Chiazo Obiudu

Abakaliki, Ebonyi State, Nigeria

vivacious4xt@gmail.com

I Said Yes to The Waves

It was an all-too familiar feeling, like I'd-been-there-done-that kind of situation. I was woozy,

dizzy and had to close my eyes to regain some control. It was during my year of national

service. I had gone a-touring with some friends and we had made our way to the bank of a

flood-fed, fast-flowing river. I have had a phobia for water bodies since I can remember. From

shallow streams to raging rivers, like the one on which banks I stood, I can't get too close to

water without squirming. Needless to say, I'm not a swimmer. Have never tried, never will (hope

I never have to). I have never even been on a boat, ever. 

It's a bit ironic, especially as I am a lover of nature and quite outdoorsy. But when it comes to

water bodies, I love to admire them from a distance, as far off as possible. 

However, no matter how hard I try to keep the waves and waters at bay, sometimes they come

calling, looking for me, seeking me out even when I don't want to be found. And it's not just

those few occasions that a torrential downpour weaves its watery way into my house, making a

mess and leaving a ton of work for me. Nay. It's those storms, those waves that strike the

shores of our lives, often making their way inland and leaving chaos and havoc in its wake.

Since my service year on the bank of that river, I've known turbulence and felt that wooziness

and dizziness over and over again; in my marriage, my career, my finances, my family, my

relationships.
But things came to a head in 2021. Two years before that time, I'd lost my mum and brother-in-

law, in a space of one month. Then as more months went by, I lost an aunt, a few other

relatives, a couple of friends too. 

In the midst of these, a word kept coming to me. Just one unmistakable word. Waves. For some

reason, I believed the word meant that something good was coming my way. I waited in

anticipation, literally holding my breath, hoping to exhale someday soon.

One November day, early afternoon, I got a call. It was a nice enough day, though I can't say for

sure what the weather was like; I remember that it wasn't raining, so it must have been good. It

was my husband on the other end. And he had bad news. He had been fired. 

"What!" The tears startled trickling down before I could fully process the info. By the time I

processed it a bit further, the tears came in torrents.

My husband isn't the type that gets fired. He's the type that will fight, bare knuckle and all, if that

would get the job done. He'd get up early, get back home late and give a good 89.5% to deliver.

I might be biased in my analysis, but I believe I'm a good judge, of my husband, with almost

twelve years of experience. Yet, he got fired. 

We had three kids to house, feed and school. He had elderly parents who were partially

dependent on him. I was a full-time stay-at-home mum, part-time writer with not-so-steady,

meager earnings. Our income dropped by over 60% (clearly, I'm quite good in math) but our

expenses have kept climbing.

I'm still waiting for the good waves that will transport me to my Promised Land, flowing with milk

and sugar (not a fan of honey). But riding out this present tide has come with a few highs. I

finally went back to teaching, my first love and the first job I did post-university, during and after

my national service year. These days, making the most of what we had and getting through

each month, paying the bills, feeding well enough, and above all, keeping the tensions of our

current stressful realities away from the kids, have shown me that these waves might have

some good, hidden and tucked away behind the dark, menacing facade.

And by some Divine intervention, my husband and I haven't completely torn each other to

pieces. Now, that's something.