Burger Peanut.

“Uncle! uncle! Uncle!”

Uncle Nonso was back, but the only reason I was rushing into his arms was the yellowish-brown nylon in his hand.

Uncle Nonso dropped the nylon on the ground and grabbed me into that bear hug I always loved so much.

“Chinonso! Do you want to squeeze her till she turns to a fly?”, mama said amidst laughter.

I wound my tiny arms around him and burrowed my face in his skin. I didn’t care. It was our ritual.

“Now who’s my favorite niece in the world?” He ruffled my butterfly hair, mimicking Frodo’s voice.

“ME!” I screamed.

“Guess what Father Christmas brought for you…” he slowly lowered me to the ground and passed the nylon.

My eyes had already turned into saucers before I opened the nylon—

“BURGER PEANUTTTT!”

I jumped on Uncle Nonso’s kneeling form and toppled him over. I felt his belly rumble with laughter before it left his lips; his arms shielding me from the fall as his back touched the ground. My joy knew no bounds.

The only person not smiling was mummy, claiming that she doesn’t allow me eat the peanut because it’s not good for kids and God knows what they put in it; Calling Uncle Nonso irresponsible for always coming with rolls of the peanut every single time he came visiting from the army; telling him to go and get married and face his life instead of spending every holiday with us.

Mum kept ranting and ranting but all I kept thinking was how slowly I could finish each Burger Peanut roll till Uncle Nonso came back again; how I could hide it from my best friend Oluchi whose hands never knew where to place her mouth; how very safe and secure Uncle Nonso’s arms were; and how I wished daddy would go to the army instead and Uncle Nonso would stay here with me and mummy forever.

“Biko Margeret, leave the girl alone! A girl has to have her fantasy now”, he said. Against his shirt, I smiled.

“Oh, and the fantasy should be what? Burger Peanuts?” Mama retorted.

“Better than those useless boys, ndi enweghi akonnuche (those who DON’T have sense)”

I giggled like a squirrel, burrowing deeper inside his jacket.

Mummy sighed, giving up. She was tired of this endless charade.

Uncle Nonso bent his head and pinched my nose.

“Guess who just bought you another new year of more burger peanuts, onye nwere m?”

I laughed. He laughed.

☘️☘️☘️

Onye nwere m. The One Who Has Me.

As I sit in that hospital room 20 years later, right beside the man who raised me without birthing me, I realize just how true those words had been for Uncle Nonso.

I had never really asked him about his past. About how he and mama grew up in Abagana after the Biafran war; about how he had watched his father die from war wounds. Then in a bout of rage, Uncle Nonso enlisted in the army where he served for 30 years until gonorrhea caught up with him; I had never really asked about his love life— how his wife and son had been massacred in the north. All these years, I had never asked.

Because I had always believed that before me, there had just been Chinonso . There had only been a shell living in a soul body.

But after me, there was Uncle Nonso. Only him. The way he was now. The way I saw him then, now and forever.

And I think he knew. All these years, his always coming to our house, his being there even when he wasn’t there. He had known it too.

“O-onye nwere m?”, a whisper.

On autopilot, I rush to the bed.

“Yes, Uncle Nonso. I am here”. I squeeze his hand and smile through the chaos in my heart, through the thousand fragments he held in that space now shattering into ashes.

“You are crying” he whispers.

I touch my face, surprised at the wetness. When had they fallen?

I laugh.

“Is it not your fault, Uncle Nonso? Why are you lying on that bed when you should be playing Suwe with me outside?”

He smiles. My jibe had the desired effect.

“Ngwanu take me back home, so I can play Suwe everyday”.

My smile cracks. My lips tremble. I cannot believe this being on the bed is him.

“Uncle, I’m sorry”

“For what?”

“For not being here”.

He stares at me, silent, assessing. Always assessing. Old age and war fatigue have not dimmed his sharp mind. No. Never.

“A parent cannot blame their child for leaving. All children must leave, and discover their square roots”, he replies.

I scoff playfully “wow. So now you finally admit you were my unofficial papa abi”

Uncle Nonso is silent for so long that I have to stare up at him in confusion.

“If you were not my family, I would have married you”.

I freeze, startled. Uncle Nonso stares right back, unflinching. It is not that I am shocked. It is just that I never expected to hear those words again.

☘️☘️☘️

The only other time Uncle Nonso muttered those words, I was 20 and had finally gained admission into school after 3 failed JAMB exams.

Mummy, daddy, all my aunties and uncles came to celebrate in our grandfather’s house in Enugu because I was the Ada, the first granddaughter to gain admission. But none of it mattered until I saw Uncle Nonso from where I stood on the verandah. He was dressed in his army uniform, as youthful as ever. Yet something had changed. He was different. The light in his eyes had dimmed. War had drained him.

But I didn’t care. The moment I saw him, I ran all the way to our compound gate to hug him and carry his satchel inside the house.

I hadn’t expected anything. No gifts, no assurances. Nothing. This was not our first rodeo of him leaving and not coming back for months. His being there had been enough.

But two hours later, while the women were busy pounding yam in the kitchen and the men drinking palmie in the garden, Uncle Nonso walked up and slipped a nylon bag to me.

When I looked inside, I saw two corporate outfits, one set of heels, and a row of Burger Peanuts even though the production company had gone out of manufacturing months back. For several minutes, I stared at it in shock. Uncle Nonso laughed.

“I had my guy on the inside who still knows where all the jewels are buried. Bia, how do you think I was able to feed your obsession for years?”, he joked.

I stared at him through teary eyes. He cleaned my eyes and whispered,

“If you were not my family, I would have married you”.

I still stared at him, at the laughter on his cheeks. He’d said it jokingly, but only I knew the way his irises danced whenever he meant something true.

☘️☘️☘️

Now, I still stare at him. Even though mummy, daddy, and his 2 adopted kids have now entered the room, frantic, teary, terrified.

Even when the doctor and nurses have rushed in, trying to rescue his tired body.

But I know the truth. I see it in his eyes, just like I’ve always seen him.

And so, that is why I run to his side, take up his hand, look straight into his eyes, and confidently whisper back:

“Uwa m Uwa ozo, igha - abu onye nwere m”

-in the next life and all the others to come, you will be the One Who Has Me.