Red Earth And Silence

The first thing Adam noticed as he drove through Nsukka was the scent of the air. The breeze was unchanged—warm and fragrant— with the smell of roasting corn mingling with that of ube and goat meat pepper soup. Adam didn't realize how much he had missed Nsukka until he saw the young boys playing football in the red earthed field, palmfronds nodding to the rhythm of their noise.

He smiled to himself as he navigated the dusty roads towards the home of his childhood. He noticed how much Nsukka had evolved since he left Nsukka with his mother. The roads were now paved and new infrastructure was popping off everywhere to accommodate the teeming student life of UNN (University of Nigeria, Nsukka). Small businesses were situated at every spot from bookshops to bars to guest houses. He hadn't seen this town in twenty years. He could have decided never to step foot in Nsukka for the rest of his life but he couldn't cope with the burden of not knowing if his father still lived. His father whose eyes were like stormclouds and exerted his will with force. His father who had uprooted him from everything he had known and sent him away.

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20 Years Ago, Nsukka

Adam flipped the gate’s latch open. The gate swung open and he entered the compound, closing it behind him. A smile was playing on his lips as he remembered the goal he had scored for his team that evening. As he walked towards his house, the breeze carried the sound of voices towards him. He recognized it as his mother's voice. There was something wrong with her voice, it was tinged with the cracking that came with crying for too long. His pace quickened and soon he got to the living room where he found her on her knees, tears streaming down her eyes. His father was seated stiffly in his favorite reclining chair, his foot tapping endlessly against the tiled floor.

“Mommy, what's wrong?” Adam rushed towards her, stooping to wrap his arms around her. He noticed that she couldn't look at him and her sobs had quietened.

“Dad?” He looked at his dad. He would never forget the look of revulsion his dad had thrown at him. His dad cleared his throat and stood up from the chair.

“I don't want to see you or your offspring here by the time I return tonight.” His dad said then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Adam couldn't understand what was going on. Why was his dad sending them packing. What had Mommy done?

“Mommy, why is daddy sending us away?” Adam asked. His mother turned her bloodshot eyes towards him. Her face was swollen from so much crying.

“Adam, go to your room and pack some things into your Ben10 suitcase. We are going to Lagos to visit Aunty Njoku. Go now.”

The finality in her tone brooked no questions or argument. Adam silently left for his room. That evening, Adam and his mother left the red streets of Nsukka on a night bus to Lagos.

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Present Day, Nsukka

Adam packed his car across where used to stand his family house. The old family house had been torn down and rebuilt into a student hostel. The fence had been repainted, and scrawled across it in bold blue letters was Sapphire Hostel. He pulled to the side of the road and stepped out, leaning against the car as he took it all in. How had everything changed so much?

Where Mama Nkechi’s wooden stall once stood—where people used to gather for okpa and cold beer, where people gossiped and laughed boisterously—there was now a glass-fronted restaurant. It was sleek and polished. A few people sat inside, holding quiet conversations, their movements neat and restrained. The street he once played football in now felt colder, cleaner and quieter.

He felt lost. The place he thought he could return to had disappeared in his absence. As he made ready to cross the road to the hostel, the gate of the hostel creaked open. A woman stepped out, a pile of books in one arm, a phone pressed to her ear. There was a confidence in how she moved. Adam thought she might be able to give him some information on what had happened to his father. So, he crossed the road and walked towards her. He waited for her to end the conversation on her phone before calling her attention to him.

“Good afternoon.” Adam greeted.

“Hi, good afternoon.” She replied in a clear voice.

“My name is Adam. Please, I just wanted to inquire if you know Professor Ochieka.”

“Professor Ochieka?? What course does he teach?”

“He used to teach Philosophy. I don't know if he still does.”

“Hmm, I haven't heard of him. I think it would be better if you went to the university and asked. Someone could take you to the Faculty of social sciences. Definitely, there will be someone who knows him.”

“Okay. But well, I'm not really sure of the directions. It's been decades since I was here.” Adam said, praying silently that she would offer to help.

“Well, you're in luck. I'm heading to the university now. We can go together. We just need to find a tricycle.”

“If you don't mind, we can take my car.” Adam offered.

“Alright then. There's no problem.” She answered and Adam led her towards his car. On the way to the university, Adam asked her about the university and they talked about how the university had transformed Nsukka. Her name was Kelechi and she had grown up in a town close to Nsukka. Soon, they drove through the gates of UNN. UNN loomed prouder than before. It was a living city within a town. There were more buses now and more buildings. Students in bright clothes filled the streets. Adam could hear some of them loudly debating politics while some performed poetry in the open air to a small crowd. The university was alive, a giant of sorts.

Adam navigated the roads with the directions from Kelechi and they finally pulled up in front of the towering Faculty of Social Sciences. Adam drew in a deep breath. He knew this was the moment he would meet his father. He had been held hostage by his trauma gotten from abandonment. Not once, but twice and he wanted to know why. Kelechi gently sat in the silence watching Kelechi battle with emotions.

“I don't really know what you are going through or why you came to Nsukka but I sincerely wish you the best of luck. I can wait here for you if you want.” She said.

Adam appreciated her company. “Thank you, Kelechi. But I don't want to delay you. I'm sure you have where you are supposed to be. But, you can give me your cellphone number, so that I can find you when I am done.”

She smiled faintly, took his phone, and typed in her number before handing it back to him. Then, she left the car. Adam sat still, his palms sweating. Finally, he also got out of his car. He couldn't keep hiding in it. The afternoon sun was fierce, casting long shadows across the faculty building. He walked up the short flight of steps, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped into the cool air of the reception.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the middle-aged woman behind the desk. “Please, I’m looking for Professor Ochieka.”

The woman’s face softened in recognition. “Ah… you mean Papa Ochieka? Yes, he’s still here… but he’s not quite the same these days. You’ll find him in “Associate Professor’s” upstairs.”

“Thank you.” Adam said.

Adam climbed the stairs slowly, every step weighed down with memories. When he reached the door, he paused, listening. There was no sound from within. He knocked.

“Come in,” a faint voice called.

Adam opened the door. The man behind the desk looked up, and for a moment, Adam couldn’t breathe. His father was still recognizably himself, but smaller somehow — shoulders hunched, hair thinner and whiter, his once sharp eyes dulled, as if a storm had passed through and left them clouded.

“Yes? Can I help you?” his father asked.

Adam stepped forward, “Dad. It’s me… Adam.” His voice cracked with emotions seeping through.

The silence stretched, and then his father’s hand trembled where it rested on the desk. “Adam,” he whispered, as though tasting the name for the first time in years.

They talked for hours. Adam told him about Lagos. The day they got to Lagos park, his mother had told him to sit on one of the benches, shoving two hundred naira into his hands and promising that she would be back to pick him. She never came back. He told him about the boys at the park, the work they did carrying luggage for passengers, and the kind woman who had found him there, loved him, raised him, and gave him the life his parents couldn’t. The woman he now called Mum.

His father listened quietly, his face lined with regret. When it was his turn, he spoke of the betrayal. He told the story of how he had discovered his wife’s years-long affair, how rage had blinded him, and how sending Adam away with herhad been the worst decision of his life.

“I thought I was protecting myself,” his father said, voice breaking. “But I destroyed us instead.”

By the time the light outside had faded, words had run out. They sat in silence, two men bound by blood and broken history, each wondering in his own way what had become of the woman who had fractured them both.

Outside, the breeze still carried the scent of ube and roasting corn, just as it had twenty years ago.