[STORY] DIARY OF A MAD IGBO WOMAN (Episode 01)

Episode 01.

WARNING: Whatever you see here is only based on imagination and inspiration.

They said Igbo women are the pride of their husband’s house?

Who said that? Really who said that?

I am Adaeze Nwankwo, the daughter of the great chief Nwankwo.

We were from the east but we grew up at Igando, precisely number 42 Akinyemi street, Lagos state.

The house my father had built at Akinyemi street was the only white three storey building in that street.

My father was very popular, not just within Igando or Ikotun but other parts in Lagos because he was a known chemical seller at Ojota.

Once you get to Ojota and ask of chief Felix Nwankwo, they will direct you to the green big upstairs where he arranges his small drum of chemicals right in front of his spacious shop.

With the way I just talked about my dad, you pray you had a dad like mine because he has a successful business right?

I remember when my mother gave birth to our last born, Regina Nwankwo.

“A woman again? Upon all my achievements, I have to waste it on a woman? What a waste!”. He expressed bitterly.

My once successful father lost interest in selling chemicals and began to squander his money on drink and women because he didn’t want to waste the money on female children.

My very popular successful father became a pest to us and kicked my mum to go and start working to provide for her daughters.

My mother was no longer a housewife, she began to sell chemicals in my father’s rented shop at Ojota.

“Go and make money for your daughters”.

Are you not tired of the long story?

Well, my dad committed suicide eventually and left us a note. ‘In all my achievements in life, I didn’t gain a child. God gave me animals as compensation for my hard work on earth, what a wicked God’.

My mother developed fibroid and we used all her savings to keep her alive but we had responded to treatment late and she didn’t survive.

I was only nineteen years old but I buried my mother with my hands without the help of relatives who began to avoid us because they didn’t want us to ask to live with them since there was no one to take care of us.

For the past nineteen years of my life, I had witnessed a submissive woman and a dictatorial father.

How will I forget that cold evening on the second of April 2012 when I and my sisters had sat at the corridor and wept our eyes out over mother’s death?

All my life I had watched my father curse at my father and my mother being a submissive wife that cried in the corners of her room.

In all my lack of fatherly love, I was still craving for a relationship that will make me feel good for the first time in my life.

Most things we crave these days are things we never experienced even if it looked good on others.

To just enjoy what love felt like even if it was the tiniest bit.

So I met Fred, he sponsored the education of myself and my sister.

I thought I was on top of the world because I gave my whole heart to a man because I just wanted to enjoy love and I could feel his love.

But one-day, somewhere in 2017, I got home after returning from my N.Y.S.C programme where I served in Kano….

I saw Fred walking out of his big house in Festac with police men leading him closely with handcuffs around his wrists.

My sisters were living in his compound since they were schooling closeby.

Because it would save rent expenses and I trusted Fred with all my heart, I allowed my two sisters to live in the same compound with him since he was the landlord of the compound.

I rushed to stop the police aggressively. “What did this innocent young man do to you? Why is he handcuffed?”.

“Innocent? Who are you?”.

“I am Adaeze Nwankwo”.

“Oh you are the Adaeze? This young man murdered your two sisters. He had packaged their body parts in a black nylon and was about to transport them for ritual before one of the neighbours found him suspicious and called us over. All these while, you have been enjoying the lavishings from your boyfriend but your boyfriend was a ritualist. Fred Bakare has killed your sisters”.
To Be Continued…. . . . .

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