major musical and dance group, they usually performed at important cultural events. Traditional Igbo musical instruments—the igba-pot drum, udu, ogene, slit drum, and the oja-flute—blended harmoniously. The sweating instrumentalists who sat under the big udara tree moved their bodies to match the sounds produced by their instruments.

Many hopeful maidens dressed in their best colourful attires, and their mothers danced