The next day, my father was transferred to the Abia State Teaching Hospital, Aba. A week later, he awoke.

To think that one person’s waking up from sleep could cause the sun to rise and the stars to shine in so many hearts. I was especially glad for my mother, whose constant night-and-day vigils had paid off. She had been right there when it happened.

Contrary to what soap operas have taught us to believe, a person who wakes up from a coma is first disoriented and confused. So my mother could not say exactly how long it was that my father’s eyes had been open.

‘It was around 11 a.m. or so that I raised my head from a brief nap and saw him staring at the ceiling,’ she said.

Like people who dream without ever expecting their dreams to come true, at first she had dismissed what she saw as the wishful thinking of a desperate wife who had spent the past many nights sleeping on a raffia mat on the floor of her husband’s hospital room.

‘Next thing, his eyes just turned and started looking at me,’ she continued.

Then he opened his mouth and said something in Igbo.

‘Ha abiala? ’

My mother became worried. The only times she heard her husband speak Igbo were when he was dealing with the villagers. He never spoke it to her, he never spoke it to us, he never spoke it in our house. Even the house helps from the village were banned from speaking vernacular. In due course, though, my mother realised that it did not matter what language he was speaking. The fact was, her man was awake and talking.

‘I started jumping about and screaming for the nurses to come,’ she laughed. ‘Honestly, you should have seen me. You would have thought I’d gone mad.’

But she was afraid to touch him. When the nurses came in to investigate, she hovered around the bed and waited with her hands clasped against her chest. Finally, one of them noticed her reticence and assured her that her touch would not push him back into oblivion. My mother then sat beside him on the bed and stroked his hand until I arrived.

The rest of the day, my father stared as if seeing for the very first time. He stared at the ceiling, at the nurses, at me, and at his wife. Apart from one or two insignificant phrases in Igbo, he did not speak and did not acknowledge anyone when he was spoken to. His breathing was also not much different from when his eyes had been closed. The doctor confirmed that his left side was slightly paralysed and that he might not be able to regain his communication skills for some time. He also explained that it was common for patients just waking from a coma to speak languages that had been relegated to the archives of their minds.

‘The most important thing,’ the doctor said, ‘is that there has been some major progress.’

Each day brought some new improvement. The catheter was removed. He could walk to the bathroom while he leaned on my mother’s shoulders, taking one slow step after the other. He was able to eat some solid foods which my mother fed to him with a small plastic spoon as if he were a baby. She never complained. Not even when he spat unwanted food onto her clothes.

Time and time again, my mother said that she owed everything she was in life to my father. Prior to his arrival, tradition had placed her as one of the least important members of her family. But when this most eligible bachelor asked for her hand in marriage, her ranking increased overnight. Her elder brothers even sought her opinion regarding arrangements for their father’s burial. Her union with my father, despite having suffered its own unique variety of roughness, had created a warm, secure environment for her because one thing had remained constant: her husband loved her and she enjoyed loving him in return.

I made quick arrangements for Godfrey, Eugene, and Charity to visit the hospital to welcome their father back to our world. One by one, they walked up to his bed and held his hand.

‘Daddy, how are you?’ Godfrey said.

‘Daddy, we miss you,’ Eugene said.

‘Daddy, when are you coming home?’ Charity said.

As soon as they touched on his daughter, a faint glow seemed to light in our father’s eyes and the right side of his lips appeared to twist slightly upwards. That was when we knew for sure that he was aware of us being there.

Owing to the distance from Umuahia to Aba, my siblings could no longer pop into the hospital as casually and as regularly as before. Neither could my mother come home as often for a change of clothing or to inspect her shop. She packed some personal items and became a permanent resident of the hospital. Depending on the kindness of the nurses on duty, she had her daily shower in one of the hospital bathrooms. Regarding family visits, we agreed on an arrangement where the less significant participants in the hospital drama would sort of take it in turns. That particular morning, it was Charity’s turn and I took her along with me to Aba.

My mother was dozing off on the bedside chair when we arrived. With an excited yelp and a fervent shoulder shake, Charity woke her up. They hugged and kissed and cuddled as if they had not seen each other in months. I observed my mother’s eyes casting their spotlight on Charity’s armpit. The hair had overgrown again. My mother removed her eyes and let the matter pass.

Charity sat beside my father on the bed, holding his hand tenderly, as if she were afraid that it might fall on the bed and crack.

‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘we’ve started reading Macbeth in school and we had a test last week. I made the highest score because I was the only one in class who knew the main significance of Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene.’

She paused and smiled. The blank expression on my father’s face did not change.

‘We’ve also started Organic Chemistry,’ Charity went on, ‘but I’m not really enjoying it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to tell which one is a straight chain and which one is a compound chain.’

My sister looked distraught. I was tempted to tell her that I would teach her how to work it out later, but decided that now was not the time. Charity continued chatting – about school, about her test scores, about a documentary on the Nigerian/Biafran civil war which she had watched on television – without bothering that he was not responding. Watching her evoked memories of when I was a child, when my days were never complete until my father had carried me in his lap and told me a folktale.

While Charity was still talking, my mother got up. She gestured discreetly with her eyes, like a crook, indicating for me to follow. I allowed some seconds to pass before leaving.

My mother had stopped somewhere just outside the ward. I walked over and stood beside her.

‘Mummy, is something wrong?’

‘No o, nothing is wrong. Just that Boniface was at the hospital this morning.’

‘Really?’

‘Hmm. I was equally surprised.’

She said that she had been cleaning my father’s teeth when the nurse on duty informed her that a visitor was waiting in reception. Without checking the clock, she knew that visiting time did not begin until about five hours later. Apart from my siblings and me, any other visitor who ventured near the ward before visiting time received a bark and a bite from the nurses. This time, the nurses did not seem to mind.

‘When I came outside, I saw a group of nurses whispering with excitement.’

They kept quiet when they saw her. The nurse who had come to inform her pointed with a significant smile. Uncle Boniface was standing there in the corridor with five men in dark suits and dark glasses.

‘He apologised for not coming earlier,’ she said and smiled.

So many different things had been taking up his time, but he had determined that he must come today. In fact, he was supposed to travel out of the country this morning, but had postponed his foreign business meeting to visit my father instead.