[center]HORRID ENIGMA[/center][b][/b]

No! Please! Please!! Please!!! Don’t do this! Please!!!, I am a married woman. These words resounded so many times that I thought that perhaps my plea would probably be met by a tender-hearted response but Lo and Behold, a slap backed every persistent recurrence of this plea. How can humans be this cruel? How can fate take such an unjust twist on me? Could it be that I’d successfully escaped the clutches of death unscathed only to encounter an equally miserable stance? These were the questions that kept running through my mind in the midst of the struggle. In the heat of the tussle to defend my modesty and to retain the pride of being a decent woman; the unyielding thugs in a bid to forcefully have their way, laid hold on my shoulders and while attempting to force me to keep calm, pushed me hard against the ground. As my head fell backwards, I heard a loud thud and that was all I could recall. I only woke up hours later in a refugee camp to hear reports by the nurse claiming that I’d been rescued from the bitter clutches of gang raping and as such, was found unconscious in a little pool of blood; beaten, bruised and ravaged. I sat up on the bed trying to fathom the series of events that must’ve led to the version of tales being told to me but I couldn’t recall anything. All I could recall was that I was alive. My memory had been wiped, it was so clean a slate that I’d perhaps felt like a new born.Life in the camp was nothing pleasant or blissful and though it’s not an experience I’d like to bring to fore in this account of my travail. To me, my memory loss was perhaps the fairest of fates life could ever offer me because at some point, I didn’t even want to remember how I got here. It brought me soothing relief for most parts of the day, to sit in the tents within the refugee camp and stare at men, women and children living out their lives in the confines of these walls. Madam, yours is a rare case of Amnesia seeing that you exhibit both retrograde and anterograde amnesia simultaneously. If you want my help, I would advice that you do not intentionally block your thoughts for fear of what you might find in your past. Do not hesitate to tell me if any image even one as insignificant as the sound of a moving train or the cry of a baby flashes through your mind. Prisca, a psychologist that happened to take a special liking to me, said during a particular therapy session: one of the several she organized out of well meaning pity in a bid to help me regain my memory. For a few months, every waking moment was a prelude to a night of bloodcurdling dreams, there was always this vivid picture of calm and happy faces in an office, the smile of a baby, a very masculine voice whispering inaudible words and a really beautiful home. These scenes were always followed by one horrible blood scene or the other. As much as I try to piece the puzzles of this jigsaw together, the puzzle remained unsolved because as much as the scenes in these flashbacks showed that I was present at the same location as them, I couldn’t seem to identify them or how we were connected. Since being diagnosed with amnesia after the dastardly incident, I couldn’t remember anything anymore. I’d suddenly lost my identity. Maama was the name I was fondly called by everyone around me, thanks to my love for children, I wouldn’t have had any name. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours, hours turned to days, days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. After about two months of residing at the refugee camp, I experienced some discomfort in my body and as such, I went to see the camp doctor since the symptoms seemed to require urgent medical attention. After a series of tests, I was diagnosed pregnant and as such, considering the condition in which the baby was conceived, the child would be brandished a bastard popularly translated by the yorubas as Omo Ale although, things got more complicated when I told Prisca that the pregnancy was ten weeks old. But, you’re barely in your seventh week here by my calendar. Knowing your true identity couldn’t be more important. Prisca said looking very concerned.

What worse fate could betide me? Well, death seemed like a far much more relieving fate. O death where is thy sting? were the only words that filled my heart.Tears path down my cheeks as the result were read to me. How do I live my life? As if my plight wasn’t bad enough already. First of all, I was nameless and without any form of identification (except Maama) and representation, and to compound my woes further, I was also pregnant with an omo ale or so I thought. I thought about having an abortion because the burden was too much for me to bear but upon close consideration, even if I wanted having a D&C, could I afford to pay for one? Fortunately, you all know the answer.Without further ado, I decided on having the baby. As time went on, I began to come to grasp with the reality that life had taken new twists and I had to come to terms with it as soon as possible so I can brace up for the future.The pregnancy ran its agonizing course and during the nine months for which I was pregnant, I suffered much, people who knew my story could only but sympathize: I had to fight my own battles because, everyone had a battle peculiar to him. At last, a baby boy was birthed. I called his name Ebezina meaning stop crying in Igbo language. He was a very fine and intelligent young man and as such, I promised to make his life a better one than that of whoever his father is. In due time, he was enrolled into school which was paid for by the government while I supported our expenditure by selling little provisions from the little moneys gifted me by compassionate, generous folks who came by the camp from time to time. Ebezina, soon became my chat-mate, my friend and my family. I finally had a reason to be happy, he became the center of my joy and my entire world revolved around him. Who could have seen the silver lining underneath this dark cloud? I guess the man upstairs has finally smiled down on me.

I had secured a one room apartment in a slum because Ebezina could no longer live in an environment that constantly reminded me of the ugly circumstances surrounding his birth. As time elapsed, life’s challenges got tougher. Ebezina had to hawk bread, akara , okpa and whatever petty stuff I could lay my hands on. It was really fascinating to see how mature a ten year old was behaving, although his wisdom came with its own woes as I could no longer lie to him about his paternity, I felt really bare and transparent whenever he looked in to my eyes and asked me: what of daddy?. I just wish he doesn’t ask again until he is emotionally ripe to accept the ugly truth or should I say until am ready to confront my worst fears.……………..to be continued next week.



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