The Land of the Rising Sun-Chapter 9: The years Between

CHAPTER NINE THE YEARS BETWEEN The days that followed the incident near the next village were different. Nobody said Ubakala was unsafe. At least, not openly. But people became more careful. My father still went about his daily routines as though nothing had changed. My mother, however, watched the road more closely than before. Whenever I mentioned going somewhere outside the village, she asked where I was going, who I was going with, and when I would return. Ndubuisi also visited less often. Not because he had stopped wanting to come. Work had begun taking him farther away, and sometimes weeks passed before I saw him again. Whenever he returned, however, it felt as though no time had passed at all. We would sit and talk. Sometimes about work. Sometimes about the country. Sometimes about nothing important. And somewhere along the way, our friendship became something neither of us could easily explain. We never sat down and decided that we were now together. It simply happened. A conversation became a habit. A habit became something we looked forward to. And before I realized it, Ndubuisi had become one of the people I could not imagine my life without. Then life began to change around us. I eventually returned to work, and Ndubuisi's own responsibilities took him to different places. We were no longer in Ubakala as often as before. It was difficult at first. There were days when I wished I could simply wake up and find him sitting outside my father's compound as he used to. But adulthood had a way of making plans for people. Our lives slowly moved beyond the village. We began building something of our own, even if neither of us knew exactly what it would become. Then came Onwuka. I still remember the first time I held him. He was so small that I was almost afraid to move. Ndubuisi stood beside me, staring at the child with an expression I had never seen on his face before. “He's looking at me,” he whispered. I laughed. “He can't even see you properly yet.” “He knows I'm his father.” “You're already giving yourself too much credit.” He smiled. For a while, everything else seemed far away. The arguments. The uncertainty. The stories coming from different parts of the country. All of it disappeared whenever I looked at my son. We were no longer just two people trying to understand what we meant to each other. We were a family. And yet, the country around us was becoming harder to recognize. The reports of violence were no longer distant stories that people discussed and forgot. There were shortages. There were arguments over the future of the country. There were rumours that spread faster than the truth. People began choosing sides. Some families left their homes. Others refused to believe that anything serious could happen. Whenever we spoke to my parents in Ubakala, my father always insisted that the village would remain safe. “You people worry too much,” he would say. But even he had started locking the doors earlier at night. As the months became years, Ndubuisi and I moved farther from the life we had known in Ubakala. It was not because we had forgotten home. Life simply demanded that we stay where work and circumstances placed us. We visited when we could. We called when we could. And whenever we had the chance to return, the village still felt like the place where everything had begun. Three years passed almost without permission. Onwuka grew from a tiny baby into a lively little boy who seemed to have discovered that running was more enjoyable than walking. He followed his father everywhere. Sometimes I would watch them together and laugh as Ndubuisi tried to keep up with him. “Onwuka! Come back here!” The boy would turn, laugh, and run even faster. “You see?” I would call from behind them. “That's your son.” Ndubuisi would shake his head. “Your son when he's troubling me. My son when he behaves.” Those were the moments I held closest. Because somewhere inside me, I knew that the world outside our little family was changing. I just didn't know how much it was about to change. One evening, Ndubuisi and I were sitting inside while Onwuka played on the floor. It was getting dark when we heard a knock at the door. Knock. Knock. Ndubuisi looked at me. “Were you expecting anyone?” I shook my head. He stood and walked to the door. When he opened it, a soldier stood outside. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The soldier looked at Ndubuisi, then briefly at me. “Is this the house of Ndubuisi?” “Yes.” The soldier paused. “I need to speak with you.” Ndubuisi stepped outside. I watched from where I sat, unable to hear what they were saying. After a few minutes, the soldier left. Ndubuisi remained at the doorway, staring after him. Something about the way he stood made my stomach tighten. “Who was that?” I asked. He closed the door slowly. “A soldier.” “I saw that.” He looked at me. “He came because of the situation.” “What situation?” He didn't answer immediately. Then he walked over and sat beside me. “I may have to leave.” I stared at him. “Leave?” “For the war.” The words hung in the room. I looked toward Onwuka, who was still playing, completely unaware of what had just been said. And for the first time, the war no longer felt like something happening somewhere else. It had knocked on our door.

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