Of Siblings and Sacrifice (A series)

Borokiri (Episode 1)

Life in Nigeria can be an unrelenting struggle. While challenges exist everywhere, the peculiar hardships in Nigeria often seem uniquely designed to thwart one's aspirations. It's as if the very fabric of the nation is woven with threads of frustration. To navigate this relentless environment, you must develop a certain savvy, a survival instinct we call "street smart."
Now, let me introduce myself. I go by the name Belema, a true grassroots Port Harcourt native, popularly known as a "Ph boy."
Alongside pursuing my education at Rivers State University (RSU), I hail from Borokiri, a place reserved for those with unwavering fortitude. Here in our neighborhood, we have what we call "senior men" who oversee the intricacies of life in this community. It might be puzzling now, but as you delve into my story, you'll come to understand what this means in the uniquely Nigerian context. Growing up in Borokiri was an unforgiving ordeal, demanding that my family and I remain ever vigilant for potential conflicts that could erupt at any moment. Our streets were teeming with individuals who seemed impervious to empathy, their demeanor characterized by cold-bloodedness, brashness, and hostility. It was a place where self-preservation took precedence over communal bonds, and thoughts of others, or even one's neighbors, were scarce commodities.

My father, Mr. Tamuno Ibipiribo, stood as a stoic figure amidst this tumultuous environment. Rarely did a smile grace his face, and when it did, it had an eerie quality that left you pondering the depths of his thoughts. At times, his countenance was devoid of expression, yet in his eyes, on occasion, I glimpsed a trace of pain. It was as though the harshness of life had tutored him in the art of concealing his suffering, leading him to confront life with the same cruelty it had once bestowed upon him.
My mother, Mrs. Ebi Ibipiribo, has made numerous attempts to convey to me and my two younger sisters, Esi and Ningi, that my father was not always this way. Whenever she speaks of him, her voice trails off, as if she's reminiscing about a man who is no longer with us. I am certain that my mother carries her own anguish, or perhaps she harbors the hope that he might grace her with one more genuine smile. She has valiantly shouldered the responsibility of maintaining our family's equilibrium, striving to fill every void that life has cast in our path.
As the eldest child, though not Mama's first offspring, I've taken it upon myself to ease Mama's burdens by looking after my two younger sisters when she heads to Mile 2 market to vend her wares. Yes, my mother is a dedicated trader with her own shop in the bustling market. Her merchandise consists of women's clothing, shoes, and accessories, a business venture that I assisted her in launching a few years ago when my father mysteriously ceased to return home.
                              
It all started a few years ago when I was a mere 16 years old. That fateful day, my older sister, Tamuno, the sweetest soul I've ever known, was abducted on her way home from her nursing job at a private hospital in Waterlines. Tamuno typically began her day with exuberance, making it a point to greet our parents, especially our father, first thing in the morning. Tamuno was undoubtedly a daddy's girl, and I believe the depth of love my father held for her could be traced back to the 12-year wait my parents endured before welcoming Tamuno into their lives. She was, unquestionably, the apple of his eye.
As soon as Papa heard Tamuno's familiar and cheerful voice calling out to him that morning,
"Daddy... daddy!" If there was no immediate response, she'd raise her voice, demanding, "Where is my daddy?" And Papa, always lovingly, would reply, "T-Baby, I'm here... did you sleep well?"
The nickname Papa bestowed upon Tamuno, "T-Baby," clung to her like glue, and soon enough, we all began to call her by that name. Sometimes, she'd grudgingly respond, but on other occasions, she'd assert, "Only my daddy calls me T-Baby," and we'd share a hearty laugh at her expense.
I

t was almost as if my father had spoiled Tamuno, despite her being the older sibling. The "baby" in her name was a perfect reflection of her essence. She moved through life with the same fearless enthusiasm one might find in a toddler. I often found myself pondering what truly lay beneath her cheerful exterior. Tamuno was easy-going, exuberant, and had a unique ability to light up any room she entered. She was a sanctuary of peace and happiness, a natural source of joy. Her laughter, infectious and uplifting, had the power to make anyone smile, even if they had no clue why she was laughing in the first place.