I felt exactly how I had that night I first came here; angry, sad, lost. I definitely wouldn’t miss here, but I’d miss someone from here. I suppose I was happy we were leaving, but I was missing Uzochukwu already. I wished I could touch him and say as much to him, but I didn’t do any of that. It was easy to see he was sad too, even though there was just a tiny trace of it, maybe he didn’t want it to show because there are other people here.
When we finally got up to leave, I waved sadly at him and he waved back with a sad smile.
On our way home, all I could think of was how I had felt when my uncle had called and said, “Maybe you should go home, your dad said he was hit by a bus.” My imaginations of how it had happened and how terrible it had been. How exhausted and lost I had felt.
Returning my mind to the present; three months later, we are going home. And almost ready to return to my house in Awka, and think about my life, and live it!
Totally grateful to God.
I didn’t expect Uzo to call, we’d just exchanged our numbers before we left the hospital, but he called. Guess the good turn wasn’t over yet.
My Dad was pretty happy to be home. He even helped me with some cleanups. He doesn’t take pity in what had happened to him; when people came in to sympathize, he’d say, “What we see in life is life. We’d have no story to tell, if nothing happens.”
He asked if I would write about our stay in the hospital, and I said, “If I don’t, what else would there be for me to write? I’ve never had any experience like that my whole life, where a lot of people live that close next to each other, with lots of characters.”
He was pleased to confirm that I would write about our story.