LOGIN“Why!” Oma screamed but unlike tears the pain couldn’t spill instead it joined forces with the rising anger. Yes, no place like home. But in the agrarian African society, servitude is the key to survival. The key in making a home. The plan was to strive through the familiar agony and cultural degradedness, through a world of fluid rules and casual violence. All because its tradition.
View MoreOne month later, August precisely, and Oma knew it was time to drop the topic. Buchi was not being thoughtful in any way. He had beaten her when she raised the topic about getting a job or wanting to speak with Ugonna. Buchi arrived to the point that, "girls were being kidnapped and therefore you should stay home." He reminded her that he was expecting another female visitor, "about your age, and when she gets here, maybe you won't have to be so lonely."
Buchi ordered a gourd of palm-wine for them both and kept teasing the woman who served him and who kept topping off her tiny glass. Then he drank from his calabash, and she drank from her glass. It made him happy and he said:“Learn to drink, my dear. A
Oma wanted to thank him, send hundreds of messages to her father through him but she hugged herself in fright. She felt scared, too scared to ask. "Run, what do you mean by that?" Oma asked him. She had not noticed him laughing.
Omalicha ran back into the room and curled up into her previous position except this time, she had her face turned to the wall. She exerggerated her breathing pace, pretending to be asleep. The pale, yellowish light became brighter as they walked in.