Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Jude Chukwu

Obahor is one beautiful place I’ll love to be, over and over again. It had the aura of home, the beauty of a ghetto, the heart of an angel, the swag of a jungle, the memories of mama Ejime’s Banga rice.

It was in this very place we were born, we lived and grew in the first compound of Obahor.

Memories! It could be beautiful like the Methodist cathedral that stood in the pole lined street of Obahor or dull like the street of upper.

The memories of the times we spent together were more beautiful than the flowers and trees of Delta Secondary School where you schooled.

Childhood was fun! Wasn’t it?

We laughed, quarreled, fought, I was beaten in our paved compound that stood distinct among other buildings in the street.

The sun had always been angry and frustrated—it dealt with my skin as if I was the major problem of Nigeria. But your light skin glittered, unarmed by the sun.

We watched plates outside our kitchen that smelt of mama’s sweet soup.

Later you became a plate supervisor.

We attended church at Sacred Heart Cathedral until you grew tired of the ancient parish that survived the toughness of Warri. Assumption parish Idama became your new parish.

Father Cletus angelic voice that pierced even the loss of the lost sheep drew you more to that parish.

Years past. Did crawl? No! It flew away like those little beautiful black birds we were taught in Golden Group of School.

Estate became your destination.

Years later. It became a story I won’t write someday.

Years later. You told us you were going to your new home to start life.

We cried. We missed you.

You always made us proud.


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