Nne was the woman that every woman envied for several years. Her son, my brother, had gotten a scholarship to read medicine at a university in London. I remember the day like it was yesterday. I was only fifteen. Chike, eighteen, then ran into the kitchen where Nne and I sat preparing dinner. He broke the news to us, giggling like a child who had just been offered his mother’s breast. I jumped, doing crazy dances. My brother was going to be a doctor, the kind of doctor that worked in hospitals abroad. I knew I was going to brag to people, especially Ugochi, whose brother went to Kenya to become an accountant, and Maria, whose brother was in South Africa pushing drugs—at least according to the stories we heard.

Nne warned us to keep it a secret until Chike left. She claimed that bad people were everywhere and that walls had ears. This put off my bragging plans until after Chike left. When he left a few months later, Nne wouldn’t stop talking about him. Her only son would be a “dokito nke London,” and the envy was obvious. People began to gossip, some claiming Nne went to a medicine man to get favours for her son. I bragged, too, though not as much as Nne. I bragged at school, with the boys and girls, and even with the teachers. When I tried to brag to Mr. Okonkwo, our principal, he bragged even more, talking about how he taught Chike mathematics and how he was glad it helped secure the scholarship. I soon stopped bragging to him; he loved to dampen one’s spirit, something I hated.

The envy grew when Chike sent us things from London. He sent a few clothes and a pair of shoes each for Nne and me. He also sent me fictional books, knowing how much I loved them. He knew I would talk about them and give a few out, so he included a letter asking that I read more than I talked. He pleaded with me not to give out the books, which cost him a lot of money. At the end of the letter, he wrote in his usual manner, ‘I love you, Ngo.’ I didn’t give out the books, but I did talk about them. I let people see them and even smell them, to smell London in my books, but I never let them touch them.

The envy stopped when Chike died. It was a death from which neither Nne nor I could ever recover. We heard from London that Chike hadn’t been attending classes much. He had been pushing drugs instead, trying to make fast money. One day, caught by the police, he downed all the drugs with him to avoid arrest. Chike overdosed and couldn’t be saved. Nne shaved her head when we heard the news. There was no body sent to us. How could we grieve properly when we couldn’t see his body? This was when all the envy ended with Chike’s death.

After Chike died, Nne became a shadow of herself and gave me responsibilities I couldn’t meet. I wanted to become a lawyer, but Nne insisted I study medicine instead. She seemed to be forcing me to become Chike, possibly so she had something to brag about again. I couldn’t figure it out, but I knew that Chike would have wanted Nne to be happy, so I did what she asked most of the time—like becoming a doctor and marrying Emeka Okonkwo, the only other doctor from my village and the son of my secondary school principal. This man loved to dampen people’s spirits. It was almost like I lived for Nne, to please her and fill the hole Chike’s death created in her heart.

It was in trying to please her that I dropped the case against Reverend Father Obi, the man who had molested my son in the Parish house one cold Saturday. An incident that broke me completely. I was going to deal with him so that when he saw young boys, he kept his hands off their private parts and his mouth off theirs. I was going to have him thrown in jail, but Nne asked me to let it go. It was a thing of shame, and she was still a member of the Catholic Women’s Association. She couldn’t afford to taint her image.

In trying to please Nne, I stayed married to Emeka even when all I wanted to do was leave him. Emeka constantly beat me for the most ridiculous reasons. He would beat me up if I laughed too much with a patient or if I overslept, not caring that I was tired and needed a break. He would beat me up for reporting his abuse to anyone, or if anyone asked about my black eye and I didn’t give a convincing excuse.

It was for Nne that I had as many as six children. She didn’t want me to have only two, fearing one of them might die. She’d throw tantrums about my taking time between kids and ask, ‘Is Emeka not doing his manly duties well? It’s been three years already. Give me another grandchild.’ Sometimes, Emeka heard her, and he’d beat me and forcefully have his way with me to put another seed in me, to prove his masculinity. My sixth child nearly took my life, which might have been why Nne never spoke about having more children again. Perhaps she thought six was enough; it was impossible that all six should die anyway.

When Somto ran away from seminary, I found him. Instead of changing his school, I sent him to the North to another seminary in Kaduna. Nne wanted him to become a priest, and he had to be that for her and Chike. For Nne, I named my last child Nnedinma, a name I hated, which made me treat her a little badly, as if she wasn’t my own. All the things that hurt me now, all the things that have possibly ruined my children’s lives, were for Nne.

It wasn’t for Nne, however, when I stood in one of the private rooms in Emeka’s hospital—our hospital—watching her. She had fallen ill a few days back, and we had put her in the hospital to care for her. She was going to be better in no time; the woman was too strong to die anyway. She lay there on the bed, looking weak. As I watched her, she mouthed ‘Ngo.’ I didn’t answer. I only smiled—a victory smile—before I injected the needle into her, drugging her. Her eyes began to close. It was then that I administered the second, the third, and the fourth needles, an overdose, so much that it felt like she was dying two deaths—one for herself and one for my pains. I stood quietly, listening to the beeping monitor and the voices of the birds by the window as they sang in unison for my freedom. For my victory. For Nne.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Glory Ada Duruem is a multimedia storyteller working in an advertising agency. She is passionate about all forms of storytelling but most especially film. She studied History and International studies at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka.