My father's conversation with me in the house was always boring, the fact that I was the only child was not helping the issue, because, I was the only one he had to discuss everything with. My mother as he had always told me, gave birth to me during the first world war and she died after she delivered me because she was bleeding seriously; my father took care of me and ensured my safety.
After the world war, my father took me to stay in his late mother's house because his late father's house where we based, was burnt down during the war. He always told me stories about the war "that war was heart taking, but I was a strong man, even when your mother was pregnant for you, I carried her on my back and fought so many soldiers, Armies and even the strongest of all, I held bomb with my hands and stopped it from exploding" my father said to me that night before we slept, "people tell their children good bed time stories, but my own is war time stories to take me to killer dreams" I always said angrily to myself.
My father suffered for me, even though we hardly eat, we were still happy. I had no relations, no brother, no sister, it was only my father's drinking partners that made the compound lively. they would stay in the compound, discussing my so called bed time stories, war. can you imagine how boring that discussion was to me? I don't know what those old men enjoy in discussing what I thought was a tale. I was in the kitchen that day when I heard one of them speaking "I carried that fat soldier, I dropped his head on the ground" the man said while others laughed, this man saying this thing was as slim as a broom stick, I wondered how he carried the fat soldier. most of these stories are fake "is it because I was not there?" I would always ask myself. my father's friends would stay in the compound till night before they dismiss for the day.
My father became very sick, he could not breath well, even as an old man he was terribly sick, I preferred the boring bed time stories to the sound of my voice in tears. I was close to his sick bed to help him, I was only 10 years old. that fateful day, my father was at the point of death, I ran to his friends for help but they threw me out of their houses. the most painful one was with Mr. Okonkwo the slim man that carried a fat soldier. I went to Mr. Okonkwo's house to ask for a little money to buy drugs for my father from the village clinic at the center of the village play ground. my father told me that, that clinic was built after the war to treat those people that were injured, and since then, it became the only village clinic because others were destroyed. Okonkwo turned to me and said "useless girl...................... READ OUT FOR PART 2
