My Diary Became a Mainstay in Difficult Times

I looked around the room, it was so neatly kept. There were six sewing machines in the room, and shelves were stacked adroitly with thread, buttons, zippers and sewing fabrics. Aunt Bola taught young girls to sew and it was their duty to come in and clean the room and the rest of the house before the work for the day began. They also ran errands and were involved in preparing lunch because they all partook of the meal.

I looked up at my favorite shelf that had a catalogue of all the latest fashion in Europe, I flipped through the pages and admired the women who modelled the clothes.

Although, I do not know why Aunty has these catalogues because the clothes she makes are nothing like this. When her customers come around, they sew iro and buba which are Yoruba traditional attire that consist a wrapper tied over a blouse or maxi dresses with Ankara or lace fabrics.

I must not underestimate the usefulness of these dress catalogues though, for it was from one of these that Desola and I pored through the pages for hours looking for bridesmaids dresses, disagreeing with each others choices until we finally happened upon the one.

Aunt Bola did a great job in trying to replicate the dresses, although she didnt get the exact cut, but it was close enough. Aunt Bola ensured she did the sewing by herself using patterns to replicate the styles. And we were both pleased.

I quickly flipped through the first catalogue and as I was retrieving a second one from the shelf, I saw a book fall.

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My joy knew no bounds for it was my diary which was an old notebook given to me by my father on the last birthday I shared together with my family which seemed like a lifetime ago.

My diary was very significant to me, it was my best friend during the most trying time of my life actually shes female and I named her Nkasi Obi which means comfort in Ibo for she holds all the memories that I have been unable to relieve until today. Nkasi Obi went missing a few days after I arrived in Aunt Bolas house, and I was desolate. I held her close to my chest, felt that familiar sensation and traced my fingers over her spine.

One of the girls must have put it with the catalogues while cleaning, aunty Bola said as she walked up to me. I am so glad you have found it. I made entries during the war, but I never bothered reading them, because the entries had become too painful for me, but I kept writing because I felt I owed it to my parents.

I am awake now, so Ill just do some reading, I said as I ran my fingers on the front cover of the old worn out note book which I had carried around with me and documented my closest thoughts for almost three years. Are you sure about this? Aunt Bola asked?

I nodded in affirmation as I couldnt trust myself to speak. I am walking into a dreaded territory. I shall confront my fears as aunt Bola had always encouraged me to. Although, she looked unsure as she watched me, and she told me to stop if the pain became unbearable. I closed my eyes as I tried to recall the first entry I made in my diary before I began to share my memories with her.