Tales of Hills, valleys & streams; A Death in Ngwo.

I remember the death of my friend, TC Uzochukwu, as if it were just yesterday. I recall its psychological effect on me during my childhood years, the days of lanterns and lights. Those were the days when we strode down the busy paths of our farmhouse like pathfinders.

We were barely 14 years old, and Uzor, as we fondly called him, was an ambitious young boy who dreamt like us. We all grew up in the same village, playing together, working together, and doing everything together, just like any other kids in a communal society. We made these memories in Ngwo, my hometown. Uzor, was originally from Ugboka but, he was born and bred in Ngwo, and became a true townsman. Uzor was smart, a role model at 14, and someone our parents wanted us to be or act like.

We all attended the famous "UgwuAkulu," a community primary school in the hills of Ngwo. It was there that we had our primary exposure and where our formative years began. It was our own merchant of light, and there Mr. Nwachukwu, Uzor's father, pushed us to dream big. He urged us to be like Obuechina in "Potter's Wheel," the young boy who chose to depart for Aka CMS without his mother. By "mother," he meant the tiny particles that make up the comforts of our lives.

We danced in the rain together when the sky wept, and we floated our boats on the high-current, dirty rainwater flowing down our street. Uzorchukwu always made the best boat; he was a better boat builder than I was. His paper boat always soaked last and ventured farther than ours, which just clung to the shores of that dirty flowing water.

Uzorchukwu's parents were teachers and staunch Anglicans. His mother helped coordinate the kids at church, and his father, pious Nwachukwu, was also a farmer who borrowed pieces of land from indigenes and cultivated lots of cash crops. He was very sociable, with a humorous stature, and knew how to deliver the word of God in our dialect. He spoke our dialect better than most of our people. There was much to talk about him.

The topography of my hometown positioned most of our "iyi" (streams) down in the valley. Most of our streams flowed out from a rock enclave or a cave, precisely. Every now and then, you are walking underneath or between walls of hanging rocks to fetch clean water. It was usually placid and chilly spring water. Every evening after school, we sang melodious tunes on our way down to the stream, to wash, bathe, and fetch water. Some of us never had to go to the stream, but because it was a trend, we always tagged along. I recall how the paths to that "Iyi" were always teeming with youths every evening, like coal miners departing a haulage way.

Then, one fateful day, I, Uzorchukwu, and other friends went to one of my hometown's streams, as we often did every other evening after school. Uzo and I had previously made plans for our evening: we would first go to the stream, wash, bathe, fetch water, and then visit the 'obu' to watch those playing football.

We hiked down the valley to the stream that evening, unaware that it would be the last day on Mother Earth for my dearest Uzorchukwu Nwachukwu, a would-have-been great craftsman. The stream flowed out through the rock enclave, and at the foot of the rolling rock lay a shallow pool, the clean water spot from which people fetched.

We often swam in the shallow pool beneath the rolls of high rock formations. Then, suddenly that evening, a huge rock fell from the rolls of rock formations, and everyone took to their heels, accompanied by various screams of fear from different corners of the stream.

Unfortunately, someone had been hit by the rock. When we summoned the courage to go closer to the fallen rock, we realized the victim was TC Uzochukwu. Everyone screamed and wept. I recall Uzorchukwu’s leg flipping twice before it stayed still. The rock fell on his chest and crushed his heart. Blood dripped down from his nose and ears. He died instantly.

We wept; it was, more or less, the most dreadful March in all my years.

A few weeks after that incident, Mr. Pius Nwachukwu and his family left Ngwo and never came back.