It has been 22 years since he last saw his aunt, but whenever we discussed and got to the point where we talked about his family he suddenly pales out.
I see it in the way the glint that once lit his eyes wanes, and his shoulders slouch. He pauses and looks into space as if he is fighting memories. Then the words that follow are of gratitude that his aunt was now memory. But she is still alive.
"I still hear her vile words" he protests, whenever I try to chip in the idea of forgiveness. When I do make such interventions, I feel guilty for making forgiveness sound so cheap and easy to a hurting person. ‘But that was a long time ago, he should have healed.’ Yet, Nnanyereugo doesn't see it that way, and in fact, it isn't that way.
Growing up in a house where insults were more assured than breakfast, where reprimand manned every corner of the house, where he battled with envy and inferiority from the myriad of comparisons his aunt served him and his sister daily, a house where they were the scapegoats, a lot of mental rewiring was needed.
Before every great stride he attempts, the judgmental voice of his aunt announces its undying presence. He is healing. His sister, Cheta, is also healing. But healing doesn't always take away the scar. He's learning to grow beyond that voice, but remember, it's the voice of a respected elder, and that makes it more potent.
Invectives spewed by revered authority figures and treasured others slice through the framework of our being. With the power of the trust we have bequeathed to them, they can trample on our lifelines and alter the circuitry flow. Words are powerful, and the words of honored ones are even more potent.
As Africans, we know the value of words, we feel its co-creative impact. As children, we were warned against curses, oath-taking, and even mockery. We were told to be wary of the words we let the universe hear, lest such words become our realities. We were even pruned to filter the words we used on others since it could have an impact on their reality. Being Modern doesn't mean we should ditch these benign .
Words are sacred. Thoughts, remember, are mental words.
I remember the Inuit poem “Magic Words”:
…That was the time when words were like magic.
The human mind had mysterious powers.
A word spoken by chance,
might have strange consequences.
It would suddenly come alive
and what people wanted to happen could happen—
all you had to do was say it.
Nobody could explain this:
That's the way it was.
Watch words, both yours and the ones you let swim inside your head. They have power. And you know it!