Chapter 1: The Weight of Hope

I be the only university student wey come out from a century-old, poor village for over hundred years.

As I look round that my village, the kind pride wey dey for my heart dey mix with small fear. The red earth for Umuola still dey stain my slippers, and I remember the way elders dey hail me as "our hope." For a place wey never see university student before, dem treat me like I be light wey fit show dem new road. My own achievement na their own too, as if I dey carry everybody dream for my back. Sometimes, the pressure dey heavy pass wetin I fit talk.

My papa and mama get cancer. To make sure say dem save money for my school, dem no even go health centre once.

I remember the day papa sell his only radio, mama pack her gold earrings—tears just dey her eye, but she still smile say "Go make us proud, Ngozi." E dey pain me when I remember as my mama dey cough blood for night, my papa just dey hold her hand, dey whisper prayer. The way dem go hide their pain, dey form strong so I no go worry, na wetin break my heart pass. If you see the condition for our house that time, you go know say hope na wetin dey keep us alive, not money.

My small brother chop beating sotey e no fit get up for bed for three days—just because e touch the kolo wey my mama dey save for me.

The sound of that slap still dey echo for my ear. My brother, Chibuike, small boy wey just like sweet, no know say the kolo na sacred for house. I hear am cry for inside, but my mama face hard like stone that day. She no even look am. Later, I go sneak give am small groundnut wey I hide for bag. Family wahala, but love still dey inside.

To help me pay my school fees, every family for the village gather the small wey dem get, dem empty their houses just for my sake.

The smell of burning firewood and fresh palm wine dey mix for air as everybody gather, dey sing old Igbo songs of blessing. Na so dem gather for Chief Okoro compound—old women wey sell groundnut, men wey dey farm yam, even the boys wey dey hawk pure water. Each person drop small something: cup of rice, old wrapper, five hundred naira, two tubers of yam. Even the hunters drop dried bushmeat. For that day, na me be their own pikin. Their eyes full of hope as dem pray for me, tell me say make I no forget them for city.

Everybody dey talk say na me be the pride of Umuola Village—nobody fit reach my level.

Sometimes when I dey walk for village, small children go dey point me: "See am! Aunty Ngozi! She go become doctor!" The elders go call me, bless me, pour libation for ground. My mama go smile small even though sickness dey finish her. Every festival, dem go make special prayer for me for village square. I swear, e get as all those expectation dey make person chest tight.

Plenty nights, I dey swear for my mind say I no go ever forget wetin dem do for me.

Na under that leaking zinc, as rain dey beat for roof, I dey look my mama back, dey repeat for my heart: "God, make I no ever shame these people. Make their sweat no waste for my head." Sometimes, fear go catch me say wetin if I fail? I go dey shake, but I go promise myself, say I go make am, no matter how.

So, the day wey I receive my admission letter from University of Ibadan, I use all my savings take treat them to wetin dem dey call 'last supper'—the traditional send-off meal, the food person dey chop before e waka.

Na that evening, every compound send somebody. We cook jollof rice, fried plantain, goat meat—my mama manage stand, smile for everybody. Palm wine flow well well. Even old Papa Ikenna dance. For my village, na big thing. I kneel for ground, dey share meat, dey thank everybody one by one. "May your children go higher," the women dey chorus. Some people dey cry joy.

As I face their twisted, scattered bodies, I kneel down, knock head for ground three times, tears just dey pour for my face.

For my culture, na so dem dey pay last respect—knock head three times for ancestor. My tears mix with dust for ground, my voice just dey shake. I fit smell death for air. Spirit of the land, I dey beg. But that day, my own heart dark. Everybody I love, just dey lie anyhow for floor, like abandoned yam for market. Even dog no go chop dem.