“Tell us a story,” Marva asked, gently.
We were all back home at our parents’ place, celebrating the New Year. In the living room, adorned with old, greying pictures of family both far and near, dead or close to death, where our own pictures stood like sentinels of cherished moments. There was the picture of Marva in a wedding dress, looking like a gift from Heaven, and there was me, captured in the not-so-important moment of tasting spicy food for the first time. The awards, a testament to our academic achievements, athletics, and extracurriculars, the only way to get a “I’m proud of you” from our father, were displayed on a glass protected shelf. Our father treated them like relics, prizes won by soldiers dancing with death for the fleeting whisper of freedom.
The first person I ever told a story to was Marva. She was 6, and I was 11. Our parents had left for a church program but got stuck in Lagos rush hour traffic on their way home. Marva was getting restless, rushing to peek out of the window at the slightest sound of a car. Out of the three of us, she was the most attached to our parents, especially our father. Rodion was the eldest, not I, but he was preoccupied with exam preparations, and I knew it was up to me to stop Marva from tripping for the fifth time while rushing to the window in excitement.
“Marva, do you want to hear a story?” I muttered to her softly. She turned sharply to me, excitedly saying yes. Telling her a story was easy. I narrated the tale of the tortoise and his cunningness, how he conned the dog into feeding him during a famine while plotting to keep the food only to himself. I spoke of the story where the tortoise tricked his way into winning a race against the hare by using his identical children. I watched her face light up at various moments. She stopped rushing to the door at the sound of a car engine, and was almost disappointed when our parents finally got home.
But since that day, I never stopped telling her stories. Stories of bravery in the face of danger, of heroes vanquishing evil. I told her the story of anger, how Achilles let thousands die because of spite. The story of arrogance, how the gods only rewarded the humble. Eventually, I told her the story of love, painting a picture of it as dangerous and vulnerable. Love, I said, is deliberately giving your essence to another and hoping they’ll know what to do with it.
Eventually, the stories ended. I went to university, and the stories I told Marva ended — the stories of others.
And here we are, years later, with Marva’s 6-year-old twins in the room, the same age she was when I told her my first story. They were eagerly waiting to hear a story from their uncle.
I tried. I scratched my memory and tried to remember the stories. The tortoise. The bravery. The story of kindness. Of love. Of happiness. Of good triumphing over evil. Of there being a happily ever after. I tried. I looked at Marva, hoping her face, the hint of that excited child not worried anymore about her parents coming home late, would jolt some of these stories back, but nothing.
I have lived life, and now I cannot tell the stories of others. Only mine. I can only tell the story of pushing the boulder up the hill, only for it to roll back down, like Sisyphus, punished by the gods. The story of a heart shattered into a million pieces. The story of waking up every day trying to find meaning.
I could tell the story of the days following Rodion’s death. The doctor called it a brain aneurysm. There’s no explanation; it just happened.
I could talk about how it was then I saw him — Death himself, his frail body hidden beneath a dark cloak, the sharp sickle held tightly in his left hand. I still remember the silence — oppressive, broken only by the sound of my ragged breaths. I still feel the chill of the stone floor seeping into my bones as I watched my blood trickle from my wrists. The pain — raw and consuming, a bitter taste in my mouth. I could tell the story about how in a voice that has become a pitiful murmur in the emptiness of my room, I whispered to Death, “Save me.”
But all I could do was smile at Marva and the twins, telling them that I do not have any story to tell them now. But I owe them one.