‘Honey, that Ram is out there in the yard again’ My wife said shutting the door quickly behind her ‘I thought you chased it out the other day?’
‘I did. That Ram is more stubborn than I know Rams can be. I replied standing up from my home office desk.
I could hear it bleating from outside, deep and loud. Walking to the sitting room, I could see my wife peering at it through the window curtains, making sure to leave open only a slit for her eye to peer through.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as I placed my hands gently on her back.
‘Jesus. John. Damn it, you nearly gave me a heart attack’
‘I am sorry’ I said, taking her place behind the curtains.
It was a white ram, horns curled massively in front intruding into the view of his face, muscly limbs gracefully planted on the ground, wooly fur that was combed through by the breeze, Eyes, bloodshot and deep, dark and I can swear, had occasional flashes blazing through.
‘We can’t continue like this John’ My wife said. She was sitting on the lone sofa now, her hands clasped around her chest, face sunken in slight scare. ‘It has been 4 months now since this Ram started coming here, we barely sleep, we barely go out of the door without those dark terrifying eyes staring back at you.’
One more glance, I walked towards her making sure she knew I was there, sat at the side of the sofa, I could feel her body trembling under my palms placed on her shoulders now.
‘By the way, what is a Ram doing in New York? There is no farm around here’ She looked up at me with a much deeper question written boldly on her face.
‘I don’t know, maybe there is a farm somewhere here we don’t know about’ I calmly said rubbing my palms all over her shoulder to calm her nerves.
‘And a farmer would leave his Ram roaming free through New York City for 4 months now?’
I looked down to my feet, Papa had told ancient stories about Rams, I always loved to listen, barely 5, curled around the fire in the Obi, Mama’s cooking could be heard few feet away in the kitchen hut.
The airplane touched down in Lagos airport, the blaring voice of the pilot from the speakers whispered and shrilled through, I couldn’t make out any word from it.
‘We are here John’ Her voice came from my side. My wife sat just beside me, wearing that questioning look.
The warm air smeared all over me as we stepped out from the large chunk of flying metal, the rusty stair railings uncomfortable to touch.
We have to catch our flight back to the East, Ukalu will be waiting at the airport with a car.
‘Welcome home my son’ Papa said. He was leaner than I remembered, the last time I was in Nigeria was 4 years ago, and he looked older now, tired, you could hear the whizzing sound of his breath when he talked.
He brought out a kola and a chalk, broke the kola, threw one lobe into his mouth and took a loud bite, leaving the rest hanging half way through his lips as he chewed the content of his mouth. The chalk, he drew a mark on his palm, and legs and handed me the Kola sauce plate. I took a tiny bite from the smallest lobe I could find, took the chalk, made quick marks just as Papa had done on my palm and feet.
Papa listened closely as I told my story, the only sound he made were coughing sounds that came at interval, loud, you could hear the mucus in his throat.
My story ended more than a minute ago and he’s yet to talk. His hand under his chin, he was staring at the chalk and the kola sauce on the floor.
‘You said for four months now?’ He finally asked.
‘Yes Sir’
‘Is your wife pregnant?’ He asked looking up at me.
‘No sir’ I met his gaze ‘I mean, she has not mentioned anything like that yet’
There was that bleat, Papa’s goats ran by, I could see them through the open doors of the Obi rushing off to their shed, the sun has already retired to the west, the thick shadow of the trees swaying and casting a darker twilight, for a moment there I thought I heard the same Ram bleat, the goats were the answer.
And another ting of air carried the sound to my ears, the muscly bleat, it was deeper than just a goat. I froze, could barely breathe, the air turned chill under my skin, my eyes hurt like it had been filled with water, I could barely move.
Papa’s face was pale, he too barely moved, I looked at him, he stared back, I opened my mouth to talk but the words sank back to my throat.
‘I know my son’ He said
‘What do you know?’ I managed to ask
‘Come with me’ He stood with a groan, holding up his wrapper tied to a large knot around his waist, left to dangle and slip. I followed, mirroring his steps, they were gentle and the stride, short.
At the entrance of the Obi, the blood shot eyes stared back.
‘Amadioha’ Papa called
