Mama Anuli – my grandmother's bosom friend – and her last born, Emezie, had always been part of my life's fabric. My partner in crime from the days we were knee-high to a grasshopper. We shared the same chalk-stained uniforms in primary school, the same whispered dares behind the science block in secondary school. He was the quiet flame in the cold world I had known. While Emezie soared through university with a degree in mathematics, I watched the gates of tertiary education remain shut against me for three long years.
When my admission finally came in 2016 – Food and Nutrition – it felt like the sun had risen after years of rain. But joy, like palm oil on a white wrapper, never stayed clean for long. Mama's illness crept into our lives like a cunning spirit, shifting our dreams into shadows. The hospital became our second home. Antiseptic replaced the scent of dinner. Mama, in one last act of humility, reached out to my mother. But all she got in return was cold silence.
The thought of standing in front of our cramped room, packing up what little we owned – a handful of stools, some cooking pots, Mama's old sewing machine. My heart ached at the thought of trading memories for money, but what choice did I have? The surgery wouldn't wait. I hoped that selling our belongings might scrape together something meaningful. If Mama got back on her feet, I was sure she'd work one last miracle and find us a roof over our heads.
******
The sun was dipping low as I approached Emezie's compound, my body weary, my spirit even more so. The smell of onugbu soup wafted through the air like a secret whisper, mingling with the steam of freshly made akpu. My stomach growled so loudly it could've woken the ancestors.
"Nne, kedu? How's Mama holding up?" Emezie asked, rising from the bench where he sat, his voice tinged with worry as his eyes scanned my face.
"Odinma," I lied, my voice threadbare, my strength wearing thin.
"You met me well o!" he said, brightening. "Come, come and eat. No formality here."
As if my body understood Igbo, my stomach answered with a rumble. I washed my hands in the dented basin beneath the bench and joined him. The akpu was warm, soft, welcoming. I dipped each ball generously into the rich, dark onugbu soup. Every swallow was more than nourishment – it was survival, rebellion, defiance.
When I finally slowed down, wiping the back of my hand against my lips, Emezie was still nibbling on a bone of goat meat, a look of quiet contentment on his face.
"Emmy," I said, my voice cracking, "the doctor says we need one hundred and seventy-five thousand naira for Mama's surgery. And to make things worse, Oga Amadi threw us out. We have nowhere to sleep."
The words were heavy in my throat. Saying them made them real.
"Bikonu," I pleaded, a desperate whisper in a language deeper than speech. "If you can help me sell the little we have… maybe we'll get something."
Emezie dropped his meat bone and stared at me, stunned. "Chimo! One hundred and seventy-five thousand naira? Oluchi... you're my sister. I'd do anything for you."
He paused, his voice steady. "Mama's not around; she's with Sister Anulika for omugwo. But we'll find a way to raise the money. We have time, and you have me. This is your home too. Sleep here for now. Don't worry, okay?"
Tears welled in my eyes, but I nodded, unable to speak.
"Ehen," he continued, already rising. "Has Mama eaten?"
"No," I said quickly. "She can't eat akpu. She's diabetic. I'll make soup for her when we sell our things."
"Nonsense," he said, waving his hand. "There's ugwu, spinach, and waterleaf in the garden behind. I'll get fresh fish from Mama Nkem. Everything else is in the kitchen. You sit and rest. I'll be back before you know it."
"Emmy... thank you. Chukwu gozie gi. You'll never lack."
He only grinned, then took off like a startled antelope.
I couldn't help myself. I reached into the flask and stole three more wraps of akpu. Hunger is not patient. After eating, I tidied up the dishes and carried them to the back, scrubbing them clean, stacking them neatly into the woven basket tucked beside the stove. Then I grabbed a knife and ventured to the backyard. I harvested a healthy bundle of vegetables – enough to last two days.
By the time I finished chopping and washing the greens, I heard his voice booming from the front.
"Oluchi bekee!"
"Ahh, Emmy, you're back already?"
"The aroma from that kitchen ehn... Maka Chukwu! Ị bụ wife material one million yards!" he said with mock seriousness.
I burst into laughter, wiping my hands on my wrapper. "Wife material ke? Abeg, Emmy, leave me joor!"
We laughed until our ribs hurt. In that moment, the weight of the world seemed lighter.
He kept chatting, teasing, fussing, filling the room with a calm joy. Together, we packed the food carefully. Then we made our way to the hospital, side by side, as we had been all our lives.
******
Mama had been moved to a quieter section of the ward. She looked peaceful, though visibly weak.
"Mama!" I called, rushing to her bedside.
"Oluchi, you're back?"
"Yes, Mama. I brought food for you from Emezie's place."
"Nna m, kedu?" she asked Emezie with warmth in her tired voice.
"Very fine, ma," he replied, his smile reassuring.
I helped Mama sit up. She ate slowly, every bite purposeful, as though she was drawing strength from the very act of eating.
"Annabelle!" Nurse Popoke's voice rang out.
"Ma!" I responded, startled.
"The doctor wants to see you."
My heart sank. I handed the flask to Emezie and followed her, each step heavier than the last
"Good evening, Doctor," I said, slipping into the chair opposite him.
"Evening," he replied, his expression unreadable. "Annabelle Oluchukwu Amuneke, granddaughter to Mrs. Felicia Adanna Okoro?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you been able to raise the money for the surgery?"
"Not yet, sir. But we're working on it. Before the week ends, we will."
He sighed, leaned forward. "Her blood sugar is under control now, which is good. You've adhered to the dietary plan – commendable. But she's also hypertensive. Her medication has run out, and you've yet to pay for the wound dressing set."
"I'll sort that out immediately, sir."
He nodded solemnly. "You need to understand – the surgery is high risk. Even if she survives it, recovery will be long, painful. She'll need close care. If we don't operate soon... things may take a turn. You must raise that money fast."
"I understand, Doctor. I truly do."
I left the office in a daze, the walls of the hospital pressing in on me. My breath caught in my chest.
I handed the nurse six thousand naira – the last of what Emezie had earlier given me – and paid for Mama's drugs and wound dressing. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was something.
That night, I begged to stay with Mama, but she wouldn't let me.
"Go," she said gently. "You need strength to fight. Nurse Popoke will help me if I need anything. I'll be fine, my daughter."
I nodded, blinking away tears. I didn't tell her about our eviction. That worry could wait.
Emezie took my hand as we stepped into the quiet night, our fingers laced in silent solidarity. We walked side by side, our steps slow, heavy with fear and hope. The stars blinked overhead, indifferent witnesses to the burdens we bore.
As we made our way back to his house, I looked at him. In his eyes, I saw the unspoken vow: We will survive this. Together.