The greatest fires are some times caused by the embers that weren't stifled
It was raining that day. I was staying late at a friend's house, playing a new game he just got. Being rebellious, knowing very well I should have been home. Now I don't know whether to be glad or sad that I was away at the time.
I returned home at 9 p.m. to a crowd gathered in front of my house and shrieks of horror. No one tried to put out the fire; it was too far gone. I scurried around the crowd, trying to look for my family—my father, my mother, my sister. I scanned the faces in the crowd, shouted for them.
"Dad, Mom!" I was crying now, noticing that none of the faces matched theirs. The looming crowd's attention was drawn to me.
"Chika!" I called my sister's name. No answer. The person I'd been squabbling with just yesterday. I told her I hated her, and now all I wanted was for her to call out to me. To no avail.
I fell to my knees and began sobbing like a child—which I was at the time, around seven years old. The whole crowd's attention was drawn to me, with looks of pity plastered on their faces. Neighbors who knew our family stayed with me until the fire department came, followed shortly by the police.
It was an elderly lady who spoke for me at the time, as I had no inclination to say a single word. She was friendly with my mother and was always interested in teaching her the local recipes of her people. Her hair was sparse and gray; her skin darkened from the harsh sun. She was a foot taller than me at the time. She explained the situation to the police, and they said they would get in contact with any of my relatives they could get a hold of. I stayed in the old lady's house in the meantime.
She tried her best to get me to eat, but I wouldn't. I didn't want to do anything. I just stayed in the room she had prepared for me, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't my fault that the house burned down, but I blamed myself.
'Maybe I left the stove on and that's why this is all happening.' I knew well I had never touched the thing, but I couldn't help blaming myself. Another round of tears welled up. I let them flow.
The door to my room flew open, and the old lady let herself in. I was angry—I don't know why. It was her house. I guess I hadn't gotten used to not being in my own.
"So you're still letting this grief consume you?"
"I just lost my parents—my sister. Do you expect me to be ecstatic?" I spat out, an edge in my tone because I felt she was making light of my loss.
"When you lose someone you mourn. You are allowedthat. You hold their memory tight. But you do not follow them into the grave. Those at the other side are not ready to see you yet." She said, as she walked up to me, putting her hand against my shoulder and holding my gaze.
"You don't get it, they're gone! I'll never see them again." I spoke like I was the only one who had ever experienced loss.
"I lost my son about 2 years back. He was the one whomoved me out to the mainland and got me this house. He would visit often. It made me happy. Do you know how painful it is for a parent to lose their child before they themselves are in the grave?" she asked, her gaze hard.
"The other one doesn't visit much, but I don't blame him. He's working in Delta and he never earned as much as his brother. So he has to work like a crow to put food on the table. I'm alone in this house that just serves as a reminder of what I lost. Death does that—it leaves scars."
"It's too painful," I muttered.
"That is why we do not focus on how they died, but how they lived."
I, however couldn't help but think about how they died.Fire hurts. And burning to death is a terrible way to go.
''I'm hungry," I said. "I always liked the akara you made. My mum said she'd learn how you do it."
She smiled. "It's quite easy to learn. Come with me, let's make some."
I followed her into the kitchen.
It was two days after my parents' death that my uncle arrived in Lagos. He came immediately to pick me up. It was Uncle Raymond, my father's brother.
I ran to him. "They're gone. Dead."
He bent low, pulled me into a hug, and told me everything would be okay. That I was going to stay with him in Abuja, and he was going to take care of me.
As we left, I went and hugged the old lady—whose name I later learned was Helen.
"Okay now, you need to go stay with your family," she said, looking down at me with the gaze of a mother.
"You…" she called out to my uncle. "You better treat this boy right. Let me not find out you're coveting his inheritance, or I'll come take him away. I also expect to speak to him once a month."
Uncle Raymond nodded in reply.
"Do you have my number memorized?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Smart boy. You call me if anything happens."
I entered the car with my uncle. I had nothing with me. Everything I valued had been taken away by the fire. Helen didn't have to worry—my uncle and his family were good people.
This isn't some story about a maltreated child. Because what I came to find out was that the fire that took my family's life wasn't an accident. It was planned—constructed.
My family was murdered.
This is the story of a man's vengeance.