You lower your feet gradually to the ground, trying hard so the creaking of the rickety bed will not wake them up. You succeed and wear your slippers. The heels have eaten so deep inside that you can feel your own heels on the floor. On second thought you pull your feet out of the slippers. You freeze when you hear her cough painfully. You sigh and tiptoe barefooted.
Outside, the moon is at its best. Liberty Dam road is glistening from end to end. The cold feels like the bite of a ferocious dog. The rocks behind your house stand still, firm and sure as if they are watching over you. You see Bingo, Mama Gebu’s dog, on the wooden stool. Her eyes shine in the dark and when you walk closer, she gets down from the stool. You don’t want to sit on the stool. Bingo always has lice. The other day, your left foot’s little toe was painful. When you checked the back of the toe, you found a swollen louse. When you stepped on it, blood splashed.
You are still contemplating whether to use the stool or not, when you hear a sound from behind. The smell you hate the most but are used to, fill your lungs. The he-goats are fighting each other. They always invade other people’s farm in the neighborhood and eat their crops. The farm owners would come and shout and warn Mama Gebu. Then the he-goats were three. One day one of them became weak and lay on its belly throughout the day. The next morning, it was dead. You overheard Mama Mama Gebu say that it ate poison on someone’s farm. And afterwards, she tied the remaining two to tethers. She has two children Gabriel, (whom everyone called Gebu) and Blessing and says she lost her husband in the 2008 crisis. But Mama Rokiba always insists it’s a lie, for she was there when whirlwind carried Mama Gebu’s husband away. He had offended someone.
You walk down the narrow passageway to Mama Akeem’s door and pick a stool. You bring it to the front of your room and sit down. Mama Rokiba’s children, Rokiba and Gbenro are not snoring tonight. You can’t even hear the creaking of Mama Gebu’s bed and the usual masculine grunt. The night is very quiet. Unlike some other days, when the sound of Mama Akeem performing her wifely duties wildly sliced the silence of the night. You think about how they cope: five children and Baba and Mama Akeem in one room. Akeem, Monsura, Bimpe, Tope and Toke. Just yesterday, you noticed Mama Akeem’s slightly bulging stomach. It looks like she’s expecting another baby.
Your jaw rests in the crook of your palm as your elbow digs deep into your thigh. It’s supposed to be painful. But physical pain is almost nothing when the heart is in turmoil. What will your younger ones eat when they wake up? Two nights ago, they did not eat. They also did not eat throughout yesterday.
You hear the slow squeaking of a door. It’s Mama Gebu’s. You move back and plant your back firmly on the wall. You hear her characteristic footsteps towards the toilet. Your back is still touching the wall when Mama Akeem’s door opens slowly. You wonder what Mama Akeem and Mama Gebu are doing outside at the same time when you realize the footsteps you hear are that of Baba Akeem. When the toilet door opens and closes, you hear Mama Rokiba’s door pull open and you see the top of her head before the door closes.
Yesterday, you tried to ask Mama Rokiba for a bowl of rice but your heart failed you just as you entered her room. What came out of your mouth was that you wanted to see how she was doing. You sigh, cover your head with the jacket’s hood and sit down. You must do something at daybreak. Something. Anything. You tiptoe back to your bed and almost hit the bucket your younger ones urinate into every night. They don’t urinate much these days. When your body touches the bed, you realize your stomach is grumbling, for hunger is a bad girl.
***
The sun’s glittering rays are like spikes when you open your eyes. They are piercing through the thin and torn curtains. Yet, you feel a blanket of cold has wrapped round your skin. It’s quarter to eight. Siji and Tomi are helping Mummy sit up. Edileola sits in one corner, her blouse high up over her head, holding her bare belly.
No one tells you good morning. You tell Siji, your immediate younger brother to take care of everyone. You say you will be back with something for breakfast with a lot of conviction. Siji nods blankly and Edileola gives you a hungry look. Only Tomi does not look at you.
You will not take your bath. It will waste your time. You wear a dress and pick your second jacket. Truly, when you walk out, you find the queue in front of the bathroom. People from the other compounds always use your bathroom. Their landlord, Baba Ijebu, will not build a bathroom for them. He locks the only bathroom in their compound. They must pay a hundred naira daily before he allows them bathe in it. In front of the house, Mama Rokiba is telling someone in her usual loud voice that Baba Rokiba who has not touched her in three weeks, travelled last week, is not yet back, and was lucky to have run into a hospital during the last crisis. She also says he has not given her money for soup for about a month now.
You change your mind and pass through the back of the house. Behind her room, Mama Gebu is talking to a man, whose hands are on her hips, in a subdued tone. She sees you and drags the man into the corner formed by the other side of the house.
You walk out of Liberty Dam road, towards the rising sun. The ever industrious people are already opening their roadside stores and getting ready for the day’s business. Businesses would boom today.
Hamper packs line the front of Anwuli’s mother’s store opposite Reality Bank. At Rikkos junction, you look into the street. Baba Apeke was pursued down Rikkos road during the bloody crisis in September 2001. He was beheaded and burnt beyond recognition. The thought of it still make you shudder. Mama Apeke returned to Osogbo after that.
The goods in front of Chibuzor’s mother’s shop make your mouth water. Cornflakes, orange juice, a bottle of groundnut and some other things you can’t make out from the other side of the road. The cars move so fast that they blow dust all over your face. Your lips are dry. You run your tongue over your lips and withdraw your tongue because you lick grit and dust. You try to spit it away but spittle refuses to form. The road is tarred but the potholes look like a crone’s toothless mouth. The contract for the construction was awarded by the state government some years ago. Daddy was the contractor and the day he began work on the road was the day crisis started. That day, in November 2008, people were killed en masse in Angwan Rogo and Daddy was one of them. Someone told you he saw him. An axe was used on him. You did not see him again. You could not even bury him. That same day, in Angwan Rukuba, Mama and Baba Akeem’s house was razed as they fled for their lives. Baba Akeem’s brother was not lucky. He was trapped inn the burning house.
Gun-wielding soldiers are in the middle of the road and cars line up to be checked. As you pass by the soldiers, you hear them hail the big man in a black Toyota Camry and ask anything for the boys. They laugh and wish the man safe journey. The road curves and rocks are on either sides of it. You remember all the times you sat beside Daddy and heardhim hum his favourite hymn, How Great thou art while he drove down this road to Angwan Rukuba. It’s now you realize that happiness’ slender body breaks too easily.
At the newspapers’ stand at British American junction, you stand behind the men who argue about news headline: from sports to politics to religion. In times past, you argued sports with them. Whenever you wear your blue Chelsea jersey, they laugh at you and ask you to burn it – why would common Corinthians FC beat Chelsea? It’s like Enyimba FC beating Barcelona FC. Too big disgrace.
Today, the headlines read: POLICE DEPLOY TROOPS FOR TOMORROW’S CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION. MORE SOLDIERS ON THE STREETS OF JOS and they are arguing about whether the terrorist group, The Striking Cobra, would attack any religious service tomorrow or not. They say they are tired of crises. They want a peaceful Jos. Peaceful coexistence is possible between all the inhabitants, no matter the tribe or religion. But today’s hunger pangs will not let you make a contribution to the discussion. The headache you feel must have been how Daddy felt when that axe was used on him. And even worse. Someone told you his tongue was axed first. You shut your eyes. You hate to remember it. When you turn to go, you hear them call your name, but you do not answer.
You put your fingers in your jacket’s pocket and wrap the jacket properly around you. When you feel a thin paper in one of the pockets, you are happy. It’s a fifty naira note. There’s money for public transport.
In the tricycle, the music is loud. The beat is fast and the only words you can make out is dancing alingo. The girl besides you distracts you. Her perfume fills your lungs. She’s fiddling with her Blackberry. A Whiteberry actually. Abi why is it called a Blackberry when it is white? She’s very fair and her nails are long and coloured. Her Brazilian hair is long and silky. She moves some strands of hair from her face intermittently and plants it behind her ears or tilts her head back a little to let her hair fall back. But when she bends her head to press her phone, some strands cover her face. Her smile is a genuinely happy one as she stares at the screen of the phone. Maybe her boyfriend is pinging her. She can’t be older than you, can she? When she looks at you, she says you look familiar. She asks if you are Mama Gebu’s neighbour. You nod. A smile lights up her face. You should please tell her she would come and see Mama Gebu later today. You nod. You turn your face and look at the fast moving houses along Murtala Mohammed way.
You get down in front of a fenced bungalow. You enter and greet the man in uniform at the gate and he replies effusively. When you ask the woman at the reception if he – you point at the door - is in, she nods. Her hands are moving so fast on the keyboard and her eyes only take a second’s break to look at you and then return to the screen.
Inside the office, he’s sitting on a shiny leather-bound swivel chair and his mahogany table is well polished. The reflection of his laptop screen is on his face. He takes a long time before his face touches yours. When it does, he tilts his glasses well and balances it on the bridge of his nose before he calls your name: Okiki. Okiki. He looks at his screen again before he asks you to sit.
When you are done narrating your ordeal, he shakes his head and says you know work is going on the church auditorium - plans to turn the church into a wonder to behold - the biggest cathedral in Jos. The work is almost done. And the council of elders says it must be commissioned on Christmas Day. So, they can’t help you. When he sees the look on your face, he apologizes. When he stands and beckons you to come over, his lanky body has a stoop as if he’s carrying a burden too heavy. He wraps you in an airtight hug till you feel your backbone will snap. He plants a feverish kiss your forehead. His hug is always avuncular. It makes you remember your uncle Lanre.
He says you should go in peace, God be with you. He gives you one thousand naira for transport fare because he does not have much at the moment. He just paid his first son, John’s school fees in England. When you are at the door, he calls you back and gives you a sheet of paper to help give his secretary as you leave. When you close the door, you turn to stare at the inscription of Daddy General Overseer on it. Your footsteps feel jerky as you walk down to Terminus. The market is rowdy. Everyone is having their last minute shopping. You wish you could be shopping like them too.
Your heart stops. You turn back. You don’t have the nerve to enter the tall building immediately after the teaching hospital old site. You walk down the market and inspect the remains of the Jos main market that was burnt in 2001. Mama Gebu was a trader in Main Market before all her life savings turned to ashes. You shiver as you put your hands into the pockets of your black jacket and cover your head with the hood. You know Jos cold is like a faithful husband that sticks with you everywhere you go, never letting be, through thick and thin.
When you finally walk back and enter the tall building, your knees knock. You do not greet the woman on uniform cleaning the corridor on the second floor, a mop in her hands, even though you see the tribal marks, one long vertical mark on each side of her face. Bulus, your former neighbor would have told you to see your fellow Yoruba people. And you would have laughed. You miss him. And at the time you moved out of Rayfield, you already liked him. And you knew he liked you too. You blink and swallow saliva. Bulus is the boy whose presence suspends your memory; the knowledge of every other thing becomes a blurred mass when you are with him.
When the thick voice tells you to come in, you make the sign of the cross and go in. There’s a sardonic smile on his face and he smacks his lips when he sees you. His cheeks are round and you look at the folds of fat flesh that clutch his neck. The fist in your chest bursts. He beckons you to sit. He asks you if you are ready. You keep quiet. He laughs and asks you if you have come for a game of silence. His teeth have the jagged edges of broken bottles. You begin to cry and beg him to help. He should give you the job and he will not regret it for one second. His face becomes all serious as he says if you are not ready, you should leave. You want to leave but you remember Mummy’s hacking cough and tell him you are ready. There is a largerock in your throat now and it’s trying to choke you.
His face is flooded with joy as he moves the laptop he staring at before you came in and phones and iPad from the table. He tells you to lie down. You are disappointed because you feel it should be a better place. But what choice do you have?
He locks the door and undresses. You cry when you see his breasts like that of a woman and his close-to-term pregnant belly. He rushes to his phone and tells his secretary not to disturb. He’s busy. When he’s through with the call, he asks what you are waiting for with your clothes on.
The pain is searing. You bite your lip and cry all through. After cleaning the table, he dresses and asks you how old are you and what is your qualification is. That smile is on his face again. Now the smile seems wicked. You do not look at him as you answer. Nineteen. You finished secondary school two years ago. He asked you the first day you came; the day he first told you about what he would get in return for the high paying job he would give you. The day you told him you didn’t understand and he stood up, walked towards you and tried to undo your button. You hissed and your clenched fist landed on his fat fingers before you walked out and slammed the door behind you. You went that day to the welfare secretary and she said Daddy General Overseer said the welfare money would be channeled to the building of the mega cathedral. That was when the foundation of the building was laid. That was when Mummy first needed money to remove her diseased breast in Jos Hospital. You sold some of her jewellery and the surgery was successful. You moved out of Rayfield when you could not pay your rent anymore. Daddy was building his house and he just completed the boys quarters in Lamingo when he was killed. The main house in front was still under construction. So, you let out the remaining rooms in the boys quarters and lived in one room. You’ve spent the advance rent on the first course of chemotherapy.
Tears cloud your eyes. You wake up when he puts two fat bales of money in front of you. Your eyes almost jump out of their socket. Now, he’s nodding and whistling. He tells you to come and resume on the first Monday of the new year. He picks his phone, checks his calendar and says tenth. Yes, come and start work on the tenth of January. You mumbled a thank you and immediately feel you should not say it. You feel sticky and when you get up you realize your body is new. You enter into the market to buy a few things for breakfast and walk slowly home, your footsteps heavy. You see Bulus in front of JAMB office. The sun has brought out the beauty of his well-chiseled frame, his well-shaped face. You can’t look at him straight in the face and when he asks what is wrong with you, you shake your head. You know it’s a souvenir to fondle later when he gives you a goodbye hug. You feel his eyes bore into your back when you walk away.
At the Film Institute junction, a car stops by you. It’s Mummy General Overseer. You recognize her Armada Jeep and its plate number well. She parks. So she has returned from the US where she went to inaugurate more branches of the church? You think you look scrawny when you see your reflection on the glass. When she winds down, you stick your head into the car. She smiles as she returns your greeting. The cool breeze from the AC mixed with the aroma of the air freshener rushes into your face but you can’t exhale; no matter how much you try. You were not in Tuesday Bible study. You were not in church on Sunday. She missed you in the teenager’s class. Mummy was not even in church. How is she? How is everybody? You squeeze a smile and hide under that everybody-is-fine umbrella. You can’t tell her
Mummy’s illness has relapsed. She says she and her nephew would visit later today. She winks and laughs. Perfect teeth. You watch her car move into the traffic, with the ease of one life has been fair to. She’s the kind of woman you can stare at all day and when she’s gone, she leaves you with the feeling of wanting to stare more. She’s that kind of woman: beautiful within and without.
You walk past uncle Lanre’s former office – the place Daddy rented for him for his business. Since Daddy died, he has been nowhere to be found. He has not even called for one day to know how you are faring. The last time Auntie Bukola came from Ondo and saw the room you all are living in, she left immediately. Yet, you knew she came to see if she could raise money for her business. She always did when Daddy was alive.
At home, you boil hot water because you feel like scrubbing your skin with iron sponge till it bleaches; like removing your skin and wearing a new one. But there’s no running away from your skin. It’s yours permanently. At the end, you dilute the water and feel it dilute your tears as you wash away his fluid and the baked blood from your body.
Siji and Tomi are busy in the kitchen at the backyard while you count the money. Edileola is sitting on the ground. Mummy coughs one long, hard coarse cough. It’s blood. The first thought in your head is to call Cephas, the medical student in the next house. When he first moved to the area, you and he spoke a lot till when he made advances at you. You kept your distance since then. But today is different, you need help. You rush out to call him. But he’s not in. He’s on call, a female voice says from inside. The voice is different from the voice of the girl you always see with him.
You call Siji. Both of you have to take Mummy to the Hospital. When you tell Mummy, she shakes her head weakly. She does not want to go. Siji says she has been coughing up blood for a long time now. You ask him why he did not tell you. He says he does not want to add to your stress. Besides, you don’t come back early.
The roof is cracking. You sit and hold your head in between your palms and your tears are torrential. In the past days, you have not been home early. You have been scouting for jobs. Besides, you can’t bear to see your younger ones hold their tummies and lie silently in bed in hunger. Edileola always cries. And you hate it whenever you tell her to sleep so that the hunger would disappear. You hate it to see Mummy lying down there, her breathing laboured. You look at the money in front of you. It’s forty five thousand naira. And you remember the sheet of paper you gave Daddy General Overseer’s secretary. The paper showed that Daddy donated the highest amount of money for the building project. Daddy always said it’s good to give to the Lord. He always said you should lay up your treasures in heaven where moth would not eat it.
The food is ready. Siji, Edileola and Tomi eat voraciously. When they ask if you will not eat, you say you will. You don’t feel like it right now. As shadows elongate, Mummy coughs up more blood. You beg Mummy to let you take her to the Hospital. There is money now. She shakes her head. Now you realize she’s white and has lost weight. You are crying.
Someone is shouting outside. It’s Mama Akeem. You hear a loud slap then a scuffle. Mama Gebu is shouting. Siji wants to leave his food to see. You shout at him to finish his food and you feel dizzy. Hunger seems to have dug a deep hole in your stomach. You walk slowly out.
The Hausa children in the other compounds are there but their faces show confusion. Mama Akeem and Mama Gebu are fighting and shouting in Yoruba and are almost stripping each other naked. Mama Akeem is shouting, husband snatcher, prostitute!
Mama Rokiba emerges from her room and joins Mama Akeem in beating Mama Gebu. Her voice is distinct because she speaks the Oyo type of Yoruba and pronounces her R as harrrh. Now, Mama Gebu is no longer fighting but desperately trying to save herself from the shame of nakedness. The Blackberry girl comes and tries to save Mama Gebu from the two women. But Mama Rokiba and Mama Akeem are shouting, prostitutes!
You don’t know how long you stay there, watching them, because soon, some of the men who discuss at British-American Junction come and separate the fighting women. You hide. You don’t want them to know that you stay here.
Someone lets out a piercing scream from inside and wind piles up in your head as you turn round. Siji, Edileola and Tomi are all around Mummy. They call her name, Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Edileola is crying and Mummy is not answering. You tell Siji to call Cephas. You put your ear close to her chest and you can’t hear a thing. You raise her hand and it falls to the ground.
Edileola and Tomi are howling. You rest your back on the wall and sink to the ground. You draw your knees up and wrap your hands around them. The door opens and Bulus and Mummy General Overseer step in. The smile on her face gradually disappears as she puts the plastic basket that contains fruit juice and cornflakes down. Her face is wrapped up in fear as Bulus walks towards you. People who cry have a lot of energy. You do not have enough to cry.
******************************************************************************
Fiyinfoluwa Akinsiku attended University of Benin Nigeria and studied Medicine. She's working on her debut novel.
Outside, the moon is at its best. Liberty Dam road is glistening from end to end. The cold feels like the bite of a ferocious dog. The rocks behind your house stand still, firm and sure as if they are watching over you. You see Bingo, Mama Gebu’s dog, on the wooden stool. Her eyes shine in the dark and when you walk closer, she gets down from the stool. You don’t want to sit on the stool. Bingo always has lice. The other day, your left foot’s little toe was painful. When you checked the back of the toe, you found a swollen louse. When you stepped on it, blood splashed.
You are still contemplating whether to use the stool or not, when you hear a sound from behind. The smell you hate the most but are used to, fill your lungs. The he-goats are fighting each other. They always invade other people’s farm in the neighborhood and eat their crops. The farm owners would come and shout and warn Mama Gebu. Then the he-goats were three. One day one of them became weak and lay on its belly throughout the day. The next morning, it was dead. You overheard Mama Mama Gebu say that it ate poison on someone’s farm. And afterwards, she tied the remaining two to tethers. She has two children Gabriel, (whom everyone called Gebu) and Blessing and says she lost her husband in the 2008 crisis. But Mama Rokiba always insists it’s a lie, for she was there when whirlwind carried Mama Gebu’s husband away. He had offended someone.
You walk down the narrow passageway to Mama Akeem’s door and pick a stool. You bring it to the front of your room and sit down. Mama Rokiba’s children, Rokiba and Gbenro are not snoring tonight. You can’t even hear the creaking of Mama Gebu’s bed and the usual masculine grunt. The night is very quiet. Unlike some other days, when the sound of Mama Akeem performing her wifely duties wildly sliced the silence of the night. You think about how they cope: five children and Baba and Mama Akeem in one room. Akeem, Monsura, Bimpe, Tope and Toke. Just yesterday, you noticed Mama Akeem’s slightly bulging stomach. It looks like she’s expecting another baby.
Your jaw rests in the crook of your palm as your elbow digs deep into your thigh. It’s supposed to be painful. But physical pain is almost nothing when the heart is in turmoil. What will your younger ones eat when they wake up? Two nights ago, they did not eat. They also did not eat throughout yesterday.
You hear the slow squeaking of a door. It’s Mama Gebu’s. You move back and plant your back firmly on the wall. You hear her characteristic footsteps towards the toilet. Your back is still touching the wall when Mama Akeem’s door opens slowly. You wonder what Mama Akeem and Mama Gebu are doing outside at the same time when you realize the footsteps you hear are that of Baba Akeem. When the toilet door opens and closes, you hear Mama Rokiba’s door pull open and you see the top of her head before the door closes.
Yesterday, you tried to ask Mama Rokiba for a bowl of rice but your heart failed you just as you entered her room. What came out of your mouth was that you wanted to see how she was doing. You sigh, cover your head with the jacket’s hood and sit down. You must do something at daybreak. Something. Anything. You tiptoe back to your bed and almost hit the bucket your younger ones urinate into every night. They don’t urinate much these days. When your body touches the bed, you realize your stomach is grumbling, for hunger is a bad girl.
***
The sun’s glittering rays are like spikes when you open your eyes. They are piercing through the thin and torn curtains. Yet, you feel a blanket of cold has wrapped round your skin. It’s quarter to eight. Siji and Tomi are helping Mummy sit up. Edileola sits in one corner, her blouse high up over her head, holding her bare belly.
No one tells you good morning. You tell Siji, your immediate younger brother to take care of everyone. You say you will be back with something for breakfast with a lot of conviction. Siji nods blankly and Edileola gives you a hungry look. Only Tomi does not look at you.
You will not take your bath. It will waste your time. You wear a dress and pick your second jacket. Truly, when you walk out, you find the queue in front of the bathroom. People from the other compounds always use your bathroom. Their landlord, Baba Ijebu, will not build a bathroom for them. He locks the only bathroom in their compound. They must pay a hundred naira daily before he allows them bathe in it. In front of the house, Mama Rokiba is telling someone in her usual loud voice that Baba Rokiba who has not touched her in three weeks, travelled last week, is not yet back, and was lucky to have run into a hospital during the last crisis. She also says he has not given her money for soup for about a month now.
You change your mind and pass through the back of the house. Behind her room, Mama Gebu is talking to a man, whose hands are on her hips, in a subdued tone. She sees you and drags the man into the corner formed by the other side of the house.
You walk out of Liberty Dam road, towards the rising sun. The ever industrious people are already opening their roadside stores and getting ready for the day’s business. Businesses would boom today.
Hamper packs line the front of Anwuli’s mother’s store opposite Reality Bank. At Rikkos junction, you look into the street. Baba Apeke was pursued down Rikkos road during the bloody crisis in September 2001. He was beheaded and burnt beyond recognition. The thought of it still make you shudder. Mama Apeke returned to Osogbo after that.
The goods in front of Chibuzor’s mother’s shop make your mouth water. Cornflakes, orange juice, a bottle of groundnut and some other things you can’t make out from the other side of the road. The cars move so fast that they blow dust all over your face. Your lips are dry. You run your tongue over your lips and withdraw your tongue because you lick grit and dust. You try to spit it away but spittle refuses to form. The road is tarred but the potholes look like a crone’s toothless mouth. The contract for the construction was awarded by the state government some years ago. Daddy was the contractor and the day he began work on the road was the day crisis started. That day, in November 2008, people were killed en masse in Angwan Rogo and Daddy was one of them. Someone told you he saw him. An axe was used on him. You did not see him again. You could not even bury him. That same day, in Angwan Rukuba, Mama and Baba Akeem’s house was razed as they fled for their lives. Baba Akeem’s brother was not lucky. He was trapped inn the burning house.
Gun-wielding soldiers are in the middle of the road and cars line up to be checked. As you pass by the soldiers, you hear them hail the big man in a black Toyota Camry and ask anything for the boys. They laugh and wish the man safe journey. The road curves and rocks are on either sides of it. You remember all the times you sat beside Daddy and heardhim hum his favourite hymn, How Great thou art while he drove down this road to Angwan Rukuba. It’s now you realize that happiness’ slender body breaks too easily.
At the newspapers’ stand at British American junction, you stand behind the men who argue about news headline: from sports to politics to religion. In times past, you argued sports with them. Whenever you wear your blue Chelsea jersey, they laugh at you and ask you to burn it – why would common Corinthians FC beat Chelsea? It’s like Enyimba FC beating Barcelona FC. Too big disgrace.
Today, the headlines read: POLICE DEPLOY TROOPS FOR TOMORROW’S CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION. MORE SOLDIERS ON THE STREETS OF JOS and they are arguing about whether the terrorist group, The Striking Cobra, would attack any religious service tomorrow or not. They say they are tired of crises. They want a peaceful Jos. Peaceful coexistence is possible between all the inhabitants, no matter the tribe or religion. But today’s hunger pangs will not let you make a contribution to the discussion. The headache you feel must have been how Daddy felt when that axe was used on him. And even worse. Someone told you his tongue was axed first. You shut your eyes. You hate to remember it. When you turn to go, you hear them call your name, but you do not answer.
You put your fingers in your jacket’s pocket and wrap the jacket properly around you. When you feel a thin paper in one of the pockets, you are happy. It’s a fifty naira note. There’s money for public transport.
In the tricycle, the music is loud. The beat is fast and the only words you can make out is dancing alingo. The girl besides you distracts you. Her perfume fills your lungs. She’s fiddling with her Blackberry. A Whiteberry actually. Abi why is it called a Blackberry when it is white? She’s very fair and her nails are long and coloured. Her Brazilian hair is long and silky. She moves some strands of hair from her face intermittently and plants it behind her ears or tilts her head back a little to let her hair fall back. But when she bends her head to press her phone, some strands cover her face. Her smile is a genuinely happy one as she stares at the screen of the phone. Maybe her boyfriend is pinging her. She can’t be older than you, can she? When she looks at you, she says you look familiar. She asks if you are Mama Gebu’s neighbour. You nod. A smile lights up her face. You should please tell her she would come and see Mama Gebu later today. You nod. You turn your face and look at the fast moving houses along Murtala Mohammed way.
You get down in front of a fenced bungalow. You enter and greet the man in uniform at the gate and he replies effusively. When you ask the woman at the reception if he – you point at the door - is in, she nods. Her hands are moving so fast on the keyboard and her eyes only take a second’s break to look at you and then return to the screen.
Inside the office, he’s sitting on a shiny leather-bound swivel chair and his mahogany table is well polished. The reflection of his laptop screen is on his face. He takes a long time before his face touches yours. When it does, he tilts his glasses well and balances it on the bridge of his nose before he calls your name: Okiki. Okiki. He looks at his screen again before he asks you to sit.
When you are done narrating your ordeal, he shakes his head and says you know work is going on the church auditorium - plans to turn the church into a wonder to behold - the biggest cathedral in Jos. The work is almost done. And the council of elders says it must be commissioned on Christmas Day. So, they can’t help you. When he sees the look on your face, he apologizes. When he stands and beckons you to come over, his lanky body has a stoop as if he’s carrying a burden too heavy. He wraps you in an airtight hug till you feel your backbone will snap. He plants a feverish kiss your forehead. His hug is always avuncular. It makes you remember your uncle Lanre.
He says you should go in peace, God be with you. He gives you one thousand naira for transport fare because he does not have much at the moment. He just paid his first son, John’s school fees in England. When you are at the door, he calls you back and gives you a sheet of paper to help give his secretary as you leave. When you close the door, you turn to stare at the inscription of Daddy General Overseer on it. Your footsteps feel jerky as you walk down to Terminus. The market is rowdy. Everyone is having their last minute shopping. You wish you could be shopping like them too.
Your heart stops. You turn back. You don’t have the nerve to enter the tall building immediately after the teaching hospital old site. You walk down the market and inspect the remains of the Jos main market that was burnt in 2001. Mama Gebu was a trader in Main Market before all her life savings turned to ashes. You shiver as you put your hands into the pockets of your black jacket and cover your head with the hood. You know Jos cold is like a faithful husband that sticks with you everywhere you go, never letting be, through thick and thin.
When you finally walk back and enter the tall building, your knees knock. You do not greet the woman on uniform cleaning the corridor on the second floor, a mop in her hands, even though you see the tribal marks, one long vertical mark on each side of her face. Bulus, your former neighbor would have told you to see your fellow Yoruba people. And you would have laughed. You miss him. And at the time you moved out of Rayfield, you already liked him. And you knew he liked you too. You blink and swallow saliva. Bulus is the boy whose presence suspends your memory; the knowledge of every other thing becomes a blurred mass when you are with him.
When the thick voice tells you to come in, you make the sign of the cross and go in. There’s a sardonic smile on his face and he smacks his lips when he sees you. His cheeks are round and you look at the folds of fat flesh that clutch his neck. The fist in your chest bursts. He beckons you to sit. He asks you if you are ready. You keep quiet. He laughs and asks you if you have come for a game of silence. His teeth have the jagged edges of broken bottles. You begin to cry and beg him to help. He should give you the job and he will not regret it for one second. His face becomes all serious as he says if you are not ready, you should leave. You want to leave but you remember Mummy’s hacking cough and tell him you are ready. There is a largerock in your throat now and it’s trying to choke you.
His face is flooded with joy as he moves the laptop he staring at before you came in and phones and iPad from the table. He tells you to lie down. You are disappointed because you feel it should be a better place. But what choice do you have?
He locks the door and undresses. You cry when you see his breasts like that of a woman and his close-to-term pregnant belly. He rushes to his phone and tells his secretary not to disturb. He’s busy. When he’s through with the call, he asks what you are waiting for with your clothes on.
The pain is searing. You bite your lip and cry all through. After cleaning the table, he dresses and asks you how old are you and what is your qualification is. That smile is on his face again. Now the smile seems wicked. You do not look at him as you answer. Nineteen. You finished secondary school two years ago. He asked you the first day you came; the day he first told you about what he would get in return for the high paying job he would give you. The day you told him you didn’t understand and he stood up, walked towards you and tried to undo your button. You hissed and your clenched fist landed on his fat fingers before you walked out and slammed the door behind you. You went that day to the welfare secretary and she said Daddy General Overseer said the welfare money would be channeled to the building of the mega cathedral. That was when the foundation of the building was laid. That was when Mummy first needed money to remove her diseased breast in Jos Hospital. You sold some of her jewellery and the surgery was successful. You moved out of Rayfield when you could not pay your rent anymore. Daddy was building his house and he just completed the boys quarters in Lamingo when he was killed. The main house in front was still under construction. So, you let out the remaining rooms in the boys quarters and lived in one room. You’ve spent the advance rent on the first course of chemotherapy.
Tears cloud your eyes. You wake up when he puts two fat bales of money in front of you. Your eyes almost jump out of their socket. Now, he’s nodding and whistling. He tells you to come and resume on the first Monday of the new year. He picks his phone, checks his calendar and says tenth. Yes, come and start work on the tenth of January. You mumbled a thank you and immediately feel you should not say it. You feel sticky and when you get up you realize your body is new. You enter into the market to buy a few things for breakfast and walk slowly home, your footsteps heavy. You see Bulus in front of JAMB office. The sun has brought out the beauty of his well-chiseled frame, his well-shaped face. You can’t look at him straight in the face and when he asks what is wrong with you, you shake your head. You know it’s a souvenir to fondle later when he gives you a goodbye hug. You feel his eyes bore into your back when you walk away.
At the Film Institute junction, a car stops by you. It’s Mummy General Overseer. You recognize her Armada Jeep and its plate number well. She parks. So she has returned from the US where she went to inaugurate more branches of the church? You think you look scrawny when you see your reflection on the glass. When she winds down, you stick your head into the car. She smiles as she returns your greeting. The cool breeze from the AC mixed with the aroma of the air freshener rushes into your face but you can’t exhale; no matter how much you try. You were not in Tuesday Bible study. You were not in church on Sunday. She missed you in the teenager’s class. Mummy was not even in church. How is she? How is everybody? You squeeze a smile and hide under that everybody-is-fine umbrella. You can’t tell her
Mummy’s illness has relapsed. She says she and her nephew would visit later today. She winks and laughs. Perfect teeth. You watch her car move into the traffic, with the ease of one life has been fair to. She’s the kind of woman you can stare at all day and when she’s gone, she leaves you with the feeling of wanting to stare more. She’s that kind of woman: beautiful within and without.
You walk past uncle Lanre’s former office – the place Daddy rented for him for his business. Since Daddy died, he has been nowhere to be found. He has not even called for one day to know how you are faring. The last time Auntie Bukola came from Ondo and saw the room you all are living in, she left immediately. Yet, you knew she came to see if she could raise money for her business. She always did when Daddy was alive.
At home, you boil hot water because you feel like scrubbing your skin with iron sponge till it bleaches; like removing your skin and wearing a new one. But there’s no running away from your skin. It’s yours permanently. At the end, you dilute the water and feel it dilute your tears as you wash away his fluid and the baked blood from your body.
Siji and Tomi are busy in the kitchen at the backyard while you count the money. Edileola is sitting on the ground. Mummy coughs one long, hard coarse cough. It’s blood. The first thought in your head is to call Cephas, the medical student in the next house. When he first moved to the area, you and he spoke a lot till when he made advances at you. You kept your distance since then. But today is different, you need help. You rush out to call him. But he’s not in. He’s on call, a female voice says from inside. The voice is different from the voice of the girl you always see with him.
You call Siji. Both of you have to take Mummy to the Hospital. When you tell Mummy, she shakes her head weakly. She does not want to go. Siji says she has been coughing up blood for a long time now. You ask him why he did not tell you. He says he does not want to add to your stress. Besides, you don’t come back early.
The roof is cracking. You sit and hold your head in between your palms and your tears are torrential. In the past days, you have not been home early. You have been scouting for jobs. Besides, you can’t bear to see your younger ones hold their tummies and lie silently in bed in hunger. Edileola always cries. And you hate it whenever you tell her to sleep so that the hunger would disappear. You hate it to see Mummy lying down there, her breathing laboured. You look at the money in front of you. It’s forty five thousand naira. And you remember the sheet of paper you gave Daddy General Overseer’s secretary. The paper showed that Daddy donated the highest amount of money for the building project. Daddy always said it’s good to give to the Lord. He always said you should lay up your treasures in heaven where moth would not eat it.
The food is ready. Siji, Edileola and Tomi eat voraciously. When they ask if you will not eat, you say you will. You don’t feel like it right now. As shadows elongate, Mummy coughs up more blood. You beg Mummy to let you take her to the Hospital. There is money now. She shakes her head. Now you realize she’s white and has lost weight. You are crying.
Someone is shouting outside. It’s Mama Akeem. You hear a loud slap then a scuffle. Mama Gebu is shouting. Siji wants to leave his food to see. You shout at him to finish his food and you feel dizzy. Hunger seems to have dug a deep hole in your stomach. You walk slowly out.
The Hausa children in the other compounds are there but their faces show confusion. Mama Akeem and Mama Gebu are fighting and shouting in Yoruba and are almost stripping each other naked. Mama Akeem is shouting, husband snatcher, prostitute!
Mama Rokiba emerges from her room and joins Mama Akeem in beating Mama Gebu. Her voice is distinct because she speaks the Oyo type of Yoruba and pronounces her R as harrrh. Now, Mama Gebu is no longer fighting but desperately trying to save herself from the shame of nakedness. The Blackberry girl comes and tries to save Mama Gebu from the two women. But Mama Rokiba and Mama Akeem are shouting, prostitutes!
You don’t know how long you stay there, watching them, because soon, some of the men who discuss at British-American Junction come and separate the fighting women. You hide. You don’t want them to know that you stay here.
Someone lets out a piercing scream from inside and wind piles up in your head as you turn round. Siji, Edileola and Tomi are all around Mummy. They call her name, Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Edileola is crying and Mummy is not answering. You tell Siji to call Cephas. You put your ear close to her chest and you can’t hear a thing. You raise her hand and it falls to the ground.
Edileola and Tomi are howling. You rest your back on the wall and sink to the ground. You draw your knees up and wrap your hands around them. The door opens and Bulus and Mummy General Overseer step in. The smile on her face gradually disappears as she puts the plastic basket that contains fruit juice and cornflakes down. Her face is wrapped up in fear as Bulus walks towards you. People who cry have a lot of energy. You do not have enough to cry.
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Fiyinfoluwa Akinsiku attended University of Benin Nigeria and studied Medicine. She's working on her debut novel.
1 comment:
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