The Apology Tour of Clement Udo

Clement Udo had always been a man of bold words and hasty conclusions. At forty-eight, with a growing paunch and a receding hairline that betrayed his best efforts with black dye, he was finally coming to terms with a simple, cruel truth: he was not very well-liked.

It wasn’t that Clement was wicked. No, far from it. He didn’t steal from widows or cheat at cards. But over the years, his mouth had proven faster than his sense. He had a gift for saying the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time, like a man who consistently trips over the only pebble on a smooth path.

By the time his younger cousin Ada got married last December, Clement’s social reputation in the family had sunk so low that his absence at events was considered a blessing.

But it was the day of his mother’s funeral—when, in a fit of grief and unfiltered honesty, Clement loudly declared at the graveside, “Well, at least now the old woman can stop meddling!”—that the final nail was hammered into the coffin of his public goodwill.

Three days later, his older sister Ronke, a woman built like a doorpost and with a temperament to match, phoned him.

“You need to fix yourself, Clement,” she’d said. “Or die alone with your dyed head and cheap cologne.”

And so, armed with a fresh notepad, a determination he hadn’t felt since his first attempt at driving school, and a crumpled list of names, Clement set out on what he privately dubbed The Apology Tour of Clement Udo.

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Stop 1: Mama Nkechi’s Food Shack

The first name on the list was Mama Nkechi, a plump, loud woman who sold pepper soup and akara by the roadside and whom Clement had once accused—very publicly—of using expired spices.

He arrived mid-morning, armed with a bag of oranges and a bottle of non-alcoholic wine as peace offerings.

“Mama Nkechi,” Clement began, clearing his throat, “I have come to make amends.”

The woman looked up from her steaming pot and squinted at him.

“You? You still dey this town?”

“I have come to say I’m sorry… for the things I said about your… eh… culinary methods. It was wrong. You are, without a doubt, the best cook in this district.”

She watched him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then laughed so hard she had to sit on a nearby stool.

“Clement Udo, your mouth will be the death of you,” she wheezed. “Go and sit down, jare. Eat some pepper soup. Maybe it will cure that foolish tongue.”

Progress.

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Stop 2: The Church Choir

Clement’s history with the church choir was a disaster. Once, while guest-preaching at a midweek service (an appointment no one had offered him but one he’d seized), he’d declared them “a collection of frogs trying to imitate angels.”

Since then, Sister Felicia, the choirmistress, had treated him as one might a persistent rat.

When he arrived at the church hall, choir practice was in full swing. Clement stood awkwardly by the door, cleared his throat, and waited.

Nobody noticed.

He tried again. This time, Sister Felicia turned.

“Oh. See who the cat dragged in.”

“I come in peace,” Clement announced, holding up his palms. “And with apologies.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, old Brother Ifeanyi, who’d lost most of his teeth but none of his mischief, chuckled.

“Maybe you should sing with us today as penance.”

And so Clement, who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, found himself belting out ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’, earning several pained winces and a grudging pat on the back from Sister Felicia at the end.

“You’re still tone-deaf,” she said. “But maybe you’re not entirely hopeless.”

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Stop 3: Mrs. Agatha Eze’s Salon

Years ago, Clement had made a poorly received joke about Mrs. Agatha’s wig resembling a wounded crow. Since then, she’d sworn never to style his hair again—which wasn’t much of a threat considering Clement did his own dyeing at home.

But today, he needed her forgiveness more than her scissors.

He arrived at the salon during the lull after lunch. The salon smelled of hair spray and coconut oil. Mrs. Agatha sat by the counter, scrolling through her phone.

“Good afternoon, Agatha.”

She looked up, her lips tightening. “Hmph.”

“I—I have come to say I was wrong about your wig,” Clement blurted. “It was… bold. A fashion-forward statement. Ahead of its time.”

Mrs. Agatha raised a brow. “It was a mess. I know that. But it was my mess. And you embarrassed me.”

“I know,” Clement said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

A long pause.

Then she sighed, waved a hand, and said, “If you truly mean it, let me fix that horror on your head. Free of charge.”

He did. And as the old dye washed down the drain, so too, Clement thought, did a bit of his old stubborn pride.

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The Final Stop: Ronke’s House

The most difficult apology was always going to be Ronke.

His sister had raised him after their father died, scolded him into school, fought his battles, and bailed him out of his foolishness more times than either of them could count.

And yet, somewhere along the way, Clement had let petty arguments and pride bury that loyalty under years of quarrels and jabs.

He arrived at dusk, with a fresh loaf of bread (Ronke’s weakness) and a bottle of malt.

She answered the door, arms folded.

“I heard about your grand apology tour,” she said. “Even Mama Nkechi called me.”

“Good,” Clement replied. “I wanted you to.”

A tense silence. The sun threw long shadows between them.

“I was wrong, Ronke,” he said simply. “I’ve spent too many years being a fool. And I’m sorry for all of it. For what I said at Mama’s funeral. For not being the brother you deserved.”

He held out the bread and malt.

Ronke stared at him for a moment, then snatched the bread.

“Idiot.”

“Agreed.”

She turned, leaving the door open.

“Well, don’t just stand there like a lost goat. Come in.”

Clement smiled, feeling, for the first time in a long time, like perhaps he wasn’t entirely a lost cause.

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Epilogue

The Apology Tour of Clement Udo became a sort of local legend. In time, people stopped crossing the street to avoid him. Mama Nkechi reserved a stool for him. Sister Felicia allowed him to clap during songs. Mrs. Agatha gave him a standing appointment every two weeks.

And Ronke? Well, she still called him an idiot—but she also called him ‘brother’ again.

Clement never claimed to be a changed man. But these days, when his tongue itched to lash out, he bit it. And when old habits crept in, he remembered that forgiveness, once lost, wasn’t easily regained.

It turned out, you couldn’t dye your soul as easily as your hair.

But you could, if you tried hard enough, clean it bit by bit.

And Clement Udo was, at last, trying.