Where the Children Take Us

How One Family Achieved the Unimaginable

Zain E. Asher, Zain Asher

• Publisher: Amistad
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9780063048843
• eBook ISBN: 9780063048850
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: History

In this spellbinding memoir, popular CNN anchor Zain E. Asher pays tribute to her mother’s strength and determination to raise four successful children in the shadow of tragedy. 

Awaiting the return of her husband and young son from a road trip, Obiajulu Ejiofor receives shattering news. There’s been a fatal car crash, and one of them is dead.

 In Where the Children Take Us, Obiajulu’s daughter, Zain E. Asher, tells the story of her mother’s harrowing fight to raise four children as a widowed immigrant in South London. There is tragedy in this tale, but it is not a tragedy. Drawing on tough-love parenting strategies, Obiajulu teaches her sons and daughters to overcome the daily pressures of poverty, crime and prejudice—and much more. With her relentless support, the children exceed all expectations—becoming a CNN anchor, an Oscar-nominated actor—Asher’s older brother Chiwetel Ejiofor (12 Years a Slave)—a medical doctor, and a thriving entrepreneur. 

The generations-old Nigerian parenting techniques that lead to the family's salvation were born in the village where young Obiajulu and Arinze meet with their country on the brink of war. Together, they emigrate to London in the 1970s to escape the violence, but soon confront a different set of challenges in the West. 

When grief threatens to engulf her fractured family after the accident, Obiajulu, suddenly a single mother in a foreign land, refuses to accept defeat. As her children veer down the wrong path, she instills a family book club with Western literary classics, testing their resolve and challenging their deeper understanding. Desperate for inspiration, she plasters newspaper clippings of Black success stories on the walls and hunts for overachieving neighbors to serve as role models, all while running Shakespeare theatre lines with her son and finishing homework into the early morning with Zain. When distractions persist, she literally cuts the TV cord and installs a residential pay phone.

The story of a woman who survived genocide, famine, poverty, and crushing grief to rise from war torn Africa to the streets of South London and eventually the drawing rooms of Buckingham Palace, Where the Children Take Us is an unforgettable portrait of strength, tenacity, love, and perseverance embodied in one towering woman.

Chapter 1

I can’t remember most of what happened that Sunday in September.

I couldn’t tell you what the Gospel reading was at Mass that morning or whether Aunty Fatou came over to braid my hair in cornrows, or which Culture Club song was playing on the beat-up radio in my bedroom.

None of that really matters anyway. Everything about that Sunday was so routine, so plain, so unremarkable. Until the phone rang.

My mother had been waiting for that sound since morning, never straying too far from the living room just in case she missed it. Everything she’d done that day—frying plantains, leafing through the Argos catalogue, ironing my brothers’ school shirts—was all a plot to fill time.

She kept telling us to turn down the television so nothing would drown out the sound. She was anxious, fidgety; we all were.

When the phone rang at 6:30 p.m., she finally gave herself permission to exhale.

“Arinze?”

It was supposed to be my dad. He was supposed to explain why he still wasn’t home; to apologize for the eight hours of worry he’d put her through.

But the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t his.

This voice was nervous; it hesitated and stuttered. It took a deep breath and mumbled two sentences that brought one chapter of our lives to a swift and sudden end and started an entirely new book.

“Your husband and your son have been involved in a car crash. One of them is dead and we don’t know which one.”

It’s human nature to fear the worst when we don’t hear from a loved one for several hours, but usually, the worst doesn’t happen. Usually, everyone ends up all right.

This was not one of those times.

My father and eleven-year-old brother were four thousand miles away on a father-son road trip; long-awaited quality time together after a busy summer. My brother gazing out the car window, wide-eyed and inquisitive. My father pointing and explaining: the sprawling textile markets, the street hawkers selling okpa, the overcrowded yellow buses with conductors riding on the outside. All distant flashes of rich culture, a universe away from the corner shops, brewpubs, and lollipop men that littered our neighborhood in South London.

Somewhere along that six-hour stretch of bumpy highway between my father’s home state of Enugu and the buzzing West African metropolis of Lagos, the man driving my father and brother swerved into the opposite lane to cut traffic. As their car veered around a bend, it was crushed by a speeding tractor trailer. Everyone in the car was killed instantly, apart from one person in the back seat, where my father and brother were sitting.

Our relatives in Nigeria were initially told both of them had died. Then, hours later, that one had survived. Then again, that both were killed. They were still in the middle of arguing, trying to work out the facts, when someone made that dreaded call to my mother.

I was five, my eldest brother was fourteen, and my mother was four months pregnant at the time.

She hung up the phone in stunned silence. Every expression shrouded in disbelief, every movement weighed down by numbness. She prayed there’d been a mistake; prayed that perhaps in the whirlwind of sirens and stretchers that names and identities were mixed up; that somehow her husband and son had been spared. She thought maybe if she fell asleep, she’d wake up to the sound of my brother playing “Au Clair de la Lune” on his recorder or my dad tapping his feet to atilogwu music in the living room.

She glanced over at me, her little girl, playing happily with a few figurines on the living room floor. Her son Obinze was watching TV. She closed her eyes.

God, if you grant me just one miracle for the rest of my life, let it please come tonight.

My parents owned a small pharmacy in a residential part of Brixton, South London, opposite a community of housing projects. After Obinze and I were asleep, my mother drove there in the middle of the night, oscillating between bracing for the worst and hoping for the best. She unlocked the rolling metal shutters and raided the shelves, throwing dozens of items into a tote bag—bandages, gauze, antiseptics, cold compresses. Her job now was to help whoever had survived.

She returned home and took her passport out of the brown envelope in her bottom dresser drawer. She tucked it into her purse, threw some clothes into a tattered suitcase, arranged for our uncle Leo to care for us, and called a taxi. By dawn she was on a six-hour flight to Nigeria. Six lonely hours with nothing to focus on besides the pain that awaited. She stared out the window at the blanket of white clouds, drawing no comfort from the heavenly fluff. As the tears fell, she understood that far below those clouds lay an impossible reality.

Lost in her trance, she barely noticed when the plane landed with a thud on the runway. As the other passengers slowly gathered their belongings, she elbowed, squeezed, and pushed her way to the front of the plane. She normally would have apologized, at least said excuse me, but she kept her head forward. One of her boys needed her help. Their very survival might depend upon her. This was no time to be polite. She eventually untangled herself from the airplane’s clutches and scrambled to make her connecting flight.

She arrived at her final stop in Enugu three hours later. The looming moment of truth made it hard to breathe as she navigated the rush of activity in the arrivals hall: throngs of people hanging around the baggage claim, embracing families and barking taxi drivers. Barefoot children sold groundnuts, and area boys offered to carry her bags.

She clutched her overstuffed tote and focused on her feet—small steps forward—to keep from collapsing when a young driver approached.

“Where you going? By yourself? You have more bags?”

She mumbled something about a hospital near the main market. They drove there in silence.

After the car accident, the passengers were all assumed dead. Their bodies were flung one by one into the back of a truck and driven to a local morgue. It was only when the driver arrived at the morgue, opened the back of the truck, and began unloading the bodies, that he noticed one of them was still breathing.

My mother didn’t know any of that as the car pulled up to the hospital’s main entrance. The concrete bungalow was swarming with people, as most good hospitals in Nigeria usually are. She pushed her way through the crowd outside and into the waiting area, her gut heavy with dread. She scanned the lobby: pregnant women fanning themselves in the brutal heat, patients and clerks arguing over hospital bills, the sick and wounded groaning from wooden benches while others slept on the floor.

She raced over to an unruly line at the front desk, unable to bear not knowing her fate for a second longer. After only a few moments, she flagged down a passing nurse.

She gave the nurse her name and was told to wait. After twelve hours of traveling across two continents, twelve hours caught in a whirlpool of fear, she now had to sit and wait. The next few minutes felt like decades. She sank into a chair, caressed her pregnant belly, pulled a rosary from her purse, and squeezed the beads. Then an attendant appeared and asked her to follow.

The hospital was laid out in a series of bungalows connected through a maze of outdoor walkways. My mother looked down as she walked over the chipped, concrete floors. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and buzzed, and the hum of a power generator was the only background music.

They continued until they reached a closed door that led to Ward 7. She followed the attendant into an open room lined with more than a dozen hospital beds, all of them occupied.

She paused on the threshold to take in the scene: monitors beeping, nurses scurrying, patients shouting for attention. Relatives were sleeping on the concrete floors next to their loved ones’ bedsides. She scanned the room twice, her heart pounding in her throat, as she searched for a face she knew. And then she saw him. A small boy, her small boy, lay helpless on a bed against the wall. She recognized his brown eyes peeking through the bloody bandages that cocooned his face. For the first time, it was real. Her husband was dead; her son was alive, but barely.

Delirious with anguish, she took one step toward her son and fainted.

She awoke sitting in a chair next to the bed. As her vision began to fill in, it took all her strength not to scream.

As the doctor explained her son’s many injuries, her mind drifted toward the husband she’d never see again. Arinze Sylvester Ejiofor was her everything, her partner since the age of fourteen, the only boy she’d ever kissed, and the unstoppable force that held her family together. He was a larger-than-life character everywhere he went: an accomplished singer in Nigeria, a trainee doctor in Mexico, an aspiring entrepreneur in England. His energetic charm and wit generated a contrail of love and support that was almost visible behind him.

My mother tried to remember the last thing they said to each other. Something about needing more toothpaste or diapers for the pharmacy. They were always running low on diapers.

When the beeping machines finally broke her trance, the doctor still hadn’t stopped talking. She had to concentrate hard to unpeel the string of technical terms he used to describe her son’s condition: badly broken bones in his right arm and a serious head injury. From what the doctor was saying, it was clear her son had only just managed to survive. She leaned over her eleven-year-old boy and gently caressed his hand.

“It really hurts,” my brother said, trying unsuccessfully to move his arm on his own.

She scrambled for the tote bag and began laying out Band-Aids and gauze on the bedside table, but nothing she’d brought could ease his pain, or hers.

The hospital was one of the most sophisticated in eastern Nigeria, but that gave my mother little comfort. The machines were old, the buildings poorly maintained, and there were serious concerns about hygiene and infection. Mosquitoes had free rein. The bathrooms rarely had running water. She let out a desperate sigh and reached for the bottle of water sitting on the floor.

“Drink this,” she told her son. “You have to keep hydrated.”

A nurse walking by asked her to keep her voice down so she wouldn’t wake the other patients. Fighting back tears, she asked my brother how on earth this could have happened. It took him a few moments to respond. He was clearly still in pain. He spoke slowly, in a low voice, without any expression.

They were on the road to Lagos, had barely left Enugu, in fact, when my father pulled out a wooden comb from his back pocket to style his hair. It was the same comb he always used. After working on his short afro for a few seconds, he smiled at my brother. “Just making sure I look my best when I see your mom.”

Seconds later, everything went dark.

* * *

The car didn’t have any working seat belts, and even if it had, it likely wouldn’t have mattered in a head-on collision with a tractor trailer. In the 1980s, Nigerian roads were mostly single-lane highways, poorly maintained and riddled with potholes. Few drivers paid attention to traffic rules. Death from road accidents was so common that some people banned family members from driving after sundown.

My brother Chiwetel lay in that hospital bed for over a week without knowing his father was gone. He noted it was strange that everyone had visited him apart from his dad, but family, friends, and medical staff were too afraid to break the news.

“He’s recovering just like you. He’ll stop by as soon as he’s better,” my mother said through her tears.

“Why can’t I go and visit him?”

“The doctor says you’re not well enough to leave your bed yet. You’ll see your daddy when you’re strong again,” another uncle explained.

Each of his visitors conferred with the next about what they were telling my brother, so their stories matched.

Obinze and I arrived in Enugu later that week with no idea how bad it was. We knew there’d been a car accident, a serious one, but no one told us what had happened to Dad. We arrived at our grandmother’s house believing he was going to pull through, that he’d end up all right.

When we were finally reunited with our mother, the expression on her face told us otherwise. She motioned for us to sit next to her on the faded brown couch in the living room. We could hear by her voice she’d been crying. Obinze’s eyes went wide with fear.

“It’s worse than we thought. The doctors tried.” She paused for a few moments. “Dad didn’t make it.”

Obinze began to howl. I cried tears of fear and confusion. At such a young age, I didn’t realize that didn’t make it meant I’d never see my father again. I knew something bad had happened to him, something bad enough to make my mother and brother cry, but no one explained exactly what. She wrapped Obinze into her chest and squeezed my hand hard as we all wept together. The more they cried, the more I cried.

The next day my mother returned to the hospital and told her youngest son the truth. All week he’d been talking about his dad as though he were still alive.

“Can you ask Dad if he still has my comic books in his bag? Can you ask him if we’re still going to Alton Towers next weekend?”

All week everyone around him pretended, too. “Yes, ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher