Chapter 2: Buns, Yam, and Papa’s Last Words

The day my papa ascend, he resemble person wey thunder almost roast finish. Him skin black like charcoal, hair stand like broom—if you see am, you go fear.

When dem bring am back, him cloth tear, skin burn, but the fire for him eye never die. Even the way him walk, e be like person wey fight war with thunder god.

But thank God, he still manage waka come out from the pit by himself.

Villagers stand by bush path, dey pray with low voice as he stagger return. Mama Ifeoma run go call herbalist, but my papa wave hand, say, "No need."

First thing as he reach house, na to rush inside, no even stop to make yam buns for me.

Normally, my papa no dey rush. But that day, e just run enter kitchen, no even greet neighbours or stop to gist for junction. Him face hard like stone.

I like yam well well.

If you see me, e go be like say na yam I take grow, the way my body lean and my hand dey quick to find where dem dey hide am.

So he spend one full day and night dey peel yam, wash am, chop am, wrap am inside buns.

He no mind say rain begin fall, or say hand dey pain am. Na only the yam and me dey his mind. Even when him hand begin red, he still dey wash, dey slice.

He do diced yam and vegetable buns, fried plantain and beans, dried ugu leaves with groundnut, and even spicy yam buns.

Neighbours begin peep window, dey inhale aroma, dey whisper, "Na only Ebuka dey chop this kind food." Some children dey beg make dem taste, but my papa just smile, say, "E get why."

He still make moi moi and akara join.

My favourite na when him go add coconut water inside the moi moi. Even old papa for house next door dey sniff, dey swallow spit.

The smell of frying oil and pepper dey hang for air, make my stomach rumble. The aroma alone dey make my mouth water.

E dey scatter my brain, like when suya dey pass your nose for night. My belle go dey sing for joy before I even chop.

After he finish all these ones, the next morning, my papa carry his cutlass for back, rub my head the way papa dey do when e wan give blessing, and waka go.

He kneel, look my eye, say, "No fear, Ebuka. I go come back." The sun still dey hide for cloud, but I see hope for him face, even as him voice dey tremble small.

I sabi say na to find justice for my mama he dey go.

I hug am, my head press for him waist. The cloth cold, but my papa body dey warm. I no wan let am go, but e just free my hand, smile.

My papa junior martial brother, wey I dey call Uncle Seyi (even though I no too like am), stand with me as we dey watch my papa back dey go.

Uncle Seyi short, quick to frown, and him voice get high pitch. As we dey stand, I fit smell the palm wine wey e drink for morning. E just dey watch papa back, like person wey dey jealous but no fit talk.

Uncle Seyi talk say, “Wetin be the point sef?”

He adjust him wrapper, slap mosquito for him leg, and shake head. "Ebuka, sometimes to carry another person wahala for head dey quick person old."

Even though I slow small and book no dey enter my head, I know say if person die, another person suppose pay—na so e suppose be.

For our land, if goat thief your yam, you go find am reach the bush. Justice no dey for lazy person hand. As I dey reason am, my mind strong small.