The Family Resolution

What a day! The bustling street in my hometown was meant for the survival of the fittest, in the present economy of its country. The air was filled with the relentless cries of the hawkers, their voices rising and falling as they show off the names of their goods, skillfully balanced on their heads. The large neighborhood market was just a short drive from the street. It was one of the markets in my town where the buying and selling of small-scale food items takes center stage. It is not surprising that the majority of the wealthy residents of the nearby town were periodically visiting the local market in search of food products.The few petty traders in the neighborhood market, though, don't seem to be enjoying their typical pleasant days.The majority of the regular customers who used to buy food items from the market have now moved to the very local market, outnumbering the number of people who buy food products in my town.

 While taking a leisurely stroll from the market to the house, one could hear the disagreeable sounds of small children playing in the ghetto. Some of them were crying in a distressing way, perhaps because they were missing their parents, who may have gone out into the street to get their daily bread. The little children's loud cries would not bother the ten-and eleven-year-olds, who were already causing some annoyance here and there. The majority of them, who had thought of themselves as being in their prime, were already throwing tantrums on the small children who would not stop crying for what they wanted. The people who were fourteen to nineteen were spending some quality time at the small kiosk where the live football match was being shown on TV.

 "It's a goal!" The sound of the neighborhood kids' voices screams once more, for the fourth time.

 The scorching heat in my bedroom that afternoon was quite annoying to the core, seeping into every tiny holes in my bedroom and suffocating the air with its oppressive weight. My head hurts as I wouldn't stop tossing around in my bed.

 At his shoe store that early in the morning, I had previously helped my father get the necessary things he would be needing, including his packed lunch, which I had made to perfection. One of the satisfying things that men would never play with, as far as I could count, was food. On the outskirts of the town, he owns one of the largest unisex shoe stores in the popular market. Mr. James Obika Kanayo, my father, was a shoe merchant. He preferred to be called 'Nnayi'. One of the most strong-minded men I have ever known as my father. He was his family's eldest son. My father's strictness was just one character of a difficult person I had come to understand. He never allows me to leave his sight, to have my way, or to live the kind of life he saw me envision. His level of strictness is ridiculous. While he refers to it as 'protection', I refer to it as 'nefariousness', which is the state of being wicked.

 After realizing how interested and insistent he was that we address him as 'Nnayi', our beloved father, I stopped calling my father 'Daddy'. Being an Igbo man with a traditional title, he felt it was only polite to address him in that manner. While we were living in Imo State, in the southeast region of Nigeria, my father occasionally traveled to one of the largest markets in the southwest to purchase new, varied styles of shoes in bulk, which he intended to resell on the retail market.

 In contrast, my mother, Mrs. Emilia Njoku Chinyere, still goes by her father's name, and she works as a petty trader in the neighborhood market.

 Oh, hold on a second! Have I mentioned to you that my father meets once a week with other titled men? Oh father! I mostly notice it as one of his unexhausted activities. They would all gather in what my father called his 'Obi'– a small hut built by the eldest son in the Igbo tribe in Nigeria, symbolizing transition, authority, and family leadership. He would amuse them while they laughed and joked, providing drinks and kolas. Every person in the village would be singled out and discussed by them. I have never witnessed a particular group of middle-aged men conversing as though they were women. Well, I do wonder if they were ever bothered about the situation of the country.

 Referring to my Mother. Her family consisted of five children, with her being the second daughter. She treated my father with great respect and loyalty. She was still the caring and beautiful woman I was so proud of, even though my father used her as his lovely wife. One interesting fact about her was that, at one point in time, she decided to change her father's name to her husband's, but she later changed her mind after learning how much work it would take to make the changes. Before getting married, she worked as a civil servant in a government organization. However, she resigned due to inadequate compensation and benefits. Additionally, all of her certifications and paperwork were signed with her father's name. If she goes through with the decision, it will take a lot of time and money. And it is no longer relevant to her. She was devoted to her husband, Mr. James Obika Kanayo, my father.

 I had accompanied my mother to the local market with her goods after my father had left for work that morning. It was usually exhausting to spend time with her at the market. I returned home late yesterday after assisting her in selling some of her products at the local market. It wasn't fun to spend the entire day in the market without interacting with any of your friends, other than the customer you'd always persuade to buy your market wares. You had to stay focused on business and avoid any distractions that could prevent your customers from purchasing your products. Some of the customers are also quite unpleasant.

 The current terrible economy in my society has left everyone in a depressing state, making it extremely difficult for people to purchase any goods or services they desire due to the high price at which they are being sold. In the midst of this confusing situation in my society, some of these people blamed us for the high price of food products on the market, while we blamed the government. The government is not helping matters either. Every day, market traders and buyers express various dramas and opinions about the current state of affairs.

 Okay, where was I? The somewhat aggressive, loud, and scornful voices of the young boys in the vicinity. They wouldn't stop cheering and screaming at the names of the football players on the television, and I wasn't surprised to discover where the noises were coming from. If it wasn't from Mazi Jude Igbokwe's kiosk, then hopefully it wasn't from this area. Mazi Jude, fondly known as Oga Jude by the kids in the neighborhood, had established this small football viewing center and the local drinks he has been selling for several years from the small kiosk he rented across from our house. He was a bachelor in his late forties. He has made his living there for the past several years. Kids and young adults mostly gathered around his kiosk to watch live football match on his television, while some middle-aged men who work menial jobs would always hang out at his kiosk in the evening to drink after work.

 The loud and disturbing noises from the Oga Jude kiosk had ruined my lovely siesta. That afternoon, I decided to take a nap after accompanying my mother to the market in the morning. I'd be making lunch and dinner before my parents arrived from their daily business, so I needed to rest. Feeling exhausted and with sleepy eyes, I peered out the window to see the young kids loitering around the neighborhood. I yawned and exited my bedroom to get the three smoked fishes and egusi melon I had left to dry in the scorching sun on the stainless tray of our water tank outside our house. When I stepped out of the house, everywhere was quiet as if time had stopped. I was not surprised at all. After playing for a while, the neighborhood kids had dispersed to their respective houses to eat lunch. The minority of those who had nothing to eat at home had to wait until their parents returned from work. This reminded me of a similar experience I had as a child. After removing the tray containing the egusi melon and smoked fishes from the top of the water tank, I discovered that one of the fishes was missing, and the second one had a large bite on it.

 "In this economy!" I lamented out loudly.

 The neighborhood children had done it again. But, of course, none of them would ever admit to taking one of the fish or biting into the other. This mischievous act by the kids was put on hold for a long time after some of the neighbors who were victims reported it and warned the kids who could be the culprits. I had been very careful about the foodstuffs I kept outside our house, but today, it slipped my mind, and I am now left to bear the loss.

 We lived in a two bedroom detached bungalow nearby, and my father never considered fencing it in. I hissed and exhaled loudly in dismay. I had intended to make egusi soup with the three smoked fishes. I sadly took the foodstuff and returned to the house. It was very painful for me to have to cook with the remaining fish. I knew I'd have to explain to my mother why there weren't enough fish on my father's plate of soup.

 I know you might be wondering who I am. I guess I didn't tell you yet, but now you're about to find out. My name is Maria Obika Chidinma, and this is my soul stirring story. I was my parents' only tall, dark, beautiful daughter. If there is a luxurious word to describe beauty, I would choose 'ravishing'. The big boys on our street frequently mistake me for a young, glorious lady in her prime, and they won't stop wooing me, including the affluent, able-bodied young men who had always been on my father's neck in proposing to marry me.

 I was just a well-endowed 16-year-old girl still in high school. I was well taken care of, and everything I required was provided for me, even if it might take a long time. I was my father's favorite daughter, which is why I was highly valued in my family. I had a few friends who left me because they couldn't deal with my father's over protective behavior towards me. My father refused to let me go out with them whenever I needed to spend time with them. I have not had any truly enjoyable moments in my life.The only time I could have the supposed fun I'd always had was during school vacations, when I had to travel all the way from our home to Anambra state to spend some weeks with one of my relatives, Auntie Rita, my mother's eldest sister, who was always waiting for me with open arms. I thoroughly disgusted her.

 She was a widow in her late fifties with three daughters who are now in college. Auntie Rita considers me her daughter in the absence of her biological children. She knows I was inclined to disobedience. During any of the school holidays I had to spend with her, she rarely reported any of my misbehaviors to my parents or sent me home even if I asked for it, instead, she treated me like one of those notorious criminals loitering on the streets. Auntie Rita runs a boutique, which I usually help her with during my vacations there. During my school vacations, I used to spend my time at home reading books or assisting my mother with her petty business. Looking at the differences, I'd rather spend my vacation at Auntie Rita's, which is less exhausting and has a more conducive environment.

 My stepsister, Martha, was much older than me. She was a child my parents adopted before I was born. She tied the knot with her soulmate, whom she had been in a loving relationship with since college. It was truly miraculous that their marriage was blessed with amazing male twins earlier this year. My mother will be going to her matrimonial home for an Omugwo. I can't express how thrilled I was for this wonderful moment in her life. When my mother arrives, she will stay with Martha for approximately 3-6 months. During her stay over there, she would take on a various responsibilities, including caring for her newborn infant, assisting with breast-feeding and bathing, preparing traditional meals for Martha to aid in recovery and infant feeding, and then providing emotional support and guidance to her. This practice is rooted in the Igbo culture's strong emphasis on family, community, and respect for elders. My mother will be playing a vital role in supporting Martha's physical and emotional recovery, passing down traditional childcare practices and wisdom, and also ensuring the well-being and care of her newborn. My mother had become a grandmother and her happiness knew no bound. The Omugwo is truly a treasured tradition that embodies the Igbo values of love, care and community, and will be a cherished experience for my mother and my stepsister, Martha.

 When school resumes for the new term, I will be in the tenth grade at high school. My joy had no boundaries. However, it was short-lived. My parents had suggested that I attend a boarding high school for girls after completing the junior West African Examination Council. My mother will be absent during the school resumption period, so she does not want me loitering around or spending my day after school tired at home instead of attending classes. I never liked the idea of a boarding high school. It looks more like a missionary dungeon to me. I've heard numerous intimidating and scornful stories about them.

 Why would I want to live in a school where I wouldn't have time for myself, eat the foods I enjoy, and then have to get up as early as 5 a.m. to take a bath, eat breakfast, and attend morning classes? They all seemed very difficult to carry out. I've seen some boarding high school students, brag about their academic performances, intelligence, hardworking personality, disciplined attitude, and the love and care they receive from the school and its

administrators. However, I learned from the few students I met who were discussing with their friends how they were treated at the boarding high school. I had to believe that most of the terrible things they go through are the fault of the students in the 12th grade. It amazes me to hear how the junior students were treated as errand boys by senior students in low-level positions at the boarding high school. I found some of the things that junior students go through at the hands of senior students to be very intimidating.The regular running of unnecessary errands during school hours, the making of their beds and fetching of buckets of water for them, the forceful distribution of their snacks and pocket money, and the severe punishments that follow for those who fail to complete these assignments. I don't want to go through that, especially after hearing the discouraging stories surrounding it.

 After giving it some thought, I reflected on my parents' decision. I knew of a few boarding high schools for girls that I wanted to try out, but none of them were on my parents' list of boarding high school options for me. The final straw came on the eve of my father's trip to the southwest region of the country to purchase additional business stock. We were about to have supper when my father mentioned his last trip to Auntie Rita in Anambra. I had no idea his last visit was to Auntie Rita's. He began by telling us about Auntie Rita, who had ordered the female shoes in bulk from him for retail in her boutique. He went on to discuss her children's education and how they had thrived since graduating from boarding high school. That was the moment I realized where the conversation was going.

 "Let's not beat about the bush. The school would be resuming soon and I think it is best you get registered into one of the best boarding high schools in town."

 Apparently, he had discussed the topic with my mother before laying it out on the dining table during dinner.

 "Yes, Chidinma. Your father is right." My mother supported.

 Of course, she would approve of my father's decision. My parents never had to deal with a lack of harmony in their marriage. One of them must listen to each other in order to gain a better understanding and maintain family peace. I never liked the idea of attending a boarding girls' high school. I preferred to be a day student until I completed high school.

 "I spoke with your Auntie, Rita, about your change of school for the first term. I may be occupied this month, and as you are aware, your mother will be suspending her own petty business for some months. I have not condemned your current school, but I believe you will receive a better education in a good learning environment at the boarding high school." My father concluded.

 "Speaking about that. I heard about the very popular boarding school for girls at the outskirts of the town." I suggested.

 "Well, your father and I have already made a wonderful arrangement for you. You'll be attending one of the top girls' boarding high schools in your Auntie's state. Don't worry about your well-being. Your Auntie will be there for you. Your needs will be met while you study over there."

 "You rarely had time for yourself when you returned from school. The school can help you avoid distractions and focus on your studies and interests. Not only that, but it will expose you to new opportunities for personal growth and development, independence, and self-direction." My father concluded his statement.

 That was the last conversation my parents had with me about my enrollment in a boarding high school for girls. I finished my dinner and returned to my bedroom to reflect on the change of school discussion we had. I detested the fact that their boarding high school choice for me had to be in Auntie Rita's state. I thought I was on the verge of becoming a free bird for a long time. It appears that my parents would keep me under the supervision of my Auntie, which did not sit well with me. Being raised by a caring, loving, but strict relative was going to be a difficult journey for me. Once admitted to the boarding high school, I will be required to visit my home or Auntie during midterm breaks and school holidays. I was not looking forward to the journey. It was a new environment and an experience I was not prepared for.