At Home with Bukky

Olubukonla’s mother once asked if my name was ChukwuUwem, convinced that “Chukwu” prefixed every name from the Igbo-speaking regions. Many Yorubas, like her, often generalize everyone from the South East and South South as Igbo. That was the cultural lens through which I entered their home—a warm, welcoming environment where I had come to help my friend Bukky with her Mathematics.

Though my lessons with Bukky were pro bono, her father made an amusing promise: he would buy a chicken if she achieved a certain grade. So, Bukky, did your dad keep his word? Did you enjoy the chicken all by yourself?

Her family embraced me without reservation. Unlike my own mother—who might have frowned upon visits from the opposite sex, perhaps thinking I was too “valuable” to be exposed to potential heartbreak—Bukky’s parents never subjected me to awkward or invasive questions like, “What exactly is your relationship with our daughter?”

During my visits, I became familiar with the Okuseinde family: Sade, the sibling who taught at OSU, another who graduated from Ife with a degree in European Languages, and Bukky’s older sister. Did I leave anyone out?

Even after we completed our WASC examinations, I continued visiting their home. Through all the years I’ve known Bukky, I can’t recall her ever getting angry—perhaps I just wasn’t close enough to witness that side of her.

Happy birthday, dear Bukky. Whatever it takes, strive to make heaven—perhaps my mansion will be near yours. And if I ever come calling, will there be fufu and afang soup waiting for me?

Uwem Sampson