Ịnọoweme

By Chinecherem Veronica Enujioke

Dear Ọnọme,

I know you will not read this letter. You must hate me for the incessant letters carrying gossip which I do not confirm their truth. Again, I am telling you that I do not partake in the cheap talks at Serem market nor at Mama Nono’s salon, the one near that gigantic hotel where big men and politicians squander money and carry women. They hide in rich hotels to find pleasure and come outside to curse the same men they sought pleasure from. You see, I listen to the gossip. I enjoy it. But I never chip in my two cents no matter the person they talk about. The cents that concern me are the ones from my customers, the ones that can pile up so I can buy a bag of rice. And you know how much I despise this country, how much I wanted us to leave this place. Well, things have changed.

In case you start this letter, this is where the letter begins, Ọnọme. You remember how much my mother would run about bad news, painting and soft-bellying it with proverbs. But you know also that I do not like to stall. So, I begin with my misfortune. I went to the hospital, Ọnọme. They said I have End Stage Ovarian Cancer. When they told me, I moped at the doctor for a long time. He must have been embarrassed. His smile was almost reaching his ears. He was switching from beautiful to those anime drawings I hated in your room. 

I know what cancer is. Is it not that terrible disease that left us bankrupt and then took my father? Is it not the thing that did not let him shit or piss, so they had to fix a wire into his manhood? But I did not know what it had to do with the big name they told me. The doctor had been talking. I was shivering. The last thing I heard him say was that I would not have children. 

I walked out of the hospital before he finished. When the children on the street called me a mad woman and ran away, I saw I had forgotten my shoes. I hated that I left my Italian shoes. I had fought hard to get them at the election where that corrupt Senator J bribed us to vote his godson as the Local Government chairman. He gave us half bags of rice and shoes made with Italian leather. Who knew a new kind of leather would oust Italian leather? 

They call this leather Louis Vuitton and even the kids know what it is. They say some letters are silent but the leather is a walking gold. The day I heard from them that Italian leather is made in Aba, I cursed Senator J and the so-called local government chairman. Why did I have to return to the hospital to get fake Italian leather shoes? Most importantly, I hated that I would hear the rest of the gory things the doctor would say about my treatment, so I forged on. Ihe m na-amaghị apụghị ịma m. What I do not know will never know me, is it not so?

In many ways, I am just like my mother. And now, I see she was just a girl. I could have been easy on her. I could have done so many things better. Owelu left me because I was scared to marry him. I loved him but there are things that mar you so much that your scar reopens all the time. I wish I told him what I really thought about children. I wished that I didn't say I didn't know. I agree it was nonchalant. I wished I opened up and maybe it would have saved him too. Now everyone I love is gone; Owelu, mother and you. 

Just read my letter, Ọnọme. When you find me, if you do, I will look into your eyes and tell you what happened the night the bells tolled non-stop down the street. I was there with Owelu. We will start from there and maybe, you will believe me after all these years.

Your friend,

Omeọgọ.