Free Voice of America by E.C. Osondu

books he used when in high school were filled with maxims written in his impeccable handwriting—“Life is but a walking shadow,” “Without love what is life?”“Ideas have legs,” “Salutation is not love,” and so on. All his old books were stored away in a locker in the pantry, and their outer coverings were wrapped with paper torn from old wall calendars to protect them.
    “Hey, man, you’ve grown quite big,” he said to me, flicking the butt of his cigarette out of the window and smiling broadly at me. “C’mon, give me a handshake, my man.” I shook his hand, and he pumped it vigorously. “Everything and everyone looks so different, it is weird, you know …” He trailed off, running his fingers through his thick hair.
    “Your tea is ready, Dele,” my mother said to him. He turned to her, sat down, took a sip, and smiled broadly.
    “Wow, this is exactly the way I remember it, still the best-tasting tea I have ever drunk.”
    “Stop teasing me, Dele, you cannot tell me that after all the years you have spent in America you still think my tea is the best; you are just teasing an old woman,” my mother said, smiling.
    “I kid you not; it is still the best tea. I drank my best coffee in America, but your tea is still the best.”
    My mother smiled and said, “In that case I should go and prepare one of your old favorites—
jollof
rice.”
    “Awesome,” Uncle Dele said, rubbing his hands together.
    I had not expected Uncle Dele to sneak back like a thief in the night. I knew he was studying chemical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of America’s top schools, and was going to return one day soon with a foreign degree to pick up a job with one of the new oil companies. I was going to live with him in his well-furnished flat and go to the university like he did.
    That night I stood behind the door listening to him conversing with my father in low tones. My father kept clearing his throatas if there were a small pebble stuck there while Uncle Dele responded in bits and dribbles like a faulty tap dripping water.
    “So what did you say happened? I have not really listened to you properly. I have been waiting for a quiet moment like this so you can really tell me what happened.”
    “There was a party in a friend’s house and a fight over a
cocoye,
a Puerto Rican girl.”
    “You mean you were deported from America because of a fight over a girl? I may not have been to America, but I am not an illiterate, you know; please tell me the truth. What really happened?”
    “It was either deportation or jail—I chose to be deported rather than go to jail.”
    “I still do not believe you, Dele. I have been a father to you even more than I have been to my own children; wherever your father, my late brother, is, he knows I have done as much as he would have. I starved and denied myself to send you to America, and yet …” And he cleared his throat again. “Did you kill someone?”
    Uncle Dele swallowed loudly and did not say a word. There followed a little silence, then Dad spoke again.
    “So what is your plan now? I still know a few people in the University of Lagos—maybe you could enroll there and complete your engineering program. They have a good program, I hear. I am doing this because of my late brother, certainly not because of you. You have behaved irresponsibly, and you have disappointed me, but what can I do? You are still my son.”
    “I am going back to America, I cannot study in this country. I have made a mistake, and the only way I can make things right is by returning to America to complete my studies,” Uncle Dele said.
    “Do you think I have a money tree in the backyard? Can’tyou see that your own younger brothers are growing up too? They have to go to school, and I am not getting any younger. The soldier boys are playing
cha-cha
with the economy, today they remove tariffs on importation, tomorrow they increase tariffs. Life is tough here, Dele. The