Chapter 1: Chains and Choices

My papa na traitor minister.

For this land, that name no be small thing—na mark wey no dey wash comot. As I dey grow, the talk for town na say, "Nwosu Chibuzo, that man wey sell him people for small soup money." Even small children dey point our compound, dey whisper. Yet, na my blood, my own papa. Sometimes, when breeze blow for harmattan, I go remember how e dey whistle for our zinc roof, and how my papa go sit for front of the hut, dey look like say e fit change wetin don happen. But wetin man go do? This life, e get as e be.

Na my fiancé collect our family property.

People say, "Na who get power get land." The day Tunde, the boy wey I don dey look with soft eye since, come with council men enter our compound, my heart break small. He no even look my face. He just dey point, "Move this, take that." The iron dey my chest that day, but I gree, because for this country, if dem wan collect, you go just shift, no talk too much. My mama hide her wrapper, I hide tears.

When he put iron chain for my neck, e even gentle pass the year wey he crown me with palm fronds.

That iron chain cold for my skin—dey burn me pass pepper. But when I remember the year Tunde, with his own hand, put palm fronds for my head during the New Yam festival, na that day my heart really tear. For front of everybody, he talk say, "Amarachi, you be my blessing." That day, joy dey my body. Now, see as life don turn. Na so e dey—today you dey up, tomorrow you fit dey ground.

The day dem cut my papa head and display am for market square, I just dey pick lice from my mama hair calmly.

Sometime, pain dey too much, e go turn cold inside you. As I dey pick lice, my finger steady, my eye no blink. Mama just dey shake, I dey hum old song wey she dey sing for me when I small. People pass, some dey whisper, some dey look away. Na for that moment I learn say, for this world, you gats gather yourself or you go scatter.

I talk say, “If fire dey, I fit fry the lice chop am with palm wine.”

Na so life don bend me, I fit turn anything to joke, even sorrow. If person no laugh, na cry dem go cry till ground soak. So I talk am—if fire dey, I go use am fry lice, chop am with palm wine. Everybody shock, but my mind clear. For Nigeria, na laughter dey heal wound wey tears no fit wash.

Surprisingly, this thing make the young general for the next cell, wey dem hang by collarbone, begin laugh.

I hear the chain jingle, him body shake, small laugh escape from him chest. E be like say the pain for this place join our spirits together. Even in chains, human heart still dey find space for laugh. The prison cold, but that laugh warm my heart small, like hot ogi for early morning.

E funny like that?

I just smile small. Maybe we all dey mad for here, or na only strong people dey fit find joke for fire.

Through the cell bars, my eye catch the general’s own. For a brief moment, something shift—like fate dey hover between us. I shiver, cold and fear mixing for my belly. I no know why, but from that look, I sense say my story never finish.