Category Archives: Romance

‘Without Sin, There Is No Forgiveness’ – a love song by Celestine Ukwu

My love for Celestine Ukwu is well documented, so I shan’t begin to gush about how his melodies soothe my soul, how the lyrics to his songs are full of meaning, of Igbo philosophy. How it harks back to a time I would probably consider simpler, an assessment with which my parents might disagree: ‘Love your neighbour’, ‘The enmity of a friend is dangerous’, ‘Don’t do bad shit,’ ‘The world doesn’t belong to you alone so share it well,’ and so on.

Anyway, this morning I was writing a short story (in fact I am still writing and will return to it once this blog post is done) when this song popped into my head. My story’s about this woman who plays Igbo music whenever there is trouble in her household. At first she starts with playing one of Chief Osita Osadebe’s hits but soon she segues to Celestine Ukwu. She’s a typical Igbo woman, in my view. Not great at talking about the softer parts of life, but very vocal about the hardships and her disappointments. And so, she lets the music do the talking for her.

In this song, he narrator starts by pleading with his lover, Adanma not to leave him. “The two of us will leave together, Adanma,” he says, although that’s a transliteration. In English it will be more like “Please say you’ll stay with me.”

‘Adanma the woman in my heart won’t let me rest

Adanma  my friend whom I love won’t let me sleep

My love whom I have in my heart won”t let me rest

My friend whom I love, take my heart away

Adanma whom I have in my heart, take my heart away

Take my heart away, Adanma whom I love,

Take my heart away Adanma whom I carry in my heart

Take my heart away, Adanma please don’t leave me

Etc etc etc. A lot of begging, backed by sweet music.  Then:

What have I done that’s caused you to run away from me?

What have I done to make you angry with me?

Whatever it is, please forgive me

If there is no love, there will be no forgiveness.

Please come and embrace me, Adanma

Ah. I am not romantic or sentimental but this music sits in the soul and washes it clean with its tears. If I were Adanma, I would have agreed with a quickness that would make your heads spin!

I wish the whole world spoke Igbo because I cannot write down the lyrics in their entirety. But trust me, they are very sweet, heartfelt and even a little sorrowful. Because you know Adanma is an Igbo girl and she DEFINITELY did not agree to forgive him. I can imagine her now, her eyes sharp, hand on her hip, mouth twisted in disdain.

“Is music food? Are words meat? What, am I now supposed to eat music? Mschew! Nonsense. My friend zuz out.”

Chai. Why are Igbo girls like this?

Enjoy the music! Tell me what you think in the comments section.

Dear Njideka (8)

It is a pity. A dem pity. I thought you was matured but it is now that I know that a standing breast is not a sign of maturity. It is me you are insulting, and for what? Because I love you? Because I told you I love you? Am I the forced man to do TT? Am I the forced man talking to you?

Peradventure you think I am not a somebody. Let me tell you, I am a somebody. I have just opened another shop in cloth section selling jorj and woodin and many many other things and this December gonna be great in this market. Not because I am writing you letter.

I thought you were matured but now I know. You are a small girl. Anyway, it is my fault.

Hopewell Okoronta Esq.

Dear Njideka (2)

Dear Njideka,

I want to let you know that ever since our discussion yesterday, I feel that my love for you is growing stronger and stronger.  I am so proud of your home training. If you had answered me ‘Darling’ or ‘Honey’. I would have died.

But you shouted at me for disturbing your sleep.  While your mates are going to club and beer parlour, Njide you are sleeping. Njide, oh, you makes my stomach sweet. Please I will call you tomorrow night with free call again. My MTN is 08039074659. I can also try you on Glo 08058629010 and my Vodaphone is 08023082627. Please even if it is five minutes, in short two minutes, I will be grateful.

Yours ever loving,

Hopewell Okoronta.

Mama mama, nne nne: Part 2

“She’s not my mum,” I said.

It didn’t seem to matter. I jumped off the bus and stood beside the old woman. Some of the other passengers who helped her pick up her things were getting back on. Two of them, a man and a woman, were trying to help her up but it was like holding a live catfish.  The man had sweat beading his upper lip. His arms were lost in the volume of her wrapper which was starting to come undone. I held the ends closed and touched her arm.

“Ah, nwa m, thank you.” She stood, throwing the man off-balance. “My daughter will take me home now.” I felt her weight press down on me until I had to bend my knees to keep upright. The woman handed me her bags.

She led me towards a side street which opened up into a bigger street. “I live at the end of this one,” she said. I squinted, saying nothing. I couldn’t see the end of the street from where I stood.

“You can’t see it from here because the street curves at the end,” she said, reading my mind.  She continued talking, forcing my steps to a half-shuffle. She seemed to be getting lighter as we approached the end of the street. By the time we were at her door, she was walking normally.

“Mama, I see you’re OK now. Let me go, I have an appointment.”

“Yes, my dear.” She inserted the key into the lock and bent over supporting herself on her knees. “Just help me bring the bags into the house, you know I am an old…” I tuned her out and followed her in. “Chidi! Chidi! Are you at home? Come and meet this omalicha nwa ada who helped me after I had an accident o!”

“Mama, it’s really not necessary, I must be going…”

“Nonsense,” she took my arm. “You will stay for dinner. I bet it has been a while since you had a real homemade onugbu soup.”


“OK, I bought some corn from the market, see?” she reached into one of the bags and pulled out some cobs. “I even brought ube when I was coming from home. Sit, I will roast some in the grill…”

“I see my mother has taken another hostage,” said a voice at the top of the stairs.

“Hi,” I said. My throat felt like I had swallowed a vengeful bee.

The man coming down the stairs had the colouring of tea at the moment it is hit by milk. He assessed me as his mother had before him; running dark eyes this way and that. I had the distinct feeling of being carried away by a flood.  He stopped halfway down the stairs. Beside me I could feel the woman smile.

“So, it is settled. You are staying. Let me go and prepare.” She was gone before I could correct her.

“Do you approve? Was I everything you were expecting?” Chidi’s voice was like something from a dream; deep, resonant as his mother’s was melodious.

“I didn’t expect anything and I am still not interested.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. I knew my mind was playing tricks on me. He wasn’t swirly, but something about his complexion made me feel like he was using it against me somehow. Fighting the hypnosis, a headache began to form over my eyebrows.

“Of course you are not. Which is why you were staring.”

“Yes, God probably made you on a Sunday, but I don’t find you attractive. If you were in a magazine, I’d look, sure. But as soon as I flipped the page I’d forget all about you.” I finally allowed my hands to stray into the pockets of my skirt. “Besides, you’re too into yourself. What’s this whole production? Speaking up as if you were cued, stopping on the steps for effect…”

“Ouch.” For the first time he allowed some light to permeate the murkiness of his eyes. “You have claws. You must be the first girl not dying to rush me off to bed. You’d be surprised,” he added looking at my face. “My mother would allow it.”

“And that’s my cue. Tell your mother I had to leave. I’m glad she wasn’t too hurt falling off the bus.”

“She what?” Chidi started to laugh. It died as soon as it began. ” Listen, I’m not attracted to you either.” The non-look was back in his eyes. It was as if he couldn’t really see me. “I’m not attracted to any of you.”

I could feel my face furrow. He could have been referring to every one of the girls his mother dragged home like a lioness feeding her cub.

If I wasn’t concentrating so hard, I would have missed it.

His fingers flicked, one after another as he grasped the banister on his way down. I watched the bones of each one bend, then straighten like so many long legs. It was the expression of a courtesan signaling a lover, at once coquettish and confident. It was The Nail Test –  result freely given. His stood in front of me at once daring and beseeching – to do what, I didn’t know. His breath ticked my top lip.

“Oh,” I said  after what seemed like hours. “You should probably tell her then.”

(Part 3 tomorrow)