One Love, Many Tears

by Gertrude U. Uzoh

  She looked at him again to weigh the effect of her words, but Tony appeared calm and listening. Then she added, “Instead of indulgence, you could become more comfortable and profitable if you encourage yourself to change your attitude. Too much complaining cannot help you.” She made her way to finally leave the living room.

  All the while in their discussion, Charity assumed the role of a more experienced woman. She was actually a lot older than Tony, who was young and only twenty-five years old.

  Tony did not know what else to say now; he had exhausted all his points in the argument, which took close to an hour. He now appeared to be deep in thought where he was sitting, tapping his thumbs and middle fingers rhythmically on the dining table.

  Soon their employers would be back. All at the same time, both of them suddenly startled and hurriedly dispersed to their various duties as the clock chimed 4:00 p.m. in the distant living room downstairs.

  Tony hurried off to prepare dinner, while Charity headed toward the adjoining living room. She was going there to tidy it up properly—her primary reason of having gone there in the first place, before incidentally intercepting Tony on his sneaking act and the argument that ensued.

  All alone in the kitchen, Charity’s last words keep ringing a bell in Tony’s mind: “Life is very free and fair to those who believe, and it does no good blaming someone else for some other person’s choices and actions. After all, the choices are there for the taking, Tony. If you don’t take one, you would definitely take the other. Or better still, just be content with what you have, if you can’t do more!” She had told him this lastly as she hurried off to the living room.

  “Haba! Poverty bad well-well o!” Tony exclaimed to himself, now in resignation, as he lifted up the lid of the large, four-compartment deep freezer in the kitchen. From various but well-arranged assortments within, he made his picks: two large-sized parts of frozen chicken he would barbecue, and a bowl of peeled pineapples and oranges he would squeeze into a fruit juice for dinner. He would top up the juice later with Vanilla flavors.

  Weeks afterward, Tony still pondered Charity’s words, and he did that for many more weeks ahead, until he finally resigned from the job.

  “Love yourself, Tony,” he kept telling himself.

  He left a week after Charity did.

  Their resignations had been to Mama Ngozi’s chagrin. They were committed and very meticulous in carrying out her instructions, and she never expected them to resign without enough warning. She was very unhappy at that fact.

  But their actions were even forgivable, as Mama Ngozi recalls now; others simply had to leave without any prior notice at all. Those two actually left because they found a reason to seek higher goals for their lives. But everybody’s actions, no matter how badly perceived by others, usually seem good and justifiable to them; by that, one may be pardoned. Mama Ngozi is married to a rich man, and that is her stepping-stone. She never lacks money and always has enough to spare for personal ventures and purchases. And now, if she can get some helping hands around the house, she will then have time to establish the multi-department super mart she has always dreamed of for the past seven years. She has not been able to succeed at it all these years because her kids were very small, and the inconsistency of having had to readjust from one house help to another was a serious, contributing setback to her dream. She is hoping to really take her time one day and do it right, and she keeps hoping.

  When her friend Lady D. told her of Cynthia and Okechukwu yesterday, it was, for Mama Ngozi, a long-standing wish coming true, and this time on a platter of gold. She came at once to pick them up in excitement, and now they are all driving home.

  However, she hopes that these two sitting behind her will not be as ungrateful as the lot before them. She whimpers sardonically, and throws a quick glance at the kids through her rear-view mirror.

  Looking back now, Mama Ngozi recalls what it feels like to have one’s hired help abandon her and run away, and she knows that it isn’t a pleasant experience at all. “How inconsiderate of them!” she bewails aloud in spite of herself.

  Cynthia and Okechukwu spontaneously cringe uncertainly at her sudden remark, looking at each other in unspoken refrains.

  “Only two out of the seven fools are even sensible at all, to show some moral altitude by approaching me to resign officially. The rest of the fools simply absconded without warning!” Mama Ngozi thought out loud, very bitterly. “Who would be able to stomach that nonsense?” She fumes in her reminiscence as she steers the car into her driveway.

  Twelve

  It is hard to judge, but Mama Ngozi’s actions toward Cynthia and Okechukwu are nothing to write home about in terms of the generally perceived better life one might expect from the rich and mighty. Still, they are quite an impact and are to be reckoned with regarding their later effect on Cynthia’s life, because out of crises heroes emerge. Such hard experiences at an early stage of her life would actually suffice in the long run, because they help to form and reshape Cynthia’s views on life, the same way gold is often purified through fire.

  Mama Ngozi surely affects Cynthia and Okechukwu permanently, though not quite in an easy or soft way. It is the hard way, grueling and gruesome. There are of course options of love, empathy, emotional succor, and security, as well as education, heart enrichment through affection, good attention to real needs, and more, but they are not being used. Instead, it is from one rancor to another.

  Beyond the emotional are also the physically harsh conditions. The physical things of food and clothing, for instance, are denied them, save for the shelter they now have under Mama Ngozi’s roof. Mama Ngozi’s husband, Mr. Ben Onyeazor, would have helped to make their sojourn in his house more comfortable; but he is hardly at home as a busy management banker. He is one such man that has little or nothing to contribute to a person at the home front, except his money and vague presence. His idea of care often seems limited to material things that money can buy.

  But notwithstanding, Cynthia and Okechukwu now live in Mama Ngozi’s house in as much grief as they can afford not to count. There is no sense of belonging in the household for the orphans. Cynthia and Okechukwu remain figments of castaways that are handy only for chores and errands. The house, all its rooms, and its other parts are always immaculate due to Cynthia and Okechukwu’s labors, to any outlined satisfaction point required by Mama Ngozi. Cynthia is the classic chief cook, and Okechukwu is but a multipurpose errand boy. Any failure or mistake in carrying out given instructions often attracts beatings and heavy spankings from Mama Ngozi.

  Making the condition most unbearable to the youngsters, all effort they make to reach their aunty back in the village are ultimately short-stepped by their isolation from the neighborhood. The kids’ activities are largely restricted within the household and immediate environs. The few occasions Cynthia had been opportune to go on outside-errands alone without supervision, she would not use the same time to locate where a nearest Post office could be because; every of their movements was strictly timed, and she must report back duly so. They live in fear, and never got around actually to meet people in the neighborhood. This makes it so difficult to send out communication to Christy. Therefore, the letter she and Okechukwu composed together in one of their bitter nights remains tucked away inside her small nylon purse, deep down the bottom of her bag. May God help her that Mama Ngozi would not discover the letter one day.

  In such a dilemma, they stay here and admit all tribulations because they have no one to go to or any home to run away to. There is no place to hide from Mama Ngozi’s tyranny, and no hope of salvation comes in Papa Ngozi’s apparent negligence.

  It is clearly nothing but pure slavery with hard labor—and definitely without pay.

  By the time Lady D. eventually gets to know what became of Cynthia and Okechukwu at Mama Ngozi’s, she is very disappointed in her friend. In her opinion, Mama Ngo
zi is insensitive to the maternal needs of the young ones whom Fate put in her hands. Fate would bring people together for reasons, good or bad as might be perceived, so that they might receive blessing or doom, depending on what they do with their given opportunities. But the journey of choice for anybody often comes with many options. There will always be pain, sorrow, joy, happiness, solace, comfort, satisfaction, discomfort, dissatisfaction, and many more emotions in the mix of life’s available options, and they are necessary for continual living, evolution, and exploration of nature. One will always choose what he or she likes, though sometimes, and always eventually, initially perceived thorns or torments often get finally appreciated as blessings in disguise. By then, they are considered threshers that see the supposed victim become stronger, more refined, and edified through those same experiences initially perceived as bitter.

  Such is the case as one gets to a point in his life where he doesn’t know if he should actually thank people for being wicked to and for mistreating him in the past, or he should continue bemoaning them. It is only fate and the heavens that know what to do about the entwinement of events that ultimately form one’s destiny. But of course, fortunately or unfortunately, before fate or nature can punish evildoers, it has a way of allowing them to store up karma to catch up with them later. The reason may be for fate to feel justified, too! One might therefore say that fate is equally wicked or canny in that regard, but the price is what everyone must pay for whatever they do, be it good or bad.

  This is why Mama Ngozi’ fate slyly allowed the death of an orphaned teenager to be in her hands. Eventually, when the time comes for reaping, all must reap just what they have sown.

  It happened one fateful morning.

  It has been a year now since Cynthia and Okechukwu joined Mama Ngozi. Throughout the time, food for them has always been in unsatisfying measures, plus leftovers. To their great disappointment, education or schooling is far removed from them. Yet by many indications of material and financial prowess, it could have been possible through Mama Ngozi. But that would have been asking for too much, considering Mama Ngozi’s personality.

  Lady D. later wonders what seems so difficult in letting somebody else have what is needed, or in allowing somebody else share from what one may have in abundance. But of course, she thinks differently now compared to what she used to be. She wonders at so many things now, and at why Mama Ngozi could not help the kids to stabilize after their already numerous losses at such a tender age. Lady D. observes that such inability to give or share is what some people may call selfishness. Others might see it as stinginess, whereas some others could label it wickedness. She cannot stop wondering after her own life was touched by that personal concession required, if one is to choose between action or reaction when faced with various challenges and opportunities. Her brief encounter with Cynthia and Okechukwu left a life-changing impression on her power of choice.

  Such is the experience of clothing and feeding the children have at Mama Ngozi’s, often given most times in calculated leftovers and dowdy supplies. Even their shelter is with some calculated discomfort. For instance, they only have a wooden bed cabinet with no mattress at all, just covered with flat polyester mats and no pillows. The house they live in has many spare beds with soft pillows and foam mattresses, but none is spared for them because they are reserved for “guests”! It would be easy for Mama Ngozi to get new or even used mattress for the stranded ones, considering her finances if she wants to, but such kindnesses hardly crosses her mind. Such thoughtful hospitality to her is meant and reserved for kings or for friends and family.

  The euphoria of sadism is a mystery often motivated by mere ego satisfaction. One may still ask Fate why he allows money to flow with ease into the “wrong” hands, but Fate might say in certainty that he knows what he is doing; he is merely giving every man equal time and opportunity to make the best out of what he has, such that it isn’t about what one has acquired in his efforts and struggles, but what one does with them, no matter how little or big.

  When this morning comes, no one can foretell the looming death—not with the warm morning sun shining so brightly outside, or with the pretty birds singing cheerily in the surrounding trees in the posh neighborhood. No one can imagine that a death will occur on such a beautiful day. Everyone wakes to their duties and normal daily routines. The children—Ngozi, Junior, Buike, and Chioma—have all been dropped off at school earlier, and Mr. Ben Onyeazor has been off to work for hours.

  Cynthia and Okechukwu are now tidying up everywhere to restore the spotless order of the house, keeping in mind all the assignments and instructions they have been given for the day. Through the central corridor, Mama Ngozi is at this moment striding delicately from her room, having just finished from a fresh bath, which is usually almost an hour-long exercise. Mama Ngozi’s routine baths are truly some kind of royal event. She is at the moment focused on getting to the adjoining living room to pick her bottle of massage oil, where she has left it off on a side table after using it on her husband last night. She will be taking this precious bottle, along with other accessories of her beauty regimen, to an appointment she has at her favorite spa in the next thirty-five minutes. But now she barely stops in her steps as she notices what she thinks to be a small heap of refuse swept to the back of the kitchen door. It is neatly concealed there by the door, which closely sits near the wall. But luckily or unluckily, her eyes drift to it. Still draped in her fluffy, knee-length pink bathrobe, with soft pink bath slippers to match, she quickly changes the focus of her movement and walks toward the kitchen door to inspect what she suspects to be foul play.

  The eight-bedroom semi-duplex they live in is such that, at the top floor, the main bathroom shares the same corridor with the first four rooms—one room each for the four kids. The master bedroom dominates the far end of the second passage and is the largest room in the house, comprising its own elaborate bathroom and toilet compartments; it is a monumental piece of a room, adorned with an ornate combination of soft comfort and style. The remaining three rooms, one of which Cynthia and Okechukwu occupy, are situated at the ground floor; the other two are guest rooms. Additional toilet and bathroom compartments for guests are here too, with a separate one for Cynthia and Okechukwu around a corner. Their bathroom is in the poorest state compared to the rest in the house. Either as some entrenched penchant or some subconsciously manipulated preference, Mama Ngozi is a woman that must have her separation of class pronounced in almost every little thing. The main kitchen, also at the top floor, is at a ninety-degree position with the corridor—a beautifully kept, expansive room with a generous supply of modern kitchen gadgets and utensils of class and fine taste. The large bathroom at the opposite end faces the kitchen and occupies the center of the corridor. This bathroom is generally for the kids, while Mama Ngozi and her husband have their private one in the master bedroom.

  The sight of that little heap of refuse as she emerges from her room pulled at her authority, because she gave an express order earlier that everywhere was to be tidied properly. But now someone has played on her by sweeping things behind the door and supposedly out of her sight, and she doesn’t like to be flouted.

  She calls in obvious annoyance, “Cynthia! Cynthia!”

  “Yes, Ma” answers Cynthia, scampering out of the room close by. She is holding her dust rag in hand, which, though in unequal comparison, actually seems finer than the shabby oversized one she is wearing.

  Okechukwu is inside the kitchen this minute, cleaning the dishes. He is almost through with the fifteen pieces of china the family used this morning.

  “What is that behind the kitchen door?” questions Mama Ngozi, directing her gaze to the spot in question as she gradually covers the space between her, Cynthia, and the door.

  Cynthia draws out the door from the wall to get a view, and she now sees the small heap of refuse made of crumbled bread, bean grains, vegetables, and some cracker
s, all littered in a small heap behind the door.

  “It must have been an oversight, Ma,” she explains apologetically. Okechukwu is the one that supposedly swept the apartment this morning.

  “Oversight?” repeats Mama Ngozi. She steps forward at the same time and lands a hot slap on Cynthia’s face. Tawai!

  “Ouch!” Cynthia whimpers. The cleaning rag flies out of her grip and drops to the floor near her feet as she nervously moves her two hands to cover her face and massage the pain. She didn’t expect the slap, and it hurts her face now.

  “What an oversight!” Mama Ngozi retorts with a hiss, and she calls angrily on Okechukwu. “Where is that boy?” Walking and talking at the same time, she quickly steps past Cynthia and her rags, moving into the kitchen.

  He heard them and saw the slap on Cynthia, and he is not ready to get beatings this morning.

  Actually, it wasn’t an oversight! Okechukwu shirked his duty this morning by sweeping things under carpet. He knew he was behind on doing the dishes, and Mama Ngozi would be angry to finish bathing and find he wasn’t yet through with his cleanup. His delay wouldn’t be justified, because Mama Ngozi’s usually long bath should have given him enough time to have finished two simple morning chores of doing all dishes and sweeping the apartment. But he was unusually slow this morning, so in his attempt to save time, he skipped thoroughness and swept things behind the door. The tiny heap of refuse in question collected when he was sweeping the kitchen.