Nne-Ohe; 'A Tale From The Hilltop'

If only heaven had a P.R.O, so many unanswered questions would have been resolved before judgment day. When the dice roll in our favor, some call it luck, others say it’s grace, while some take pride in it. As offspring of the sun, I’ve come to realize that no one has it all. What you are gifted with in creation, others may lack, and what you lack, others have. The things we pick up along the way as we grow might or might not be in our favor, and life does happen along the way.

I am the second child of Maazi Udeh. I spent a greater part of my young age at Amabo, I was sent to live with my grandmother, Nneohe Nwagu Nwohagu, affectionately known as “Long John.”Amabo is a small town in Ngwo, Enugu State, Nigeria. It still retains that reserved village setting and old-world charm where everybody looks out for each other. You can still see traces of mud houses and footage from the ’90s.

I recall Nneohe had a 1990 calendar in her room.Here in Africa, we have this culture where one of the grandchildren goes to live with their grandparents as a helping hand. When I first arrived, it took me some time to adjust to the lifestyle. Nneohe lived in a small bungalow with a large compound. The compound was fenced with rows of moringa trees and dried palm fronds, which she often reinforced. The compound had many trees, their branches stretching out and interlocking. Even on sunny days, the harshness of the sun was absent, but on the other hand, I had a lot of sweeping to do to keep the compound clean.There was this young lady in her early 40s who often visited Nneohe. She was the lead vocalist at the village church, and her voice was mesmerizing.

She was dark-skinned, neat, and of average height. She wasn’t as beautiful as Bianca, but she was pretty in her own way. They called her Ujo. I didn’t know much about her past, but from my experience with her in Amabo, she was a kind-hearted soul, down-to-earth, and a lover of singing. Whenever Nneohe brought back cassava and palm fruits, Ujo was always present to assist with peeling and sorting the farm products.Nneohe had a funny character; she could make anyone laugh non-stop but could also be very insulting. She called me many names, but I got used to it. You might wonder how someone so insulting could still have such a lovely character.

One day, we were eating Ogodo Ikwe and chatting under the ukwu-oha tree when Nneohe jokingly mocked Ujo about her age and marital status. Immediately, Ujo stopped eating and dropped the lump of ogodo she held back into the mortar. She looked really hurt. I had never seen her in such a state before. She lamented bitterly and wept uncontrollably. Nneohe was reluctant to apologize, insisting that her joke didn’t warrant such a reaction. She eventually stood up and went into her room. I pleaded with Ujo to stop crying and not to leave. Eventually, she heeded my plea and stayed back, sitting under the pear tree. I covered the Ikwe and sat with her, trying to console her and lift her spirit, but my efforts seemed in vain.

Finally, Ujo spoke. She said of all people, why would it be Nneohe who mocked her? I apologized on behalf of Nneohe, but the glass had already shattered. Ujo revealed her struggles, lamenting how, despite her unwavering morals and virtues, life had not blessed her with marriage. In our society, where a woman’s worth is often unfairly tied to her marital status, Ujo’s pain ran deep. She felt unseen and unworthy, not because she lacked qualities but because fate had dealt her a different hand. If keeping the rules was the standard, she had done her part. While younger, she had been the epitome of morals during her prime. But who are we to question God? Life comes in various packages, and often, we get the unexpected.Later that week, Nneohe apologized to Ujo, but honestly, some things cannot be mended with a simple sorry. Ujo accepted the apology, but like most sensitive situations, she began visiting less frequently. Nneohe’s joke had shattered the safe space Ujo found in her home.From then on, whenever I climbed the oha tree for Nneohe, there was no Ujo to direct me on where to place my feet or point out the branches my eyes couldn’t see. When Nneohe used deep proverbs, there was no Ujo to explain their meaning.

The bond between the young and the old had been severed like a woman in an abusive marriage.One Saturday afternoon, while mashing cooked palm fruits in the Ikwe, I thought about Ujo and what it feel like to be unmarried in your 40s as a woman in Africa. In the Western world, it might mean little, but here, in our society, it’s a different reality. It’s one thing to marry and divorce, but it’s another to have never been married at all. Ujo had all the qualities a woman could need, yet she couldn’t find a man. It broke her self-esteem, and she retreated into her shell, only seeking out safe spaces.

Nneohe passed at 82. On the night of her departure, she had been sick with a mild fever. My mother visited during the weekend but returned on Sunday night for work the next day. Ujo also came that evening, and we laughed together like old times before she left. That night, Nneohe spoke in deep proverbs, her words carrying the weight of finality. By morning, she had joined the ancestors, leaving behind a legacy of laughter, wisdom, and the profound lesson that words, whether spoken in jest or earnest, carry the power to heal or harm.