My aunt, Ngozi, had always been a woman of strong will and unshakable determination. Growing up, I remember how she would often look at her son, Chukwu, with a mixture of hope and expectation in her eyes. “This boy,” she would say, “will become someone great, mark my words.”
But as Chukwu grew older, it became increasingly clear that he was set on a path far from his mother’s dreams. By the time he was a teenager, he was known throughout our village not for any positive traits, but for his disobedience and wayward behaviors. It wasn’t long before trouble started occurring in the compound where my aunt lived with her husband and his other wives. The complaints were relentless: either Chukwu had stolen a chicken again, Chukwu had insulted an elder, or Chukwu had stolen the eggs laid by someone's chicken. The list was endless.
One particularly evening, the tension in their home reached its highest point. My aunt, fed up with the constant quarrels and accusations from her husband, co-wives and neighbors. She made a decision to leave the home. She packed her things, took Chukwu by the hand, and left her husband’s house. That night, under the cover of darkness, she began her new life as a single mother.
Life outside her husband’s home was nothing but hardship. My aunt struggled to make ends meet, relying on menial jobs and the occasional help from relatives who pitied her situation. But even then, Chukwu continued to be a thorn in her side. He was no longer just disobedient; he was a full-blown menace. Hardly a day passed without someone knocking on their door to complain about him.
“Chukwu stole the only piece of yam left for my lids amd I,” one woman said.
“Your son broke my son’s head with a stone,” another would accuse.
My aunt would sigh deeply, muttering to herself, “What kind of life is this? God, what have I done to deserve this?”
One afternoon, the entire village was filled with activities. It was the last Eke market to Christmas, the busiest day of the week. Almost everyone had gone to the market to buy and sell goods. The village was as quiet as a graveyard, and Chukwu saw it as the perfect time to carry out his already strategized plan. He had been eyeing the bush mango tree in the backyard of mummy Eunice. The tree was tall, its branches few and far between, but its fruits were ripe and his eyes had been on the tree looking for the perfect day to go for the fruits.
Chukwu waited until he was sure no one was around. Then, with a leather bag slung over his shoulder, he began to climb the tree. It was a risky attempt, but Chukwu had always been a fearless being. He climbed higher and higher until he got to the peak where the fruits were. Immediately, he began plucking them, carefully placing each one into his bag. He was so carried away in the act that he didn’t know when the owner of the tree returned from the market.
When he finally looked down and saw her approaching, fear enveloped him. Without thinking, he made a decision that haunts him for the rest of his life. He jumped.
The fall was a long and brutal one. Chukwu landed awkwardly feeling a sharp pain shot through his arm. He screamed, “My hand oo! Mummy!! My hand oo!” Mummy Eunice, surprised by the sight of him on the ground screaming, with hands on her head ran to call for help.
By the time my aunt returned from her home service, she met a crowd around her son, Chukwu, who lay on the ground, clutching his broken hand with tears running down his cheeks. Without wasting time, she rushed him to the village hand stretcher, a man known for treating fractures and dislocations. But when they arrived, the man took one look at Chukwu’s hand and shook his head.
“This is bad,” he said, his voice grave. “I can only start the treatment, if you can deposit 10,000 naira first. The balance can come later, in two weeks.”
My aunt was at a loss. She didn’t have that kind of money. In the entire village, there was no one willing to lend her such a sum, not even her own siblings. Desperation clawed at her heart, and she thought of the one person who had always been there for her through thick and thin: my elder brother.
She called him, her voice shaking as she explained the situation. Without hesitation, he promised to help. He sent the money that very day, and the treatment commenced. Over the next month, Chukwu’s hand slowly healed, but the damage was done. His right palm was permanently disfigured, leaving him with only his left hand.
The local doctor, while proud of his work, was blunt in his assessment. “If you had delayed any longer, the hand would have been completely lost. You’re lucky you acted when you did.”
For years, my brother continued to be a pillar of support to my aunt. He helped her in ways big and small, ensuring she and Chukwu didn’t go without the basics. But everything changed when he got married. With a wife and family of his own, his priorities naturally shifted. He couldn’t be there for my aunt the way he used to be, and she felt the sting of it deeply.
Instead of my aunt being grateful for the years my brother has supported her, she took it to heart. She began to see my brother’s wife as an enemy, her presence was a hindrance to receiving support from my brother. Knowing things weren't like they used to be before, she stopped speaking to him completely, Her affection turned bitterness.
Even now, it’s hard to tell when her smile is genuine and when it’s forced, especially when she’s around my brother and his family. Her one time dream of her son becoming someone great is now like she's living in shadows of regret. Her expectation with her son became a shattered one as he became nothing but worse on a daily basis.
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