Preordained #ProjectNigeria

49- Keeping Secrets

Nwanyieze's POV~

I look up from the hair scrunchie I'm making, hoping to see Maduka drive through the opened gates. Disappointed, I continue my work.

It has been three days since Maduka has revealed himself to me, and he has spent more time with his uncle since then. In the mornings, they go out in his car or sometimes on foot, come back for lunch, and go out again only to return at night. But he always sends texts, keeping me updated.

His uncle is taking him round the village and reintroducing him to the people through gatherings of kinsmen. As Maduka's father was a prominent village leader, it is important that they know that his son, who disappeared years ago, was alive and well, and had returned to take his place amongst them. Also, he had to familiarize himself with the Omenala, traditions of his people.

"Aunty, should I fold it this way?" one of my students asks.

Seated on mats underneath the mango trees, I am teaching the young girls in the compound how to make hair scrunchies with elastic bands and scraps of discarded textile materials. Yesterday, it was how to bake a cake, and the day before it was how to make small chops. My gathering is numbering up to a dozen, as the girls in our compounds have informed their friends, and everyone brought their needles and threads and scraps of textiles. The rest of the materials were bought from the market in the next village; Maduka had personally driven me there.

"Yes. Fold it, make a few stitches, and you're done," I instruct.

Those who have successfully finished their scrunchies make satisfied sounds, using them to pack their hair or wearing them on their wrists. Their eager faces make me smile. They are no more than teenagers under the age of sixteen, with innocence in their eyes and quick laughter bursting from their lips.

"Thank you, Aunty," a few of them say happily, their pride visible.

"You're welcome," I reply again and again to their gratitude.

When we are done, a few of them leave to run errands, while some stay back to ask me questions. One has brought her note book along, so I can help her with her home work.

I honestly enjoy their company. They remind me of myself when I was younger, and their carefree nature makes me happy, makes me wish them well and pray that they don't lose their innocence so early and not with pain.

By now I know a few of their names. Agbomma, the thick, curvy one with ebony skin and close cropped hair, asks me where I'm from.

"Lagos," I reply.

"So your village is in Lagos?" she queries.

"No."

Before Agbomma can ask another question, Nneka, who is so light skinned with grey eyes, short yellow hair in puffs and so many freckles, tells me that she doesn't want me to leave so soon. She is the shy one in the group, often talking only when spoken to.

"Will you come back if you go?"

"I don't know yet."

"Better marry our uncle. He is a good man, he gave my mother ten thousand Naira yesterday," Agbomma almost demands.

I laugh.

"Uncle Maduka dashed me one thousand because I told him I didn't have a good school bag," adds Adaora, the smallest of the group. Her size doesn't stop her from talking more than every one present. Adaora suffered from an accident as a child, and this has made one of her legs shorter and thinner than the other.

"They want to stop sending me to school," complains Ngozi, a tall girl with light brown skin and her hair in two threaded bunches

"Why?" Adaora demands on our behalf.