THE LOST LETTERS: Part 1
Dear Udo,
Amongst our people, it is often said that the earth herself pays special attention to the children that open the womb. It is told in children’s tales and sung in women’s songs that the rain gives its dew, the birds sing, and the trees dance in honor of the firstborn, for they, first of their bloodline, are a special sacrifice to the earth.
The sweat of their toil is salt to the earth, for in their labor, both the ancestors and the unborn may find fruit. You, Udo, like I was amongst my brothers, are the firstborn of my children. You are named after your grandfather, who was named after his grandfather and his grandfather before him. Your name means “peace.” it is all your mother and I ever wished for you.
I remember the things that I saw when I first looked into your eyes. I caught my strength and the fire of my passion manifest in your fragile frame. I saw your mother’s spirit. Her courage and fierceness hovering above you like a Phoenix and I remembered the nights she would sneak out of her father’s house to come to see me.
I saw beauty and innocence unbecoming of my sins. I saw my firstborn. You were my joy, everything I had always wanted, and yet everything I had dreaded.
You see, I saw something else that day. Fear. Not yours, but mine.
All that I had ever known about the man who fathered me, I learned first from whispers and gossip of idle folk and second from the reverent praise of half-drunk kinsmen. He had died long before I was born, and in my motherʼs grief or hatred, for I could never be sure, she never spoke of him.
From my clan, tales of his valor and might, and from the rumors, stories of lechery and guile. And because I could never be sure who he was, I could never be sure who I was. This was not the life that I wanted for you.
Beneath the faltering light of the Achiegwu moon, I watched her eyes sink deeper into themselves. In my mind, I wondered, did she curse the man who had left me with her? Or was her heart broken, hoping for someone or something that would not come? Whatever it was, I do not know.
It is because of this that, for much before I had you, I had struggled with what it would mean to be any sort of father to you. Good or bad. How could I be to you what I had never known?
Now I recognize my folly. You see, our people have another saying -Ọ bụrụ na nwa okorobịa ejighị akọ na -achọ ihe gburu nna ya, ihe gburu nna ya nwekwara ike gbuo ya.
Listen, Udo, there are things about your grandfather which are impossible to understand unless you walk down his path. But not You, Udo; you must be better than me. You must forget me. You must forget that night.
I remember much of my youth in regret. I was a wild man with spirit and passion untamed. I took what I wanted and did what was right in my own eyes. It was for that very reason that you were born far from the home of your kin. I could not accept that my enemies become yours.
The Amukwe Clan had always been rivals of ours. The elders had spoken of a time when we had respected one another as blood. A time now long forgotten. The head of the clan was proud and indignant, much like myself. His strength was in the leopard skins he wore as his clothes and his might, in the skulls of once brave men he now drank from.
Fate, that irreverent old bastard, willed that our souls would find kinship in the same woman. Your mother. And for your sake, I took you, your mother, and ran.
Regardless of everything I thought I was doing to protect you, it appears that I have still done you the same disservice my father did me. And for that, I must say that I am sorry. For better or worse, life happens all the same. You must remember the faith of your mother. The one she spent her life desperately trying to convince me of.
I was a man who had only known the warmth of hatred, the embrace of strife, the balm of despair. I could not believe life had a plan for me, detailed and intentional beyond misery. I was a coward. But this, I believe for you.
You must remember the words she first taught you when you were a child. Fanciful yet peacefully assures that life works out for your good, no matter evil or pleasure. This is what keeps your mother, and it must keep you.
There is so much that I had hoped to teach you and so much more that I wanted to say, but we are given no such luxuries. Three years from that day, I have taken much time to write to you. It was not that I did not care, but there are things which I can not say, not until you are ready.
You are becoming a man, and when I look at you now, I see much of the life I first saw. No doubt dimmed by misfortune, but your star remains bright. You must temper it as a man stokes the fire. Too much and his hand is burned, too little, and he despairs in the cold.
Your mind is burning with questions even though you don’t know it yet. The frustration of not knowing eats at you, but you are too young to understand and acknowledge it. And so your passion and strength blossom into anger and hate at everyone and yourself.
Life has not been kind to you, Udo. You must know that in life, knowledge comes with a heavy burden. In truth, It is rarely ever kind to us, Osi (firstborn), but this is the burden we must bear. The reality we must not hide.
We often think we can handle a price until we realize we can not. It is the reason you must bury your questions. Bury them deep in the depths of your heart. Lock the keys and then throw them away. The answers that your soul seeks will only hurt you. This truth shall not set you free, my son. You must forget about me; you must forget about that night.
The world is at your feet, Udo. You must not carry this burden. It is mine to bear alone. As a firstborn, it is your responsibility to your siblings to show them that the world can be conquered. You must be strong for them so that they may find strength in your strength. You must be strong for your mother. She has always done her best for you, as she did for me.
Above all, Udo, you must be my firstborn.
