Preordained #ProjectNigeria

44- Circle

"This is not Maduka. He can't be Maduka."

Mazi Ikenna, my late father's brother, has aged since I last saw him. His facial hair is salted with grey here and there, there are bags underneath his eyes, and a paunch is evident on his torso.

Daa Ndidi has not let go of me since our embrace; her hand is gripping mine and her other arm is on Nwanyieze's shoulder. A small crowd has gathered around us, drawn by my aunt's screams. My uncle was the last to appear, staring at me with disbelief written all over his face.

"It's Maduka," Daa Ndidi protests. Although tears are falling freely from her eyes, her smile is very bright, and she looks much younger than a few minutes ago. "Our Maduka is back."

She bursts into Igbo songs of praise to God, and starts to dance.

"Dee Ikenna," I finally greet my uncle. "It was me who found my parents corpses and screamed. The youth corper Kunle broke in and carried me out."

His eyes widen and he blinks continuously. I tell him my parents' names, I recall memories like him teaching me to climb a tree, listening to him tell tales by moonlight to me and his own children, whose names I tell him. The crowd is restless, murmuring amonsgt themselves.

"He looks like his father," an elderly woman says aloud to the young man beside her.

"Look at how tall he is, ka nna ya." Like his father.

"Ji nji ka nne ya." Dark like his mother.

Dee Ikenna embraces me, a few of the women dance along with my aunt.

"Welcome home, my son," he says gruffly, his voice full of emotion. "We thought you were dead."

"God didn't let it happen," I reply.

______

In a few hours, I have recounted how the last twenty years have been, careful enough to leave out the part where I discovered a certain baby in the trash. Sitting in my father's small living room, I also listen to my uncle and aunt tell me of how they have been coping since the deaths of my parents. The living room is just as I remember: old photos in faded frames, an old television sitting on an ebony table my father had bought from the city. The couches are the same deep red velvet, faded but well-maintained. The walls have been repainted from light blue to yellow.

I refuse to let Nwanyieze out of my sight; her hand is securely in mine. I have introduced her as enyi m nwaanyi, my girlfriend. Daa Ndidi has already developed a soft spot for her, continuously telling her that she is so beautiful, thanking her for taking care of me, and reassuring her that I am a good man. Nwanyieze is a bit embarrassed, but all the same pleased. I suppose I understand because I know the only mother figure she has is Mama Uju.

My uncle politely asks for permission to walk with me around the compound. I tell him I'll meet him outside in a few minutes. He excuses himself, taking his wife with him.

"That went well-" Nwanyieze starts before I interrupt her with a kiss. She returns it, stroking my face gently. Once again, gratitude fills me, that I'm finally home and she's here with me. In fact, I would never have driven my car into this compound if not for her.

"Thank you," I whisper with my forehead touching hers. I might cry if I don't take care, but the thought of doing it in her presence doesn't bother me. She is definitely a part of me, more so than she will ever know.

"I don't want you too far from me, okay?"

"This is your home, Maduka," she replies, her eyes full of amusement.