Departures

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—Departures, Ifesinachi Nwadike (2023)

‘Did he understand how I felt? Did he understand that as kids, we never imagined that anything would separate us?’

It was exciting and at the same time shocking. Exciting because, japaing is top on the catalogue of prayer points most Nigerians, especially the youths, pester God with. It guarantees an escape from the disconcerted state of the economy that has plunged many, young and old alike, into untellable despondency. So, yes, it was exciting that my brother had joined the providential horde of those who had escaped the dubieties of Nigeria, especially at this time when the reins of power have been bestowed on a vacuous man. On the other hand, it was shocking because just like the common reaction to death, it never occurred to me that anyone in my family would leave Nigeria. At least not yet. Or maybe, like in the case of my friend’s brother, I thought it was too abrupt. Or did I erroneously think there was a very lengthy protocol to it? That no one would just wake up and decide to be in the UK before the end of the year? For days, I struggled to grasp this somewhat unsettling realization that a member of my family would leave not just Nigeria, but Africa, miles away from home and family.

What we know as japa can sometimes be akin to death, the only difference being that the dead never come back. Now, I remember my uncle who I have resolved is the quintessence of worthlessness. He left home in the 1990s to play for R.S.C. Anderlecht in the Belgian league and has since become alienated from his roots. He developed a diseased relationship with my father—a misunderstanding that their conceited mother orchestrated—and blocked everyone on social media. This, for me, is the worst form of japa and is nothing different from death. Am I wrong to consider it analogous to death when my uncle, his wife, or his children have not spoken to anyone in almost two decades? He is dead to the family.

In the days leading up to my brother’s departure, I began to worry that his fate would be like my uncle’s. I found myself praying often to God to not let his japaing be similar to demise, to not let the physical distance between Nigeria and the UK stretch into our hearts. I had prayed a similar prayer the previous year when I was admitted into an MFA program at Chapman University but could not travel due to financial constraints. Then, I had worried so much that the distance between Nigeria and the US would detach me from my family. I am obsessed with unity. It was the inspiration behind my debut novel, We Will Live Again. In that book, I thoroughly fictionalized the events that led to the disintegration of my paternal extended family—so much so that in my twenty-eight years of living, I have not set eyes on any of my paternal cousins. Sometimes, I am scared I would mistakenly get married to one of them since we all bear different surnames now; as I was told. Such is the extent of disunity in my family.

I live in Benin where I am studying for a master’s programme. My brother, at the time, lived and worked in Lagos. Except during the Christmas break, we only saw each other on video calls. We communicate more via texts and voice calls. And it is not so often. In fact, in all honesty, sparingly. Physically, there is nothing to show that we don’t get along well. We clap hands in greeting like normal guys do when we get to see. But I am sometimes scared that there is a recessive gene somewhere in our hearts that codes for discord as it did in the case of my father and his brother. Growing up in a religious home, we often received messages from God alerting us of the devil’s ploy to instigate disputes between us. Once, a woman who I consider a creative spiritualist and prophetess made us turn our backs on each other, an evocative histrionic display that interpreted what she had seen from God. I remember how my father shouted ‘God forbid!!’ and ardently prayed, thwarting the devil’s stratagem. After the prayers, the prophetess made us hug ourselves very tight while she marched around binding us with, in her words, heavenly superglue. ‘You are the pillars upon which this family will stand. Do not let anything separate you two,’ the woman had gone on to admonish.

I became more scared that the glue had weakened when, while in a barbing salon, my brother texted me that his visa had been approved. Beside this worry was the dawn of reality; he was truly leaving. Nothing could stop it now especially as he had already booked his flight even before the visa was approved. Only death could prevent him from leaving. That day, I convinced him to let our parents know. He had intended to surprise them a few days before his departure with the news but I gently advised against such.

‘You’re not just travelling to another state within Nigeria. You’re leaving Nigeria and Africa. They deserve to know early enough. That would give them ample time to prepare their minds for your departure,’ I had told him. As expected, my parents expressed the same shock as I did. That shock that seemed to ask rhetorically; ‘So, finally, this japa syndrome has snaked its way into our very tight-knit family?’

A week before his departure, I got invited to be interviewed at a literary show in Lagos. I seized the opportunity to spend some time with my brother in Surulere. We chatted, sampling plans for ourselves and our family, and played soccer games. He showed me the winter jackets, new shoes, socks, gloves, head warmers and mufflers he had bought from Tejuosho Market, all heralding his looming departure. Unknown to him, I began to absorb as much detail from him as possible. I soaked up his body features; his broad shoulders, his almost potbelly which I tease him about, the folds at the back of his neck, his mannerisms, his sleeping posture, just everything I could take in. I needed to have a lucid portrait of him in my mind. It was then I resolved I was going to give him a hug that would leave a part of me with him. A hug that would reinforce that bond between us.

From Lagos, I travelled to Owerri to lecture my students at the Imo State College of Nursing. My brother came in two days later and the entire family spent quality time together; praying, holding long conversations, and praying again. My mother bought lots of foodstuffs which we packed in a big box one night. The next morning, my brother and I went back to Lagos. Our parents took the night bus that same day and arrived the next morning. In these final days, we lacked words, and in our minds were flurries of trepidation bombarding the internal walls of our skins like elastic gas molecules. My mother would from time to time heave and ask if she was dreaming. My father struggled through the thick glaze of silence that hovered to issue pieces of advice. My youngest brother, eleven years old, was with us in Lagos and became sick. That night, we stayed up late, measuring our thoughts while diverse emotions flowed from our hearts’ depth. My father sat on the chair, tapping his feet against the tiled floors. My mother lay in bed, sobbing softly into the pillows. My little brother lay beside her, his high temperature quaking his body. I distracted myself by watching videos on TikTok. My brother sat on one side of the bed typing with his phone. What words could we possibly say to one another at that time? My father, in a bid to douse the overflowing emotions, recalled how he felt years ago when he travelled to New Delhi, India. He said: