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Shadows from the Past: A Beyond the Trial novella

By Chigozie Anuli Mbadugha

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Shadows from the Past


Chapter One

Cathedral Road, Pontcanna, Cardiff, South Wales. December 10, 1994

I pulled up in the snowy driveway of our four-bedroom detached house. It was only five o’clock in the evening, yet it was dark already, as though the time was 10:00 p.m.
“I hate winter,” I muttered, stepping out from behind the wheels of my Ford Mustang Cobra. The front door of our home opened, and Richard, my husband, emerged.
“Welcome, dear,” he said, as he took lazy steps in my direction. I replied in my usual manner, before bending over in the back seat to take out my shopping bags.
The winter cold is something I haven't been able to adjust to, even though I have lived in the UK for several years. If not that my husband was still a post-doctoral research fellow at the University of Cardiff, Wales, and I had only completed the first year of my Ph.D. programme, I would have run home to Naija as we fondly called Nigeria.
I rationalized this for the umpteenth time as I hurled the last of my Tesco shopping bags at Richard, who was helping me take them in. I hurried after Richard and nearly tripped over my last son, Wale. I quickly slammed the door shut, keeping out the cold draught.
If I had my way, I would visit Naija during winter and return in spring. I felt like this every year, but Richard often ignored my winter-inspired nostalgia.
I had barely dropped my shopping bag on the kitchen table and returned to the sitting room when Wale walked up to me and demanded to know why I came home late. His question made his siblings burst into laughter. Dolapo, the eldest of my children, had a peculiar way of laughing. He held his tummy, waved his legs in the air, and laughed loud and hard. It was infectious. Everyone laughed.
Wale was too young to understand the concept of shorter days in winter and longer days in the summer. I took one look at his young face and realized I needed to burst Dolapo’s bubble quickly or risk a protracted tantrum from Wale.
“Story, Story!” I shouted.
“Story!” my children chorused in unison.
“Once upon a time,”
“Time, Time!”
In our culture, this was the most fun way of starting bedtime stories. I told them the story of a little boy named Dee, who stayed up till midnight during the summer because the sky was still blue, the birds were still singing, and he felt it was not bedtime yet.
A chuckle escaped Wale's lips. Soji, my second child and the quiet one among the boys, had his lips curved in a smile. They both knew I was talking about Dolapo.
“It’s not fair,” Dolapo protested, “that was several years ago.”
“We know, but it was still you,” Soji, wasted no time countering his protest.
“As if you didn't do the same,” Dolapo fired at his immediate younger brother.
To nip the argument in the bud, I quickly announced dinner time. I was hopeful that one hour after dinner, I would send them off to perform their bedtime rituals in readiness for sleep. Wale desired that I read a bedtime story to them every night, but I had pleaded until I was allowed two nights off each week - a much-deserved break from telling these stories.
We usually alternated between African folk tales and bedtime storybooks. The African folk stories came from memories of the stories my paternal Uncle, Morris, told my siblings and me when we were younger. Uncle Morris was an encyclopaedia of stories, and I have no recollection of him ever repeating a tale. In hindsight, I think he probably made some of them up.
Father neither had the desire, patience, nor the time, to tell us stories. He never understood why his brother bothered. When Uncle Morris explained that the stories were used to teach us moral lessons, Father tenderly stroked his cane, “Onyedumekwu,” meaning “the one who helps me to speak.” He insisted the rod effectively helped him teach us morals. He didn’t need folk stories for that.
Indeed, my childhood memories of Father are incomplete without his cane. He often hid it behind him while leaning forward to listen to our ‘lame’ excuses or answers to his questions. Onyedumekwu gave Father an immense thrill, and he used it with much gusto. I’ve never seen anyone so excited about flogging a fellow human being. Moreover, we always had to thank him for caning us. Else, the punishment would continue.
I heaved a sigh as I tucked my boys in for the night, grateful they didn't have to experience what I went through. If it were only the cane I remembered about Father, it would have been fair. Unfortunately, I remember a whole lot more.
I shook the thought out of my head a few minutes later as I joined Richard in the living room downstairs, where he was busy with his research work. As much as I would have loved to strike a conversation, work meant he was in no mood for one.
A warm ‘cuppa’ and nuts were on a small tray waiting for me. Richard often anticipated my needs and met them. I liked that about him, and I settled down in my favourite armchair, sipping my tea. The Christmas decorations gave the sitting room a glowing look. I particularly liked the handmade decorations Wale and his elder brothers designed during their school art practice. It made me remember my childhood. My siblings and I would make paper decorations for the sitting room every Christmas. My father never cared.
My mother, although she cared, was too immersed in trying to provide for our everyday needs. There was never anything left to buy readymade Christmas decorations. However, we still found ways to have fun.
I couldn’t help but let my mind settle on the fact that my children were born in the UK and had never visited Nigeria. As such, I tried in my little way to impart in them some of the cultures of their fatherland. Richard designated Saturdays as Yoruba speaking days in the house. We were all usually at home on Saturday evenings, so that worked well for us. My children and I picked up enough Yoruba from those evenings to greet appropriately and engage in simple day-to-day conversations.
Unfortunately, my attempt at creating a few hours in a day for learning my native tongue, Igbo, was met with stiff resistance.
“The children are Yoruba by birth, not Igbo,” Richard would argue, “and their surname is Adelakun, not Chukwuma.”
I never really liked the way he felt about the issue of cultural differences. However, he made his point as a true African man to the core. Despite those shortcomings, he was a good man, and I was lucky to be blessed with his love.

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