Where There’s a Will…

When you’re cooped up at home for several days because of a strike, what better way to occupy yourself than to go digging into your past.

There’s this huge bag at home that’s filled with books and magazines and journals and all sorts of scribblings from the years when I was young and foolish. For over a year I’ve been meaning to sort out the stuff in it but haven’t had the time or the inclination to.

Yesterday I finally opened the bag and in its dusty depths I found a notebook dated July 1997, a decade ago when I was stuck in my Grandma’s house and hating it.
The book served as my diary at the time and there’s all sorts of interesting stuff in it. However what stood out for me and really made me laugh is the Will I wrote one night when I thought I was going to die.
It was about 9pm and I was lying on the couch in my Grandma’s living room. I was always lying on the couch in my Grandma’s living room simply because there wasn’t much else to do around there, ‘there’ being my Grandma’s village in the heart of Ibo land. (We’ll get to my complicated family tree one day)

I didn’t speak the language so I had no friends. I was the snooty older one who lay on the couch all day, reading, while my younger brother and sister made friends with the ‘natives’ and spent their days swimming in streams, climbing trees, cooking bush meat over open fires on the farms and generally being real.

I can’t remember where everyone else was at 9pm that night of Thursday 10th July 1997; it wasn’t that late so they must’ve been around somewhere. I wrote the Will because I was going to the British Council office in Enugu the following day and all my mother’s warnings about the treacherous roads and high incidence of car accidents had made me paranoid. (Present day thought: ten years later the roads are still death traps…)

Anyways here’s an edited version of what I wrote in my diary:

“Called the Port Harcourt branch of the British Council to find out if the ’97 edition of the Writers & Artists Yearbook is in the library. The lady who answered the phone said they only had the ’96 edition. Fat lot of use that is to me; I need info on competition deadlines…..I tried the Enugu office but the phone rang and rang so I’ll go there tomorrow. Mum is reluctant to let me go to Enugu alone; I’m 22 for God’s sake! (more or less) The most that can happen is that I’ll die in an accident and I’m not as afraid of dying as I used to be. But I’d better write out my Will just in case…

MY LAST WILL & TESTAMENT (Haven’t had much experience in this but this will just have to do)

I, (my name; on this blog I’m simply zaza) aged 22 (more or less) and being of sound mind do hereby declare that in the event of my death, my paltry possessions should be disposed of and distributed as stated below: (pause while I think hard about what constitutes my estate)

CLOTHING (aka Very Limited Wardrobe)
1) Since I am the shortest of us three, none of my jeans do I bequeath to my siblings (present day thought: I really liked big words when I was younger)
Instead, my jeans should be shared amongst the children in Grandma’s compound. (Pause while I mentally cross out those who do not deserve my old denims)

2) My shirts I dispose of as follows:
Black & white striped shirt – reverts to its original owner, (my brother.) So also my blue long sleeved shirt and gray short sleeved shirt.
Pink sleeveless top – reverts to original owner, my mother.
My turquoise T-shirt I bequeath to my brother, who’s been hounding me for it.
The rest of my shirts and cream skirt I bequeath to my sister.
My favourite black trousers and green silk shirt should be buried with me, thank you very much.

JEWELLERY: none in existence. I am even currently sans earrings.

SHOES: my black slip-ons and silver mules I bequeath to my mother. Since my beige mules are the only things my sister can squeeze her large feet into, they go to her. My clumpy platforms go to whoever’s keen on retro.
My black loafers, my faithful beloved loafers go the way of the black trousers and silk shirt.

OTHERS AKA MISCELLANEOUS:
My bag goes to my sister, and the contents as follows:
Lipbalm: my sis
Nail polish, various shades: my mother and sister
Superglue – goes to my brother
My ‘Z’ pendant either goes to ‘Zulu or to my brother, in case he falls in love with a girl whose name starts with ‘Z’. This is at my mum’s discretion.
Perfume – my mum
Letters, address books and other papers as directed under DOCUMENTS
Green wide-toothed comb, perfect for those knots and tangles – my mum and sister
Tube of Bonjela – to be disposed of at my mum’s discretion
Tweezers – my mum
2 tablets of Valium – my mum
1 lozenge – Aunty Ada (who told me the other day when I visited her that she has a cold coming on)
My mix tape – between my sis & brother, whoever likes Seal, Anita Baker and Mariah Carey the most.
1 diskette containing coursework from my 6 week computer class – goes to whoever wants it
Video club card – my brother & sister (valid until Nov ’97)

*I interrupt this Will to announce that the power just came back on and now I’m listening to jazz on Minaj Radio. The presenter should please shut up and let me listen to the music.*

DOCUMENTS
Comprising address books, journals, notes and letters, including F’s steamy love letters: I’m torn between having them all burnt and having them published as a book. I bequeath them all to my mum. Mum I swear my letters to F were decent, nothing as graphic as his.

The beneficiaries of this Will are mainly members of my immediate family because I have nothing to give my friends, except:

To A and N: copies of the photos we took together in ’94.
To T: the portrait of you that I commissioned as your 21st birthday present, even though you’re now 22. (more or less)

This I declare to be my last Will and Testament, written Thursday 10th July, at about 9pm,
Signed by: Me. Witnessed by: Me. ”

Present day thought: I’ve always wanted to be a writer and even ten years ago I was willing to make the ‘dangerous journey’, risking life and short limbs on treacherous roads to get to a copy of the Writers & Artists Yearbook…

Finding this old diary really made my day and you could say finding it made the strike worthwhile for me in a very personal way.