The Place Beyond Her Dreams by Oby Aligwekwe (100 best novels of all time .txt) 📕

“Hmm, I see that now. But this one is too much. What will happen to Ifedi now? Chai.”

“I’ll have to turn her over to the authorities.”

“I can’t believe everything you’ve gone through. To think I was envious of you this whole time, wanting to be in your shoes.”

“My dear, we must all follow our own path. I still am so grateful for where I am today. Count your blessings, and let me count mine.”

* * *

My grandmother had wanted to immediately hand Ifedi over to the authorities and let them deal with her, but I convinced her otherwise. After careful thought, I figured it would do no good as Ifedi could deny every bit of the accusation and go scot-free. I thought of a plan to force a confession out of her. If it worked, then I would have absolute proof of her involvement in my grandfather’s demise, and if it didn’t, then I would be faced with a dilemma. Although I had no doubt my grandfather’s revelation was factual, I still battled with what I thought I knew about my impeccable nanny, turned companion.

I waited for everybody to go to sleep. At close to midnight when the only illumination from outside were the street lamps from the homes in the valley, I snuck into my grandfather’s bedroom to search for the gourd used to serve his nightly palm wine. I recalled exactly where my grandmother placed it. Many a night, I had helped my grandmother retrieve it from the shelf on the small storage adjoining his bedroom. I prayed Ifedi hadn’t discarded it to obliterate evidence of the crime. But so many years had passed. Even if it was still available, any traces of poison may now be undetectable, I thought.

I was elated when I entered the storage room and found the gourd and the drinking bowl my grandfather enjoyed his nightly palm wine with, sitting in its familiar position. I gasped almost too loudly and had to place my hand over my mouth to keep any more sounds from coming out of it. My eyes watered as I stood there for a second staring at the gourd and wondering if I had the strength to reach for it. I finally grabbed it and experienced shockwaves running through my spine. Holding both the gourd and the cup to my chest, I walked into the bedroom and sat on my grandfather’s bed for a few minutes, and allowed the tears in my eyes to flow freely down my cheeks as I pondered if my plan would work. Something in my head—my instinct, I believe—told me to go ahead.

I went back to my room and waited until the first morning light. Thinking about everything and what the future might hold for all of us and mostly if the mission I was about to embark on would be successful, robbed me of sleep that night. I needed to be alert, so I could act before Ifedi, who was usually out and about by six got up to start her morning chores. By force of habit, every morning, right before she prepared breakfast for the family, she took a moment and had some bread and tea, all the while whistling the same tune I’d become accustomed to for years.

At five, I snuck into the kitchen and placed the gourd and cup on the small table where she usually ate her bread and tea. I even poured in a little palm wine I found in the fridge before heading to my room and waiting till the clock struck six. Just as I’d expected, I heard Ifedi whistling in the hallway. I counted to thirty before I crept downstairs and proceeded to watch her through the gap in the kitchen door. She opened the fridge and brought out a loaf of bread. With her cup of tea in her hand, she headed to the chair and table in the corner, but she didn’t make it halfway through. The teacup dropped on the floor, making a loud crashing sound right before Ifedi fell on her knees with a thud.

“Ifedi!” I screamed, running towards her.

She turned around to look at me. For a moment, terror was written all over her face, and then it was gone, like the sun disappearing into the sea at dusk.

I heard my grandmother scampering down the stairs, and in a flash, she arrived in the kitchen.

“Ogini? What is it?” she yelled, panting heavily when she saw Ifedi on her knees and the teacup scattered all over the floor.

Ifedi attempted to rise, but lost her balance and tried again. I stretched out my arm to help her, but she swatted it as though I was a fly and jumped on her feet. Now, her lips were pursed, and her brown eyes stared into the distance. Sweat was running down her forehead.

“It’s Ifedi,” I said in a triumphant tone as my grandmother continued to stare.

Ifedi glared at me as she adjusted her wrapper, which by now had loosened to expose a fair amount of her heaving breasts. My grandmother looked on in awe and shook her head before turning on her heels. That was when she sighted the gourd.

“What on earth is this doing here?” she said, to no one in particular.

“I...I...don’t know,” Ifedi muttered.

“Ona,” my grandmother called.

“Grandma.”

“Who put this here?”

I chuckled, sans humor but refused to answer. My plan had worked more than I could ever have anticipated. I didn’t know what was going through Ifedi’s head, but I knew what was needed next.

* * *

I, my grandmother, and two older members of our family confronted Ifedi in the dining room at my grandmother’s house. One look at her told me she was as guilty as sin.

“Ifedi,” I said, facing her squarely. “So, you only came here to destroy this home?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, shifting her gaze from place to place, feigning ignorance.

“Ona, let me handle this,” my grandmother demanded. “I need to cut to the