The Price of Absence and ignorance

Ejike had just lost his father — no, not to the cold hands of death in the usual way. Unfortunately, it was to the hot, reckless hands of sickness. And not a complicated sickness like a heart transplant gone wrong or some rare liver disease. No, it was just malaria. Regular malaria — not the terminal stage, not the kind the doctors give up on. Simple malaria, the type that could be easily prevented and treated with a three-day course of the popular artemether medication.

Ejike had been given an ultimatum: either his father or his work. No, scratch that — it wasn't an ultimatum; it was a family decision. Ejike had to go to the city, make money, and send it home. He was the only son; he needed to step into manhood and take responsibility. His parents had ensured he successfully left the village for Onitsha in Anambra State and were relieved when they heard he had gotten a job — well, more like an apprenticeship, learning on the job. The pay was good, though not abundant. At least it covered his bills—or so Ejike thought — until his father died of something as ridiculous as malaria.

How long had Ejike been away? Only a year and three months. And from the second month of his departure, he made it a point to send no less than ten thousand naira home every month — not directly to his parents, but to his uncle, the so-called “trusted” Mr. Ubenna.

Mr. Ubenna was the only one in the family wise enough to own a bank account. Ejike’s father, Mr. Ebubenna, still clung to old ways, hiding money under his bed or burying it in the backyard. His mother, Akunne, followed suit, believing it foolish to trust ‘white men’ with their hard-earned savings —perhaps a leftover trauma from colonial times. Chika, Ejike’s only sister, was just thirteen; she couldn't make financial decisions yet. Thus, the money went monthly into Mr. Ubenna’s account.

Three months after Ejike left for the city, Mr. Ebubenna fell mildly ill for three days. Akunne urged him to take some medicine, but as always, he waved it off. “It’s just stress. Besides, these oyibo drugs are not good for the body,” he said, going on to explain how he believed Panadol was molded from white chalk. "Imarọ na-ọbụ nzu ka eji eme ụfọdụ ogwụ ndị a. Onye aghọgburu ka agbalu," he would say. And Akunne, ever loyal, believed him.

Seeing an opportunity, Mr. Ubenna called Ejike, asking for money for his father's ‘treatment.’ That month, Ejike sent an extra ten thousand naira. Of that, Mr. Ebubenna only received ten thousand naira — half of what his son had sent, unbeknownst to him.

Six months after moving to Onitsha, Ejike’s salary increased slightly, and he bumped the monthly remittance up to 12,000 naira. Yet, his parents continued to receive just 8,000. Mr. Ubenna, of course, made no adjustments.

It was in the early part of the year, sometime around March, that Mr. Ebubenna fell ill again. But this time, it was no trifling sickness — it was serious. For the first time in living memory, he agreed to see the village physician. The diagnosis? Just malaria. Nothing more. All he needed was a simple three-day dose of artemether and some antibiotics, just in case typhoid bacteria were involved.

Unfortunately, the 8,000 naira Akunne had received earlier that month had already been spent — partly on foodstuff for her little shop and partly on Chika’s school necessities. They had hoped to manage until the month's end before needing any more money. Now, faced with a medical emergency, Akunne blamed herself bitterly. How would she juggle caring for her husband, tending the shop, and making sure Chika continued with her schooling?

Desperate, Akunne went to Mr. Ubenna for help. He claimed he had no money, having just spent everything on land clearing, and when she pleaded with him to call her son, he explained that he doesn’t have enough airtime to call Ejike.

With no money and no immediate access to herbal remedies — which would have required transportation costs they couldn't afford — Akunne could do little. Chika had to stop attending school temporarily to manage the shop, hoping to raise enough for the malaria drugs.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ebubenna’s health slightly improved on its own, and they held onto hope, waiting for Ejike’s next remittance.

But the month ended, and nothing came.

When Mr. Ebubenna asked his brother about it, Mr. Ubenna claimed he hadn't heard from Ejike. Perhaps it was the lost hope of the monthly money or the fear that something had happened to his son — either way, the partially recovering Mr. Ebubenna relapsed.

This time, he had no strength left to fight.

In the second week of April, early in the morning — around 4 a.m.—Mr. Ebubenna gave up the ghost.

At 11 a.m. that same day, Ejike arrived home, hoping to surprise his family with an Easter visit.

Instead, the one surprised was him.

The sight of his father's corpse stunned him speechless. If only he had returned a day earlier. If only.

Ejike sat and tried to process it all. Malaria—something so easily treatable — had taken his father. He asked his mother to recount everything, and she did. His heart broke further when he heard the full story.

"Why didn’t anyone call me?" He asked, raging against the ignorance that had cost his father’s life. This was the 21st century, for heaven’s sake! If they had prioritized it, they could have bought a cell phone with the money he sent every month. But knowing his father’s stubbornness and his mother's submissiveness, it was never an option.

They had no one to blame — not even the uncle, though neither Ejike nor his mother knew about Mr. Ubenna's thieving ways.

Ejike had only been granted one week of Easter break. Now he had to extend it. His boss sounded sympathetic over the phone, telling him to take all the time he needed. Ejike should have known better — no job that barely tolerates days off would be okay with weeks of absence.

He resolved first to bury his father and then deal with everything else.

But it seemed Mr. Ubenna and the other kinsmen had other plans.

The uncle suggested placing the corpse in the mortuary until burial plans were finalized. Ejike protested — that would cost money — but his mother calmed him, reminding him not to argue with the elders.

Mr. Ebubenna's corpse was put in the mortuary. If he had risen to see it, he would have despised them all. He hated everything the Oyibo brought — including the mortuary.

The following day, Ejike went to his uncle’s house, where he met another elder. He informed them he was ready to fix a burial date.

The elder rudely reprimanded him: "How can you inform the kinsmen empty-handed?"

Mr. Ubenna tried to smooth things over. "Imana (you know), Ejike is still young. He didn’t grow up here. Forgive him," he said. Then he explained to Ejike that he had to bring at least four cartons of drinks and kola nuts to 'properly' inform the elders of his father’s death before they could fix a date.

Ejike stood there, stunned.

“What? It sounds like I’m inviting you to a party. And you all already know he’s dead!"

He was confused, agitated, and heartbroken. He hadn’t even had time to mourn properly, yet here he was, negotiating ceremonial bribes.

The argument nearly escalated, with the elder taking Ejike’s protest as an insult. His uncle tried to calm everyone down.

In the end, Ejike left, preparing to buy the drinks and kola nuts.

As he trudged away, he wondered bitterly if his father had ever burdened grieving families this way during his lifetime.

He hoped not.

If you were Ejike, what would you do next? Would you confront your uncle or let the traditions take their course? Share your thoughts — maybe your idea is the ending Ejike needs.