The letter a. It seemed so simple. A circle with a stick. Nwoye traced it in the ground. It had been three days since he had last seen his father. Since he had last seen his brothers, sisters and mothers. He missed all of them. Except for his father. He did not miss his father.

Nwoye sighed. Life among the missionaries was different than what he imagined. It was more formal. He didn't feel like he belonged. They treated him differently because of his father. He is not my father! Nwoye wanted to cry out. But he could not say that. Okonkwo was his father, whether Nwoye wanted it or not.

Mr. Kiaga came to Nwoye. "I sense you are troubled." He told Nwoye in Igbo.

"My father's reputation precedes him." Nwoye said, packing as much meaning as he could into the few words.

Mr. Kiaga nodded. "I think it best if you leave for Umofia." Nwoye blinked in surprise. "You are one of us now." Mr. Kiaga explained. "The rule of banishment no longer applies to you. You will be safe from your father there."

Nwoye thought for a moment. "What of my family? They will be unable to see me."

"I will look over them and you shall pray for them." Mr. Kiaga decided. "With God's grace, they will be happy."

"How do you know?"

"He works in mysterious ways." Mr. Kiaga intoned. He smiled at the boy. "Do not worry, Nwoye. Your family will be safe."

Ezinma reached the river. She deftly scooped up the water into her pot before balancing it on her head in one fluid motion. She turned to around to walk back and found Nwoye instead.

"Nwoye!" She cried, dropping her pot and flinging her arms around him.

"I missed you." He murmured into her shoulder.

"I missed you too." Ezinma stepped back and took a good look at him. "I have not seen you this happy since Ikemefuna-"She broke off. She didn't want to reopen her brother's wound.

"It is alright." He reassured her. "How is Mother?"

"Mother is fine." She was referring to Nwoye's mother. All the children called her that. She was, in a way, a mother to all of them. "She hopes you will be fine."

"Is Father still mad at me?"

"Yes. He is very upset. I have not seen him like this since Ikemefuna died."

"Has he cursed my name?"

"He calls you a woman. He wonders how he has begotten such a son."

"But you do not think that."

"No. In your own way, you are brave."

"Why are you here?" Nwoye asked, changing the subject. When Ezinma said something, she meant it, and Nwoye did not want to dwell on the meaning of her words. "I thought you did not like water."

"I do not. I thought it is time to face my fear. Ekwefi is sick."

"I hope she will live."

"She shall."

Nwoye was unable to hold back. "Come with me."

Ezinma looked at him. "Where?"

"To the Christians."

Ezinma pursed her lips. "Father will be angry."

"I don't care!" Nwoye said. "He cannot dictate our lives forever!"

"It's not that." Ezinma replied.

Shock and anger passed over Nwoye's face as he realized what Ezinma was trying to say. "It's always about him, isn't it."

"Nwoye." Ezinma whispered.

"It's alright. I am going to Umofia. One day, when you realize that I am right, come to the Christians. They will bring you to me." Nwoye turned and left.

Ezinma picked up the shattered remains of her pot. She would be chastised for breaking it, but she did not care. It was worth it to see Nwoye.

Umofia was different. The Christians were more prominent here than in Mbanta. This was probably because they had built a trading store. He could hear the whispers that followed his arrival. The whispers were always followed by one word, a name actually.

Okonkwo. Nwoye ground his teeth. No matter how hard he sought to get rid of the stigma that bound him to his father, it would not leave. Obierika, a friend of his father and a village elder, enlarged it when he asked where his father was.

He was no longer his father. Nwoye was happy with the Christians. Even though he was sometimes had to bear the scrutiny of his fellow people, he was accepted for who he was, not who they thought he should be.

Nwoye's baptism was an important time for him. It represented the fact that he was finally accepted by the Christians. Mr. Brown poured the water over Nwoye and called him Isaac. Nwoye liked his new name. Isaac sounded nicer than Nwoye.

Issac looked at everyone. He couldn't believe he was leaving. Three months here and he was going to go to Umuru to become a teacher. The church had become the home he had never had. Now he was leaving it behind.

Mr. Brown embraced him. "Goodbye, my son."

Issac nodded, choked in tears. "Goodbye. I will miss you."

"And you."

Umuru was bigger than Umofia had ever been; Umofia was one of the biggest villages of the Igbo. Umuru was big and bustling. African women carried baskets on their heads, swaying to an invisible rhythm. White men and women walked around, talking casually, laughing and ignoring everyone else.

Isaac stood, drinking it all in. This was where he belonged. Not in Umofia, the supposed "warrior village". The college had a hostel where the people who attended it could stay. Isaac went into his room to find 5 other black men there.

They all turned and looked at him. "You must be the new one." An older one said in a deep voice.

Isaac nodded. "I'm Isaac."

"I am Michael." The man said.

"Andrew." This time, the man who answered had glasses on.

"Lucas." Another man said.

"James."

"Jacob." All the five men had introduced themselves. "It's fun here." Jacob continued.

"We are treated better than what heathens are treated like." Andrew elaborated. "We are the future of the Africa."

"Africa?" Isaac asked.

"It is what the white man calls our home." James said. "He says he comes from Europe, to the north."

"The world is bigger than I imagined it to be." Isaac replied carefully.

Lucas's face split into a grin. "You are Igbo, are you not? My father was one. He joined the Christians by the time I was born. What is it like there?" His face yearned with all of the things he could not have.

"It is not fun. My father opposed the Christians. He would beat us all daily. I tried to get my family away from him, but they all refused. They are scared of him." Isaac said.

"They will be accepted here. We are all accepted here." Michael cut in.

The teacher's school was interesting. The school seemed more interested in how many people they could convert rather than how much they knew.

Isaac shrugged it off. For the first time in his life, he had friends. He was happy. He quickly learned that they had a tradition of going to a backwards bar every Friday. He once asked why they weren't allowed to go into the fancy diner across the street.

All of the men looked at him like he was crazy. "That is not what happens in Umuru. We are not allowed to do the same things as the white man. We are not allowed to walk the sidewalks, only the streets. We are not allowed to purchase first class tickets. Neither are we allowed to sit in the front of a bus. We must sit in the back." Lucas told him.

"But under God, we are all equal." Isaac protested.

"God does not rule here. Only white men." And no more was said.

Three years later, Isaac graduated from his college. He was one of the best students. On the graduation day, a white man came up to him.

"You are Isaac?" He asked.

"Yes." Isaac replied.

"Good. We need to go to some more of the heathen villages to convert people. They are in the heart of Africa." What the man was implying wasn't a request.

"I'll go." Isaac immediately said.

"Excellent." The man smiled.

Isaac breathed in the air. It smelled nothing like Umofia, but it did remind of his home in a way. The children ran up to him. They looked at him. He bent down and started talking to them in their native language.

Inwardly, he wonders what they're thinking of. The probably think that he is funny. He grins as he remembers the difference between me and my buttocks.

He teaches the little children to read. Then the boy comes in. Isaac recognizes him. After all, he once was him. He comes in, looking troubled, looking to escape the father who hates him. Isaac offers him a home.

The boy looks at him with cautious eyes, and Isaac feels sorry. The boy eventually nods, and Isaac baptizes him, calling him Peter.

"Peter created the foundation for the first church." Isaac tells him. "You will be the foundation of the world." And in that moment, Isaac sees hope.

40 years have passed. Isaac watches the country grow up. He watches as his people are segregated into different populations and given lesser treatment. He remembers when he was first here, and Lucas told him the truth.

He cannot help but feel pain as he realizes that his old ways are gone now. One day, he takes out a shrine and makes an offering to his father. He doesn't tell anyone, and it helps him feel closer to Ikemefuna.

He sees but does not hear. He does not wish to hear. He does not wish to hear the truth, that his home was crushed, that his family is dead.

He does not want to hear the bitter truth that his Lucas and Michael and all his college friends were killed in a riot.

He wants to pretend that he does not live in a township, that he is a second-grade citizen in his own country.

He wants to pretend that Ikemefuna is still alive, that he is still with Okonkwo. But it is not true. It will never be true.

Isaac looks at himself in the mirror. The handsome, dreamy boy is gone. In his place there remains a bitter old man.

He sighs. He remembers the carefree days when he listened to his mother's stories. Those days were gone now. He wishes they were there.

At least I am not my father, he consoles himself.

Isaac stood at the platform. He was an old man now. An old man who had received a letter. An old man who was waiting.

The train pulled in. He saw her as she got down. She was in the middle of the crowd and looked no different than the next person, but she would always be the ogbanje that had plagued Ekwefi. His sister. He hobbled to her and hugged her. "Ezinma." He murmured.

Ezinma pulled back laughing. "They call me Mary now."

Isaac grinned. "They call me Isaac."

Mary nodded. "I have heard."

"Come." Isaac took her hand and led her from the crowd.

"Father died shortly after you left." Mary said. "He killed himself after he killed a messenger." Isaac believed that. His father was always a violent man. "We joined the Christians four years later. Everyone was surprised, but we needed someone to provide for us. They have been good to us. I asked to come and see you, but they said you were in the Congo. They heard that you have come back, though."

"It is good of you to come. Many years have passed since I left our Father."

"And broke my pot." Mary reminded him.

"And broke your pot." Isaac agreed, grinning.