'I want to disagree with her, but the mirror in front of me says she is right. It shows me a pair of eyes—large, brown, beautiful and very empty. I wonder why they are so vacant when they have seen so much.' Augusta Augustus.
Penned in Rage January - April 2025
The Library of Lost Memories. Copyrighted, Augusta Augustus
{Augusta's Story Was Chosen As The Best Submission This Quarter And She Was Awarded $10}
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I've never seen eyes as vacant as mine. Rose called them, The dead pools. It was the first thing she noticed when she saw me. Declaring that she had never seen a ten-year-old with eyes so empty, she stared into them.
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I want to disagree with her, but the mirror in front of me says she is right. It shows me a pair of eyes—large, brown, beautiful and very empty. I wonder why they are so vacant when they have seen so much.
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Rose desperately wants to hear the stories locked within me. I have no idea if she is concerned, or simply wishes to gather material for a front-page-worthy article from the only known survivor of the war.
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The sound from the explosion which took mum's life might have taken my voice as well. It's been two years since I last uttered a word. My therapist says I'm suffering from: Traumatic mutism. I don't care what it's called, I simply want to talk again.
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I want to tell anyone who cares to listen about the beauty of my little town before the soldiers came. There were days, especially after dinner, when we had hearty conversations and laughed. I laughed so hard, my stomach hurt, and tears streamed down my face. Dad was always the storyteller, weaving tales of humorous encounters he had had in the past, some of which mum insisted were greatly exaggerated for our benefit. I can't remember the stories, but I remember the laughter.
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My mouth brims with talk of mum's beautiful paintings, which were rarely sold. Even though artwork never held a place of pride in our small riverine town, she never stopped painting.
I still think about mum's last desperate effort which saved my life. I want to tell her how dad's body felt when she covered me with it – heavy, cold, and still. It's strange how I can still hear her last words, whispered harshly into my ears,
"Do not move or say anything, no matter what you see or hear.”
I wonder if her hushed command or the sight of her lifeless body dropping to the ground is the reason for my inability to speak again.
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Rose tells me that with time, I will forget everything. But I don't want to forget. I'm not in a hurry to let go of the memory of my last moments with dad—both of us paralyzed with fear. I do not want to forget the sounds of the gunshots, the blasts from the cannons, and the screams of terrified people. I do not want to forget what the world has forgotten and urges me to forget. For then, it would mean forgetting the laughter, smiles, and the joy of little things we took for granted. I want to shelve those memories, keep them safe and relive them like a fully stocked breathing library of lost memories.
Augusta Peter Augustus recently graduated from the University of Uyo, Nigeria, with a bachelor’s degree in microbiology. She was joint runner-up in the DKA Short Story Writing Competition, 2024.
Isaac Aju is a Nigerian writer who has been published in New York City’s Writers’ Journal – Live and Learn; Poetry X, Hunger and The Kalahari Review. He lives in the commercial city of Aba where he works as a fashion designer and writes in his free time.
Small London Copyrighted, Isaac Aju
If someone had any respect for you as an Igbo, he would automatically add more to it once you mention that you are from Abiriba. Many other Igbo communities in Igbo land have a little love and a little resentment for the Abiriba people. Some people see Abiriba as the uppity Igbo people who think they are better than everyone else.
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It feels good nonetheless, when you are given that stare of prestige that emanates from many people after you’ve mentioned that you are from Abiriba, the Small London. Other Igbo people often assume that every Abiriba person they come in contact with must have money, because they’ve been told, or they’ve heard repeatedly that, All Abiriba people have money - which is a false belief - a stereotype that isn’t entirely very bad. Just because Abiriba had had many merchants who did very well in business even before the creation of Nigeria did not mean that every single person from Abiriba is rich. Because of their early success in business and their communal spirit they were able to transform their locality from a normal village setting into an urban space boasting of very modern houses and infrastructure you would hardly see in other Nigerian villages at the time the first Nigerian president Nnamdi Azikiwe visited the community and then called it: "The Small London," because of the things he saw, things he considered as very European. The term Small London would later become popular so that whenever you mention that you are from Abiriba people would say, “Oh, the Small London,” and then go on to assume a lot of things about you.
Abiriba people are blessed with a good business eye. They did very well in business during the colonial period, doing businesses with white people in Nigeria and abroad, and so transformed the Abiriba Kingdom into a beautiful place to behold, through their vibrant age grade system. Bloggers often cite Abiriba as one of the most beautiful villages in Nigeria. Abiriba people do very well in business, and thus have made lots of money, organized their town, and become a people respected by other Igbo people. They have a vibrant age-grade system that makes sure there is law and order in the town.
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Many times, I feel a fierce pride for being an Abiriba person, but there is another truth – not everyone from Abiriba is rich. Not every family is rich. They also have their own sufferings and flaws.
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Today, a Saturday, the Abiriba men in Aba are celebrating the Afa ụkwụ, which now comes round every four years, so they are rallying round the whole town, hordes of people, men and women in traditional attires, singing songs in communal spirit.
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I’m in the midst of them. I’m taking pictures. I forget my troubles. I’m happy. And I feel connected to my ancestors.
