Safe journey
by Zito Madu
Since it is impossible in my experience to condense a life or the love that one has for that life into literature, I would like to refuse the chance at attempting the impossible or the desire to make a life mean something beyond the fact and miracle of its own existence; instead I want to focus on two days in Lagos Nigeria at the beginning of this year.
I had flown to Nigeria for my older brother’s wedding in Owerri which he recklessly celebrated on the 31st of December. I spent a few extra days and the New Year with family; afterward I flew to Lagos, leaving the buffer of a day before my flight back to New York City. My cousin Chinwendu—my father’s sister’s eldest child, whose English name is Austin—picked me up from the Lagos airport. Because the airports and airlines in Nigeria are pretty chaotic, my father had directed Austin to stay in Lagos and manage the logistics of travel for the wedding guests, and so he didn’t get to attend the wedding. Which he was sad about, but he also knew that he had to carry out the kind of obligation that was given to him because my father trusted him more than anyone else.
When I walked out of the airport, he did what he had always done since I could walk, he grabbed my hand, interlocked our fingers, and started leading me around like I was still a child even though I’m in my mid-30s now. He was thinner, but not frail. He was in his 50s with the body of a man who spent most of his day moving and working. He looked healthy and sprightly. I wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong. When the driver he’d hired asked if I was his son, instead of saying that we were cousins, he said that I was his brother.
Keep us breathing fire!
For $3/month you can read this whole post and get our weekdaily newsletter too!