Simple Things DNA Testing Can Solve by …Hannu Afere

Simple Things DNA Testing Can Solve by …Hannu Afere

So a boy in a bath tub with his mum asks: “What’s that hairy thing?

The Mum says: “That’s my sponge.

The boy says: “Oh yeah, our housegirl’s got one too. I have seen her washing Dad’s face with it.”

The next week there is a hashtag trending on Facebook “All Men Are Scum” “Community Penises” or somesuch nonsense.

I laugh.

Today it is DNA testing that is trending and women are on the receiving end.

I wanted to talk about it, but I got distracted.

If anyone puts up a hashtag saying “Women Are XYZ” now, they will tear down his wall.

To be honest, I think that Women are not Devils, not Angels. Just people. And so are men too. People.

We have strengths, we have weaknesses, but we should also have sense. Sometimes, I think our evolution is really lacking in that area.

But like I said, I am distracted.

I am thinking about this one story my friend who worked as a gynecologist in a high end Private hospital in Jos told me.

He said a man named Emeka came into a colleague’s office one day, with his wife.

The couple appeared to be rich and comfortable but Emeka was adopted. He knew nothing about his family history, and when they had trouble conceiving, they decided to commission some genetic tests

The results came and the doctor showed it to them

The man was paralyzed. The woman was surprised.

“This can be right,” Emeka declared, forcing a smile through gritted teeth.

The genealogist colleague shrugged and intertwined his fingers on the desk, not daring to meet Emeka’s gaze. “The DNA test is reliable,” he said “99.9 percent.”

“Look, I. Am. Not…” Emeka began, stepping menacingly towards the good doctor. His index finger was pointed like the barrel of a gun, “I Am Not…the spawn of Ewu Hausa and Fulani Bororo! Run the test again!”

You see, Emeka was a tribalist. Generally, he wasn’t so “in your face” about it– but whenever he’d see a light skinned Igbo woman holding hands with a Hausa man, he’d whisper about terrorist children and Boko Haram – and if you didn’t laugh, he would excuse it as a bad joke, but the wife knew it was something deeper.

Stupidly [Or cupidly], she’d believed her love could change him.

“Run the test again,” the man growled. His wife tried to calm him down.

The doctor became a little bit bolder, and with a quivering voice he retorted, “The results indicate that you are three-eighths Hausa- I am sorry if that sounds scandalous to you, but it is the truth, and it can not be altered.”

Emeka had always been a bit dark skinned – the wife thought it was because of the time he spent in the sun, working long hours in the garden out in the backyard. He loved that garden – tended to it like a child – planted ugu and bitterleaf and tangerines – always ensuring they had enough water, always ensuring that the soil was healthily brown. Emeka was a wild, rough man, but that garden made him seem human.

Now he was yelling.

“Are You saying that my wife could have a black baby?” he shouted.

“But aren’t there black Igbo folks? Is it so awful?” the wife asked, tearing up.

Emeka turned his amadioha gaze on her, hissed, “Bia, shatap ya mouth dia…” then he swallowed and stormed out of the office.

My friend said that he left in a squeal of burnt rubber that day, drove off like a maniac from Fate Of The Furious and the poor woman had to call a friend to come take her home.

She said that when she got to their house, she found Emeka in the backyard garden, angrily tearing plants out of the earth and casting them aside. He was so furious, it was heartbreaking.

She had to stop him.

“Emeka! What is wrong with you?” she sobbed, grabbing his arm. “Why are you so filled with hate?”

Emeka too was crying now.

“I never used to be like this,” he said. “I never used to hate anyone.”

“What changed?” she demanded.

He drew in a deep breath before answering. “My wife – my first wife – she cheated on me with a malam.”

This was the first time he had ever mentioned another wife. But if that one cheated, it made sense for him to uproot her from the personal history he shared with this one.

But then Emeka continued.

“Actually… She didn’t cheat. I thought she did. She didn’t. She insisted she hadn’t, but I couldn’t believe her.”

“Why not?”

“Curly hair, Long nose, extremely black skin. She had an aboki baby,” Emeka answered.

“But an aboki baby is still a baby!” The wife exclaimed. She couldn’t believe he would keep that kind of thing from her. “When was this? Where is the baby now?”

Emeka couldn’t answer. He just stared, downtrodden, at the garden.

Beside him was a small wooden box unearthed.

He was father to a bony hand, father to a bony leg, father to a decoposing baby skull.