Author: Noel Ihebuzor

I’m remembering when God let neighbors smack your hand for stealing
when God had you squealin’ cause Grandmama pinched you under the armpit
Sit still in church / Cross your legs / is what she told you the first four times

Grandmama knew all that and more!
I’m remembering God being there
Broke ankle / sprained back / cracked finger bone / car wreck
stealing hearts
She would whisper, “thank you God, you’re still here”

I remember
when I found homemade hooch in the cellar
and decided to take a sip or two
God was there / so Grandmama knew!
she washed it down with a capful of castor oil
I never did that again.

Grandmama knew God
I remember.

For daughters who hate mothers for
not being Grandma
For mothers who hate daughters
Cause she thinks she know it all
If only they’d not played with baby dolls
maybe both wouldn’t be disappointed
with Reality.

This is for the daughters from mothers
Who are now mothers of daughters
That meet at the shore of unforgiving
whose hearts are prematurely laid to rest
Tomb stone reading.. fear

This is for mothers who hate daughters for being just like them
This is for daughters who hate mothers for not teaching them any better
For mothers with old tricks that no longer separate the sun from recycled patio air
For daughters with paper doll necks held upright with duct taped thoughts of suicide
both parked on one way streets without life’s permission to do so
…faces marked hourly with tears

This is for way too tired mothers
Who have true dreams of…

Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is the most romantic novel ever in the history of mankind. Tears run down my cheeks whenever I remember the only love scene in the book. It lasted exactly 30 seconds from when Okonkwo swept his bride onto his arms to the glorious end when he growled, “Oya go cook peppersoup or I will use your skull to drink palmwine!” Achebe’s famous words are engraved in the canon of great literature: “Even in those days, Okonkwo was a man of few words.”

That was before the white man came with his wahala, declaring African men savages because they don’t coo “I love you!” to their wives. In Chukwuemeka Ike’s The Potter’s Wheel the character Obu declares his love for Margaret by giving her six plump sautéed delicacies he had caught under a lamp post. They were thoughtfully wrapped in the sports section of the Daily…

I once wrote some nonsense on Facebook right after my second glass of cognac, the sort that comes easily to me after ogogoro has started making me see tomorrow. It went something like this: “America. Night. The trees lean on the road, limbs gnarled with need, pawing weary cars, leaves whispering, ‘Oga sah! Anything for the boys?’” An impressed white writer who happened to be at home drinking also, asked me: “There is something Chekhovian in your use of language. Do you write short stories and, if so, was Chekhov an influence?”

I had heard of Chekhov, a great white writer who wrote many great things. All African writers are on first name basis with him including those who have never read Chinua Achebe. Over the years I have acquired Chekhov’s books hoping to bone up on them in case I get that all important call from The New…