“In 1982” was unarguably, Pa Alex’s most used byword. Virtually every imputation he gave dated back to 1982. Even when he admonished his kids, he referenced 1982 as well.
My disquisition grew by each allusion. “Why always 1982?”
He would limp to the infirm orange tree in the compound, sit on his fast back rocker and wave stories at whoever cared to listen.
Everyone parodied him with laughter whenever he started off his customary connotation of events which invariably had 1982 in the play. I didn’t. I was just curious. My inquiringness heightened, but I couldn’t congregate the guts to approach him and enquire why 1982 is the most significant year of his life. He had this effortless stern look that luxuriated on his face, I couldn’t piece the veins in my spine together to ask him.
From 1982 to 2010 was 28 years, he was probably in his late 30s or more then, I thought. His wife, Aunty Ogechi, as we all called her, always wore a generous smile, but the altercation she had with the landlord threw my nerves to the dust, I couldn’t approach her either. I reclined to my fate and just pondered how over a thousand incidents could be linked to just one year.
Pa Alex’s obituary was announced on Saturday, good Lord called him home on such day. I felt more terrible. I called Aunty Ogechi to extend my condolences, but didn’t hesitate to ask her why 1982 was so important to Pa Alex, she too had no idea. Now, I feel even worse. He took the chapters and verses of 1982 to grave. Never felt this unfulfilled in my life.