[In the heart of an African society, I clung to the shimmering fragments of the day I was born, a day veiled in my infancy yet etched in the legacy of my people.] Societal expectations, like ancient echoes of the ‘signs of the time,' weighed heavily upon me. I had grown up engulfed in my own myth in which childhood was supposed to be carefree, playing in the sun until witnessing the sunset, getting involved in some minor misdemeanor, making new friends to play toys with and having adventurous experiences every day. This had been my own dimension of life. Every member of the society who knew or thought they knew me believed that my arrogance was congenital. [I still remember vividly, on the 12th of May in 2008, when my mother, who had been carrying her third pregnancy, finally gave birth to my little sister.] A swarming crowd of relatives, neighbors, and members of the society was dispersed in the yard. The outdoor cooking area buzzed with people, while inside the house, my mother sat on a chair, cradling my baby sister amidst a throng of guests. A lot of singing and ululating came from both young and elderly women, who looked perfect in their African attire, accompanied by penetrating whistles from the men. Children of my age were taking turns dancing in the center of the circle, surrounded by a clapping and cheering crowd. I was the only one lost in a mish-mash of thoughts, wishing every day could be like this. Everyone was highly spirited and filled with nude exhilaration. [Eager to have a look at the special, newly introduced family member, I walked into the house and stood right next to my mother.] I gazed at her as she swayed the baby gently from side to side fluttering her with kisses while boils of joyful tears formed in her eyes. Her tears of joy spoke of a time gone by, when I was the star beneath a similar sky. She politely whimpered, “Simba this is the same thrill that overflowed our hearts the day you were born, all the celebration and gifts once belonged to you.” Her words painted a picture of celebration so true. In those moments, I felt the echoes of my past, wishing for days where such bliss could last. [The week of my fifth birthday and my sister's birth marked a pivotal moment as my parents enrolled me in kindergarten-which began with teachings so true.] I was taught societal values that included showing respect to elderly members and honoring their presence by prioritizing them in every possible way. This involved greeting elderly people either by kneeling down, bowing my head, or performing the rhythmic African clapping of hands. I was told to relate and share with neighbors, help the needy and apologize after having done something wrong. Grandfather told me folktales aimed at passing on life survival skills, which include hunting, herding cattle, fetching firewood, fishing, preparing the land for rain, and assuming the fatherly role in my father's absence. My mother's kitchen beckoned for assistance, while my father's garden called for care. Each task a step in the life I was to embrace, yet my youthful heart longed for a different space. [The state of being consumed in my own dimension of life hindered me from accepting the entire norms and core values.] The resonating memories of the day I was born kept me contemplating to the extent that I wanted to live the same day, free of duties and the cumulating orthodox. I struggled to execute the norms and values and become responsible. There was this one time when I got home very late, far beyond my carefully set child curfew. I went to play with my neighborhood friends. We had our own custom-made football made of plastics and papers. I was enjoying the match in the dusty road when I heard my mother shouting out my name. I knew it was time up for me. I refused to comply with my conscience and decided to ignore her regardless of my friends who opted I rushed home. When the sun had completely set and everyone was heading home, I walked home covered in mist of dust. When I reached home, my mother flogged me, and I was so angry that I skipped supper. At that moment I felt I wanted to be alone especially being extremely inspired by the popular western movie “Home Alone”. [As I grew up, I matured in my appreciation of being African, and to this day, I still value African culture.] I strongly believe that the mandate of our culture is to place a good background foundation, uplift one another regardless of our differences in sex, change our lives through embracing and showing love to our native country's beliefs, practices and mode of contact and lastly, to take pride in our skin color. I can testify because I have been able to make good conduct with people at school, church and the society despite the time it took me to accept the morals. So now I see the norms as the map to my quest, in every lesson learned, in every test. The essence of culture, in each guiding light shows me the way to success, through both day and night

Introduction: In the vast tapestry of African spirituality, a profound connection between ancient traditions and modern scientific principles emerges. Exploring the realms of quantum physics through the lens of African spirituality unveils a captivating landscape of interconnectedness, energy, and frequencies. Join us on a transformative journey as we delve into the profound correlations between African spiritual values and the intricate fabric of quantum physics. Unraveling the Essence of Energy: At the core of both African spirituality and quantum physics lies the fundamental concept of energy. In African traditions, energy is perceived as a dynamic force that permeates every aspect of existence, connecting all living beings and the natural world. This resonates deeply with the principles of quantum physics, where energy manifests in the form of photons, carrying the essence of vibrational frequencies. By bridging these concepts, we illuminate the interconnectedness of the spiritual and the scientific, fostering a deeper understanding of the universe's essence. The Dance of Frequencies: In African spiritual traditions, the significance of sound, rhythm, and frequencies transcends generations. The beat of the drum, the resonance of chants, and the melodies of traditional instruments form a symphony that echoes through time, enriching ceremonies and rituals. Similarly, quantum physics acknowledges the profound impact of frequencies, unveiling the intricate dance of particles and waves that shape the fabric of reality. By intertwining these concepts, we uncover a harmonious convergence, where the spiritual resonance of African traditions resonates with the transcendental symphony of quantum frequencies. Embracing Tradition in Quantum Unity: As we navigate the landscapes of African spirituality and quantum physics, we discover a profound harmony that transcends the boundaries of time and space. African spiritual values impart a profound sense of interconnectedness, unity, and respect for the natural world, aligning with the revelations of quantum unity at the subatomic level. By embracing tradition in the quantum realm, we illuminate an extraordinary pathway that bridges ancient wisdom with contemporary scientific understanding, inspiring awe and reverence for the universe's intrinsic unity. Conclusion: In our exploration of African spirituality through the prism of quantum physics, we embark on a journey that transcends the conventional boundaries of science and tradition. As the symphony of African spiritual values harmonizes with the intricacies of quantum physics, we kindle a spark of curiosity, wonder, and inspiration in the hearts of readers young and old. May this odyssey of enlightenment and unity ignite a profound sense of awe and reverence, enriching our collective understanding of spirituality, physics, and the boundless tapestry of creation.

In the vast and diverse tapestry of African mythology, the tale of Lowe emerging from the reeds stands as a powerful symbol of creation, resilience, and a deep spiritual connection to the natural world. This foundational myth intertwines with the profound relationship that mankind has forged with water, serving as a catalyst for life, shaping societies, and nurturing the development of civilizations across the African continent. The African creation story of Lowe rising from the reeds encapsulates the essence of origination and emergence. Depicted in various forms across different regions, this myth embodies the profound connection between humanity and the natural environment. As Lowe stepped forth from the reeds, the narrative symbolizes the birth of life, the primordial essence of creation, and the interconnectedness of all living beings with their surroundings. Water, in its myriad forms, holds a revered status in African cultures, serving as a fundamental aspect of existence, spirituality, and sustenance. The concept of life originating from water is deeply ingrained in African cosmology, reflecting an ancient wisdom that acknowledges the indispensable role of water in the genesis and perpetuation of life. This unifying belief manifests in rituals, folklore, and societal practices, signaling an enduring reverence for the life-giving properties of water. The interplay between the creational myth of Lowe and the elemental significance of water illuminates the foundational fabric of Black African societies. These narratives encapsulate the ethos of resilience, adaptability, and the enduring spirit of perseverance essential in navigating the complexities of life. The acknowledgement of life's origins in the natural world fosters a poignant perspective that shapes cultural norms, traditions, and social constructs, emphasizing harmony with the environment and a collective consciousness rooted in a shared heritage of myth and tradition. The influence of water extends far beyond the realms of sustenance and survival, permeating the cultural and spiritual landscapes of African societies. From the majestic Nile River to the shimmering waters of Lake Malawi, the presence of water has catalyzed the emergence of thriving settlements, trade routes, and centers of innovation throughout history. The symbiotic relationship with water has not only sustained life but also facilitated the evolution of complex civilizations, fostering interconnected communities bound by the ebb and flow of water's influence. The enduring myths and elemental significance of water in African cultures encapsulate a timeless wisdom that resonates with the rhythm of life itself. These narratives encapsulate the collective memory of societies, echoing through the annals of time and weaving a rich tapestry of spirituality, resilience, and cultural heritage. The profound interweaving of stories and elemental forces serves as a testament to the enduring legacy of African civilizations, shaping the essence of identity, interconnectedness, and the boundless potential for renewal and adaptation within the ever-changing currents of existence. In unraveling the tapestry of African creation stories and the elemental influence of water, one bears witness to a profound testament to the resilience, interconnectedness, and enduring spirit of African societies. The myth of Lowe emerging from the reeds and the perpetual presence of water as a catalyst for life stand as timeless symbols of the human experience, mirroring the enduring journey of creation, adaptability, and the unyielding connection to the nature of existence itself. In conclusion, the creational story of Lowe's emergence from the reeds echoes the timeless wisdom woven into the fabric of African societies. The reverence for water as the source of life and the elemental force that shapes civilizations serves as a testament to the enduring legacy of African cultures. Through the interweaving of myth and elemental significance, these narratives continue to inspire and enrich the collective consciousness, ensuring that the indomitable spirit of creation and interconnectedness endures, enveloping each generation in the timeless embrace of myth, tradition, and the unyielding power of water.

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There have been other cases of flu and it never got to Africa; we argued! Flu is a white man's disease. In fact, it kills them fast; the average white man has lower immunity. Blacks are tough species of humans, more toughened by the toughness and roughness of the African weather and environment. Surely even our harsh weather in Ghana will dry up the virus and bring the rate of infection to negligible figures! We don't have extremely cold weather. These extreme temperatures are friends of flu viruses and we were sure that we could beat this terrorizing virus. My grandparents hushed our fears! ‘'Our foods are spicy, herbs and medicinal plants are our daily vegetables; we cook and over-cook our stuff unlike the white men of the western world! Worry not; COVID-19 wouldn't dare come to Africa! They said. At last, it did arrive at our shores! At the dawn of the lock-down! Fear became our bedfellow! Mainly because I had no savings to stock up food. Nobody to borrow from; God was my only resort! We could only pray and pray. No food! Our electricity recharge finished the very second day of the lock-down. There was no money to recharge the meter. A call to our church leaders provided no financial comfort. Is there any need to fast and pray? we are fasting already; my little son whispered into my ears late in the earliest nights of the lock-down! That did it! That's when I woke up! I stopped making calls, stopped troubling my neighbors; who were no better than myself, and began to think of what to do to make the most of the lock-down! The idea to make Nose-Masks with our used clothes and materials came up when I saw my eldest daughter wearing one. We all have been listening to the news and the clarion calls for the use of Nose-Masks as a way to reduce infection from the virus. My eldest daughter is very smart with needles and thread. Her Nose-Mask looked so cute as if it was made from a factory. The thread lines were so smooth, I was amazed! I called them all together and urged them to join in making many of the Nose-Masks. We could go from house to house and sell them. I could advertise them in all my Whatsapp networks and platforms. There was no accredited Nose-Masks making company as yet. It could sell! It certainly did! We spent less than 5 USD to procure all shapes and sizes of needles; various colors of threads and we all went to work. For two nights and days, I supervised and taught my two daughters and we produced the finest nose-masks and we used the fairly- new clothes from my wardrobe. We had to use the colorful yet beautiful materials to attract buyers. The traditional materials we planned to sell 1usd each while the less colorful was price-tagged for half of this price. My little boy and I took to the streets with 50 units of the colorful Nose-Masks and 25 units of the less. I still do not know where I got the boldness from! Was it the fear of starvation? Was it the need to survive? Whichever it was, God was with us and we sold them all! We came back and were able to procure electricity, cooking gas, Banku, and ingredients to make a pot of soup that could go for a week. On my return, the girls had made a pile of more Nose-Masks. They excitedly showed me new designs that they came up with in my absence. I was amazed! Phone calls came from friends and church members and we sold out more of the new designs. We started a call-and –deliver mini Agency! The last week of the Lock-Down we had competitors. The whole neighborhood seemed to have started making Nose-Masks and the price per unit went down! We had to stop production. We were already survivors! Necessity is the mother of invention they say. We survived the lock-down. We pray it doesn't come ever again! The Virus has reached almost all the regions of Ghana. Yet, it's not as bad as in the western world. Grand-parents were somehow right! The black man in his African sunny environment can beat the virus! We have the intense sun and highest temperatures of the world; we have herbs; we have been toughened by malaria and many other tropical diseases; We are poor in spirit and the scripture says that the kingdom is ours! We shall beat the virus and many others that dare to come!

The personification of depression The realization of regression 
I digress I write not to impress 
I write from the heart From my cold beating heart 
I write with all my heart So as this ink spills with each pump 
Each spill spills with purpose Purposeful intentions 
Let me weave ideas you can visualize Let me give your heart eyes 
So you can see what you feel If you could eat empathy, would you eat your fill? 
The world is dark now That's why we stumble and try to feel our way through 
We can never get through  The top is miles away 
We strive for the pinnacle Blocking each strife is a different obstacle 
The only way to blast through these hurdles Is hands around each other, championship team huddle 
I mean we have to work together We have to step up 
I mean we have to walk together No sooner should our power be collective 
Shall our collection of disappointment cease No opportunity shall pass without being seized 
In a world full of Brutus's we're all Caesar So come off your high horse Step down the throne Trade-in your olive leaf crown for an olive branch 
The tree of life Infinite branches, but still we shade  Unveil your shadow, own your past Walk into your future head first Each step should not be your last Walk the sands of time and leave a mark that lasts

Blood on the leaves The story of our lives I put my pen to paper I shed a tear with my ink I'm about to tell a story A story about the future and history Place your hand in mine Take a walk with me in the sunshine The sun rays hit the grass blades The wind whispers to the grass in the everglades Wait a minute Listen to the birds chirping in synchrony to our heartbeat Talk about melody Talk about an out of body symphony These are my isolated thoughts whilst in isolation Take a walk with me underneath the clouds This is an age-old tale A tale of humanity Humanity is in dire need of a new world order What do you see? Brother fighting brother We are all equal in the eyes of our grand architect Man always chases the bigger picture Man is always in search of greener pasture In this erratic pursuit of perfection, we only attain the edge of our potential Man is his harbinger of doom Humanity is in dire need of a restructure of action As we walk, our foot scrapes the pavement Look around and hear nature lament Perhaps there is hope on the horizon The sun sets blood red, it's a new dawn Blood on the leaves The story of our lives

What a beautiful morning, the smell of the hibiscus flower drifts through the fresh, crisp air. Such an inviting fragrance. Birds and insects fly around in no particular direction, the cock crows as the gold rays of the sun filter through the pale blue sky. The sound of nature's orchestra conducted by the supreme being plays through the environment. I stare up, squinting as I try to count the wispy cotton clouds. “Ada steady your head!” She says to me in a very patient voice. “Sorry, granny,” I reply ashamed. I am ashamed because she is so patient and gentle with me. I steady my head as I position my little plump body firmly between her knees. I let my hands caress her old legs. My fingers graze her protruding veins around her ankles. I try to feel every scar until I reach her knee and give it a gentle tap. I feel safe and secure between mama Adeola's knees. It is the most warm and inviting place in the world. Her fingers move through my hair, slowly and steadily. She completes one braid, then parts with a dark brown comb and starts another. Her mother had used the same comb on her, and I will use it on my daughter one day. While she braids, she pauses to sip some warm ginger beer from a yellow glass beside her, I know she is about to tell me a story. She hands me a peppermint, first unwrapping the orange wrapper for me. I smile and joyously rattle the smooth candy around my mouth. Minty flavor explodes in my mouth as I listen to granny tell me a story of the dog and the cat, as she completes another braid. “One night a witch visits a man at night, the witch leaps over the fence, and flies through the night sky on her broom to his window. Standing at the entrance is a dog. It barks at the witch and attacks it ferociously, telling it to go away. The witch flies away angrily. On another night, the witch flies to another house. Guarding the entrance is a black cat. The cat stares with its yellow eyes at the witch, purrs softly, and lets in the witch. The witch smiles a wicked smile and performs her enchantments around a sleeping man. She leaves out the window, with the cat perched on her broom, and they fly over the treetops towards the moon. So this is why in our society, the dog is our best friend, and people think cats are evil dear Ada.” Granny says to me. “Are cats really evil?” I ask. Granny lets out a chuckle. She is done with my braids now, I bring my tiny hands to my head and pat my braids. I look up at granny, and we smile at each other. I never want these moments to end. The moments did end. My granny passed away ten years ago in her sleep. I sit by my window on Sunday mornings, reminiscing about her calm voice and ginger beer breath. I miss her stories, and I miss her. Not even the humming of bees can cheer me up. A teardrop escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek. My heart aches as I long for the Sunday mornings on her porch. I can hear a soft meow, I turn around and hug my cat Adeola.

As an African leader to be, I identify proper management of natural resources as an opportunity or rather the best approach to promote African intra-trade which will, in turn, unlock agricultural potential in the entire African continent. Rapid urbanization is indeed taking place all over Africa although most African countries still endure numerous challenges like adverse climate change which hinder agricultural potential. Depending on the situation, climate changes can have either positive or negative effects on the environment, people and agriculture. As a leader in a bustling African metropolis, I have to approach this situation in an innovative way to ensure that climate change challenges are solved through appropriate management of natural resources. Generally, adverse climate changes in African countries have caused havoc and hunger since time immemorial and this situation is yet to change. Mismanagement of natural resources has greatly limited the potential of agricultural sectors in various economies entirely in Africa which has prompted global inter-trade while crippling African intra-trade. The African continent is globally ranked top for its great heritage in natural resources and I am a firm believer that if these resources are utilized appropriately, vision 2030 would be a real deal and not farfetched. Climate change challenge which is a great impediment to agricultural potential is as a result of Africa not conserving its natural resources like forests which are water catchment areas and trees which help attract rain. Harsh climatic conditions which at times cause either drought or floods in Africa will be prevented if natural resources are not abused for selfish gain but instead well managed by respective authorities to sustain African intra-trade. Cartels and corruption which are major threats to Africa's agricultural economy make management and sustainability of natural resources difficult. I recognize efforts by African leaders to boost African intra-trade. For instance, “In March 2018, African countries signed the African Continental Free Area Agreement (AfCFTA) which is a commitment by African countries to remove tariffs on ninety percent of goods, liberalize trade in services and address a host of another non-tariff barrier. If successfully implemented, the agreement will create a single African market with not only enormous financial potential but also the enormous agricultural potential of over a billion consumers with a total GDP of over $3 trillion. This will make Africa the largest free trade area in the world” (Songwe, 2019). This is a good move, although much needs to be done. My Innovative approach would be, centralization of the management of natural resources and agriculture i.e. from the country level to continental level as this would be the true basis of reviving and promoting African intra-trade. For example, the African Union could consider establishing a body and formulating policies to govern natural resources in entire Africa as this would ensure sustainability. I, therefore, conclude that natural resources must be well managed and preserved in order to tackle agricultural challenges in Africa, promote African intra-trade and unlock agricultural potential in the continent. REFERENCES Songwe, V. (2019, January 19). Intra-African trade: A path to economic diversification and inclusion. Brookings. Retrieved from https://www.brookings.edu/research/intra-african-trade-a-path-to-economic-diversification-and-inclusion/

Seven years ago, aged 10, I almost lost my life. Camped in Khwai campground in the North of Botswana, I was walking back from the bathroom block, lagging several steps behind my family. Reaching the edge of the campsite, I happened to look round and caught sight of a dark shape crouched low to the ground mere metres behind. What ensued was a sequence of events that I will never forget. “I think there's something behind me,” I said. My brother Kieran turned round from several metres ahead and shone his torch in the direction of my gaze. There, illuminated by the pale beam was a young leopard crouched stalking close to the ground, frozen, it's eyes locked in mine. There was a long pause, then the contact was broken and the leopard padded off. My worried parents hastily split myself and my two siblings across our two tents, but the leopard kept returning. First under the car, then circling the fire as my father stood watch with a spade and a wine bottle. Next morning, there was a post up on a prominent 4WD forum describing the encounter as a warning for others. Gradually the comments rolled in, piling up into a thread some four pages long: heated discussion on how to treat this problem leopard, which would most likely be killed; personal anecdotes from others with similar experiences; and, amidst it all a notable section on what should be done about the problem child (me). To clarify, my actions were not unduly brash. In the normal state of things, a leopard would almost never stalk a human- even a child such as myself. Most likely, it was a young animal that had been fed- directly or indirectly- by campers, and so grown to associate humans with food. Entirely the humans' fault, of course, but as a result this leopard had become a threat to people. Relocation would require darting it with tranquilizer to capture it: costly, dangerous to both the people and the leopard, with the added complication that anywhere it were moved to would likely be another leopard's territory. It would be a truly rare authority that took such an option. This animal failed to take my life, and paid the ultimate price- it's a strange sort of debt I feel, that I will never repay. It wasn't my fault, nor that of the leopard or any single human that can shoulder the blame. I see it as a symptom of our current relationship with nature- a relationship I have devoted my life to changing. We are the product of our environment, but we also shape it.

Dear Diary, Thousand apologies for standing you up last night. I was short on kerosene for my primitive lamp 'ntandîkîra'*. I wanted to improvise with a smouldering piece of wood but was afraid to set you ablaze. I remembered the last when hot embers fell on you and a few pages turned to ashes. You still reek of smoke and soot like an incinerator. Away from that, yesterday I pioneered a robbery using my wits and stealth. My elder brother, whom I share our rickety bed with, was the accomplice. It all began when my father came home humming melodiously. The way his tune shifted from diminuendo to crescendo proved utter euphoria. The brown envelope in his hand showed that he was a bearer of good tidings. “Mama Kawira!” he shouted. “Gather the kids. The coffee payslip is here.” The seven of us ran to the compound like a litter of puppies. We had harvested 1000 KGs of coffee berries last season. According to my dad, the latter had made us Sh.65000 richer. We embraced him cordially and made our requests known. “I want a new sweater.” “I need new khakis dad.” “My tunic is torn.” “Why don't I buy you wheat flour to make chapatis* for dinner instead,” my father said. Chapati. A delicacy that came once in a blue moon. The village's most coveted meal. We all agreed without demur. Even our stomachs warmed up a little. My taste buds could not stand the promise of such explosion of flavour. Our mother barked at us and we resumed our chores. We all kept our best behaviour to avoid our prize being revoked. We even ransacked the farm for eucalyptus firewood. The softwood was known to burn moderately; ideal for frying chapatis. When dusk drew nigh, I was sent to borrow a pan from Mwalimu* Kibogi. He was among the chosen few who possessed that cooking tool. He taught Mathematics at ‘O' level. On the road, the children gave me envious stare when I shared the 'good news'. No sooner had my mother started cooking than my idea bulb lit up. Ideology motivated by mischief and greed. Our kitchen is poorly lit by a lamp only illuminating the cooking area. The sufuria where the chapatis were being put was shadowed by sacks of yams hence slightly invisible. I whispered the plan to my brother and we executed the thievery. My brother pretended to go to the toilet and stood outside adjacent to the kitchen wall. There was a crack where I slid him each chapati I managed to steal. At chapati number five, my mother arose suspicion and we had to retreat. “Is there Satan in the house,” she exclaimed. “I swear these chapatis keep on dwindling.” I gave my brother the cue and he sneaked our loot to our bed in the main house. After the sumptuous supper, everyone went to sleep. We could finally unwrap our 'munchies' and enjoy. “You are a genius,” said my brother finishing off his share. “We'll even sneak in the ndengu stew next time,” I added. We all chuckled but our bellies hurt from the overfill. Slumber soon creeped in as energy to the brain had been diverted to deal with the digestion. “Kawira! Come here you little brat!” my mother called me to our room in the following morning. “ What is this?” she was pointing at the crumbs of chapatis all over the blankets. I had been caught with my pants down. I thought Gitonga had swept the bed as agreed. Stupid lad. I swore to skin him alive. But not after my mother had rained uncountable strokes on my bottom. I still marked the heist a success since I had never eaten so many chapatis in one sitting. I learnt the lesson that a good thief should know how to hide their tracks. *Ntandîkîra- A bantu word for a simple kerosene lamp. *chapati- is an unleavened flatbread originating from the Indian subcontinent. Chapatis are made of whole-wheat flour mixed into dough with water, oil and optional salt. *Mwalimu- Swahili for teacher.

How do you survive a holocaust, I remember asking myself. When you see a child, you don't expect them to grow up. You expect them to stay small and ask “why” until you run out of reasons to give them. You expect them to spill milk and cry and you teach them to clean it up. You expect them to be scared of the dark and the boogyman, so you look under the bed and in the closet to show them that there's nothing there. But the child eventually learns how to drink without a sippy cup. And the child stops asking “why” and stops wondering because it knows what curiosity does. And they learn that there are things much scarier than the boogyman and the dark. “Let's go see Papa,” my dad calls from the front door. I grab my sandals and meet him at the bottom of the stairs. We exit the tall iron spiked front gates and begin walking down a dirt road. The air in Nigeria is thick with sand. I cough, struggling to keep up with my dad. He walks two steps ahead, his lungs unfazed. “Edewu,” the villagers greet us as we march. Their igbo dialect rolls off their ounce. The word is one of the very few I've learned during my visit. I think it means ‘blessings.' I return the greeting with a wave and half a smile. My dad leads the way, slipping past the crowds of people and their blessings, sparing no time for friendly small talk. The walk is only but five minutes. A direct path from my dad's house to his dad's house; a lifeline of sorts. My dad is the oldest son of eight children. “Your uncle Charlie lives over there.” He points to the left at a sky blue house hidden behind a collection of palm trees. I nod. I've never seen my uncle Charlie before. His house is a snapshot of sibling rivalry the way his is built one story taller than my dad's three story flat. My dad takes my hand in his and we cross a gravel road. The buzz of mopeds and motorcycles rush past us barely missing our heels. My dad looks to the right at a run down mud house shaded with rusted tin sheets. “Your uncle Sabinus lived here. They murdered him. Poison.” All the houses of my relatives line the dirt path like a museum of his childhood, their houses as empty as skeletons. His tongue doesn't slip when it speaks of poison. He doesn't stutter or cry. He soldiers on ahead to copper gates and thrusts open the doors to his father's compound. A monopoly of mud houses scatter the lot placed so tightly together they nearly stand atop each other. A broken down Mercedes marks the entry way to my dad's childhood home. The first car he ever learned how to drive, a dusty relic of his past. Two graves sit at his feet. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he wipes down the first. “Mazi Vitalis Nweze Nwocha” the inscription reads. My grandfather. He bows his head in silent prayer. “Your grandfather was a fugitive of the war. They annihilated us. Burned us alive like sacrificial animals.” My dad says “they strapped people to military vehicles while their lower limbs dragged helplessly beneath them. I was only 12 at the time.” I stay silent. He tells me about the Birafian War. How Nigerian soldiers raided houses in the middle of the night with machetes, painting walls scarlet. How as a kid, he built a bunker big enough for nine people in the back of his house to hide his father from being recruited into the Birafian army. My dad is 64 now. He dusts off hid hands and pockets his handkerchief sweeping fours years of bloodshed back under the rug. We turn to leave his compound passing more unmarked graves on the way out. I look at him, realizing for the first time how silent it really is when a heart breaks. As kids we are taught not to cry over spilt milk. The war taught my dad not to cry over blood either.

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. We are not the same? Like how? I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality.' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow! There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else. Why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm. Impossible!, I will not accept an Ewe as my daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me? You dare call me irrational? Call it whatever Akwasi!, I've said my own. See? She hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother. That is all they are good at!' ‘Mom! Emefa has done nothing wrong. She deserves to be given a chance please.' ‘It's either her or me then. Let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah mom, this is too much. You can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question as it was a statement. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa. My mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painfully forced smile. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, a feeble attempt made to comfort me when he himself needed it the more. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he's scared, that he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle, caressing my cheeks as they make their way slowly down my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder, 'Why must it come to this?'. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe; my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity.

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. ‘We are not the same? Like how?' I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality,' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way,...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow!. There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else, why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm, impossible my son, I will not accept an Ewe daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me?, you dare call me irrational, call it whatever Akwasi, I've said my own. See?, she hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother.' ‘Mom, Emefa has done nothing wrong, she deserves a chance.' ‘It's either her or me then, let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah, this is too much, you can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa, my mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painful smile, when he takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, an attempt made to comfort. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle down, caressing my cheeks as they make their way down to my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder why it has to come to this. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe, my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity based on a true experience.