Say Walah

55: Different Paths, Different Destinies

The evening sun cast long shadows across the compound as the last of the visitors departed, their footsteps stirring dust that caught the dying light like golden mist. Some reached out with trembling hands to touch my shoulders, as if my suffering might somehow sanctify them. Others murmured soft words of consolation about my lost love, their eyes brimming with the peculiar mixture of pity and fascination that tragic tales tend to evoke.

"Different destinies," I repeated to each of them, the words worn smooth like river stones from years of use. "She was meant for the northern throne, and I..." Here, I would pause, watching the gentle sway of my crops in the distance, their stalks heavy with promise. "I was meant for this land, to nurture it and be remembered as a father to many for three decades hence."

The last visitor's footsteps had barely faded when I called out, "Ikem!" My voice, once strong enough to carry across the marketplace, now emerged as little more than a hoarse whisper, another reminder of the poison's lasting embrace.

The boy appeared as he always did – swift and silent as a shadow. Ten years had passed since Nne Ogwu brought him to me, her final gift before death claimed her. I still remembered her words: "He will be your strength when yours fails." How right she had been.

At sixteen, Ikem had grown tall and strong, his shoulders broad from years of working the land. He moved with the fluid grace of youth, something I watched with both gratitude and a twinge of envy as another coughing fit seized me. This one was mild – no blood today – but it left me winded all the same.

Ikem steadied me with a practiced hand, his touch gentle despite his calloused palms. He knew without asking to fetch the herbal tea that sometimes eased my breathing. The poison had left its mark deep in my lungs, a constant companion that manifested in fits of coughing that could bring me to my knees. Some days, I would find my palm flecked with blood after these episodes; other days, the poison seemed content merely to drain my strength, leaving me as wilted as sun-scorched leaves.

I remembered Nne Ogwu's determination, her countless remedies and midnight rituals, her fingers stained with herbs as she worked tirelessly to heal me. But there came a morning when I caught her desperate over her medicines, and I knew it was time to accept what fate had decreed. "Stop," I had told her, taking her worn hands in mine. "Some destinies cannot be changed."

Now, watching Ikem move through the familiar motions of closing up the compound for the night, I felt the familiar bitter-sweet ache in my chest that had nothing to do with the poison. He was the son of my heart if not my blood, given to me by an old woman who had cared for me enough to ensure I wouldn't face my fate alone. Together, we had built something meaningful – our crops were the finest in the market, our name spoken with respect despite my affliction.

As the night settled around us like a familiar shadow, I sipped the tea Ikem had prepared and contemplated the strange paths that destiny chooses for us all. She would be ruling in the north now, my Mairo, perhaps thinking of me in quiet moments as I thought of her. But regret was a luxury I could ill afford, like seeds cast on barren ground. Instead, I had chosen to cultivate what life had given me – this land, this boy, this destiny – and somehow, that had been enough.

"Farmer?" Amadi's voice came rough, weighted with years and memories. He settled beside me on the wooden bench, both of us watching our sons disappear around the corner of the compound. The evening air carried the sweet scent of ripening palm fruit, a reminder of Okonkwo's chosen path. "How are you these days?"

"Tired and aching like a woman in labour," I responded, suppressing a cough. "Your boy grows taller each time I see him."

Amadi snorted, a sound caught between pride and frustration. "Tall like a palm tree, and just as useful for fighting." He spat to the side, an old habit from our warrior days. "His mother made him soft. Now all he thinks about is palmwine and which trees yield the sweetest sap."

"At least he works," I offered, remembering the way Okonkwo's eyes lit up when he spoke of his craft. "Some men find their strength in different ways."

"Strength?" Amadi's laugh turned into a cough, and I recognized the familiar wheeze in his chest – the poison's legacy we both carried. "You sound like Rimi used to. Always seeing the best in everything."

The name hung between us like smoke. Thirty years, yet it still had power.

"How is Olamma?" I asked, steering us toward gentler waters, speaking of his midwife wife.

"She tends to a difficult birth in Umuoga." Amadi's features softened slightly. "That woman... she has good hands. Strong heart." He turned to me, his eyes carrying the weight of our shared past. "You know, sometimes I wonder if Rimi sent her to me. She has the same laugh."

I nodded, understanding the bittersweet comfort of finding echoes of lost love in unexpected places.

"And you?" Amadi's voice grew quieter. "Thirty years, my friend. Thirty years waiting for Mairo." He shook his head slowly. "The northern throne must be very cold without you."

"It was her destiny," I replied, the familiar words tasting of herb-bitter tea and resignation.

"Destiny?" Amadi's voice carried an edge. "We all saw what that poison did to you. What it still does. Yet you hold onto a promise made in younger days."

"Some promises outlive the body's strength," I said, watching the sun sink lower. "Besides, what would you have me do? Find a wife like you did?"

"At least I learned to live again," Amadi countered, but there was no real heat in his words. "Rimi would have wanted that."

"And Mairo wanted me to wait." I felt the familiar tightness in my chest, unsure if it was the poison or the memory. "So I wait."

Amadi was quiet for a long moment, both of us listening to the distant sound of our sons' laughter. Finally, he reached over and gripped my shoulder, his hand strong despite the years.

"You always were the stubborn one," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Even that poison couldn't change that." He cleared his throat. "Remember when we were young? Running through the forests, thinking we were invincible?"

I smiled, remembering. "Until that day we weren't."

"Until that day we weren't," he echoed. "Yet here we sit, old friend. Here we sit."

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with understanding that only decades of friendship could bring. In the gathering dusk, we watched our sons return, Ikem and Okonkwo walking side by side, their young voices carrying traces of our own long-ago laughter.

"Different paths," Amadi mused, watching them. "Different destinies."

"But the same sunset," I added softly, feeling the truth of it settle in my bones.

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