Literature Assignment
Empathic Response Sarah
Question: You are Kambili just after Papa Nnukwu's death. Write your thoughts.
The silence in the room felt heavy and tense as I glanced around at the grim faces of my aunt, cousins
and brother. I want to cry, I want to scream and sing funeral songs like Aunty Ifeoma, but I can’t. I have
no right to since I had willingly created a distance between us. Bitter tears well up in my eyes in spite of
myself because although he was my beloved grandfather, Papa Nnukwu was a heathen.
Now he is dead.
The words sound foreign, like they belong to someone else, some other family, not ours. I can still see
him in my mind, seated on the low stool in his room, humming softly, the rhythm of his voice matching
the gentle sway of his body. There was something sacred about his presence, something that drew you
in and wrapped you in warmth. I remember how he smiled at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners, as
though he knew secrets the rest of us could only dream of.
And now he is gone.
Papa would not let us spend much time with him. I think of the times Jaja and I had to stay only briefly
when we visited. I would watch him from the corner of my eye, wishing I could stay longer, wishing I
could listen to his stories, stories that felt like they carried the essence of the earth and the sky. But Papa
believed he was a heathen. He said it so often that the word itself began to feel like a tangible thing,
sharp and hard, something that divided us. Yet I never felt that sharpness with Papa Nnukwu. Instead,
there was only softness, a kind of love that did not need to be loud or proclaimed, only given.
I wonder now if I was wrong to let Papa’s beliefs shape the way I saw Papa Nnukwu. Was I complicit in
keeping my distance, in not defending him more fiercely? My heart aches when I think of how little time
we had, how little I knew of him. There is a heaviness in knowing that I can never go back, that I cannot
ask him to tell me one more story, cannot sit beside him and soak in his quiet wisdom.
When we returned from Nsukka and Mama told us of his death, something broke inside me. It was not
the kind of breaking that comes with a loud sound or a violent crash. It was quiet, like a porcelain cup
slipping from your hand, the crack almost too soft to hear. I wanted to cry, to scream, to say something,
but the words got caught in my throat. Papa was there, standing so still, his face unreadable, but I
knew—oh, I knew—that he did not feel the loss the way I did. To him, it was just another heathen gone,
a soul that could not be saved. How could he not see what I saw? How could he not mourn the man who
had given him life?
I think of Aunty Ifeoma and Amaka, of how freely they spoke of Papa Nnukwu, how much they loved
him. They did not care about the labels Papa placed on him. They saw him for who he was, not what he
believed. I envied them then, and I envy them even more now. They have memories of him, memories
untainted by guilt or distance. What do I have? A handful of stolen moments and a heart full of regret.
I remember the painting Amaka made of him, the one she refused to hide when Papa came to Nsukka. It
captured him so perfectly—his posture, his expression, the quiet dignity he carried. Amaka had
understood him in a way I never could, and now it feels too late to try.
And yet, even in my sorrow, there is a flicker of something else—hope, perhaps, or clarity. I see now
what I could not before: that love is not about conformity, not about forcing others into the narrow
spaces we think are right. Love is wide and forgiving, like the sky that stretches over us all, regardless of
who we are or what we believe. Papa Nnukwu lived his life with that kind of love, and maybe that is
what I should carry forward, what I should remember.
The silence in the house feels oppressive now, and I rise from my seat, walking to the window. Outside,
the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. It is the kind of beauty that
makes you pause, that reminds you of the vastness of the world and the smallness of your place in it.
Papa Nnukwu loved the earth, the trees, the birds that sang at dawn. He saw God in the world around
him, not just in the pages of a book or the echo of a sermon. I think that is what I will hold on to, what I
will take with me as I move forward.
Papa Nnukwu is gone, but his love remains, quiet and steady, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. I will not
forget.
Mark band 3 19/25
You have demonstrated knowledge by supporting with some careful and relevant
reference to the text and has also shown clear understanding of the text and some of its
deeper implications. You need to make a well developed response to the way the writer
achieves her/his effect and make a well-developed, detailed and relevant personal
response.