My life is an egg that the mother was taken away from, but, I hatched. I flutter my fragile wings. Fly. I strived to find a name. Fly.
Last year made life into splinters of pain that I wished to be freed from. I prayed and begged for death, and God answered. Death came that night. By 1 a.m, ulcer became the reaper bearing messages of my death. My drugs were not available. When I saw death, I tried to run. I cried. Drank water. I prayed because of my mother. I couldn’t be that wicked to her. Memories of her words became pictures. My dad’s lovely smile was the cover photo. And, My love Victory who called me Mummy when I was yet to be a woman. It was funny then when she looks at me as a kid and calls me small mummy, or Nnonity instead of Anointing. Those moments when she is crying, she would wait for me to pet her even though I am not the one that made her cry. She taught me how to be a mother. My brother appeared in the picture with his annoyance through his usual scorns… My promise to revenge his beatings on his children, and we will always laugh about it. Then, Dankasma my favourite shouting Mummy to my calls. These photographs kept fighting death.
If I second to this death what will happen to these people, will I be dead in their heads? I know I will live in their memories, their lives, their moments and hearts, then death is not the solution. God smiled at the little scene and asked for us to cut the show, that the rehearsal was perfect like the main event. Seriously it was a wonderful act.
Then, Oko Owi Ocho came and told me to write.
“Write about what?” I asked.
“Everything and anything.”
I remember those days, I wrote words that were not poems, but were written in stanzas. He would look at them and say, “Impressive. Keep writing.” It was an encouragement. Did he stop there? No. In the Pink, a poetry book was the first book he gave me to read, and with that, I developed a deeper passion for writing. I wanted to write because someone believes I could write… My relationship with him didn’t end in poems. He became a teacher and a friend. He made me to read, and gave me access to his books. The best book he ever gave me was Sophie’s World by Jostein Garder, one of the most treasured books in his library.
Today he was my therapist. I woke up with pains and regrets, sadness at its peak, and a troubled heart. I felt like I was being put into hot oil for frying. Everything made no sense. I only see failure as an identity which I have been identified with; as an existence. He said you have to live. Don’t make me a failure for believing in you. Anointing you are a poet. Poets live.” I laughed.
I am a bird today, that flutters her wing with dreams.
Anointing Ndidi Biachi is a poet and writes nonfiction at her leisure. Her poetry captures the plight of the downtrodden female gender and the human emotional situations. She is a member of the SEVHAGE Watch and among the team of SEVHAGE Literary and Development Initiative.