Life is Nothing Near Casual Roses

Every girl needs a hero in her life.

Day One: A New Start?

On the day Baby was born, she had the smell of talcum powder and freshly sun-kissed daisies whose tentacles couldn’t wait to wallow free in the wind.

On that same day, mama and papa had learned to share a laugh, and it seemed like everything would be okay now.

Three months later, her laughter was music to mama’s ears, and her cry broke my heart deeply as if we were connected somehow in pain.

Two women, two stories, and two tales of a shared misfortune.

One day, while mama had left her in the baby cot to attend her morning routine, I carried her up into my arms, and gently swung her from side to side, while singing mother’s favorite song “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, will be“. I watched as she peered curiously at me as if to decipher the hidden mysteries that lay hidden in my soul mirrored through my eyes. I smiled down at her. She smiled too. And at that moment, I knew that she would understand me better, and I couldn’t wait for her to grow up.

Day Two: Blooming Flowers Turn Sour

Fast forward, six years later. Baby was already 7 years of age, and I was 17 at the time. Young, beautiful, and blooming. Baby, as usual, was the breadth of joy that filled our stuffy home. Papa’s job had just been taken from him, and that was when it all began.

That day, as Baby came to drag me out to play with her, she had worn a bright yellow dress, her favorite of all time, and her hair, I called them “freedom braids” had dangled freely around her, like a sheen of protection from God Almighty. Her charm was irresistible.

We’d ended up on the kitchen patio, and began to sing our favorite song “Que Sera Sera” as we sang, Baby smiled freely and shut her eyes as if to make a wish to the heavens.

As I watched Baby sing, I shut my eyes too, and immediately, that was when we heard the first and only shot.

At first, there was silence, I stared at Baby, and she stared with even more curiosity in her eyes, and I watched as fear began to build up into tears. She was always smarter, and she’d known immediately.

We had hurried down to the bedroom, and that’s when we heard mama scream out loud. I quickly covered baby’s eyes, as I watched papa’s body quivering in his own blood, the gun a few meters away as if it wasn’t the instrument that caused this harm. A few minutes later papa died.

Papa had always been a drunk and callous man. He’d come home and beat up mama every day, under fake guises of, why is the food salty? Why did you not stand at the door to welcome me? And so on.

The screams as papa hit her were usually unbearable. He’d put up any excuse to hit her in places that were less visible, and mama, dutiful as always would always stay subservient to these Ill treatments.

On one of these days, mama wanting to make things get better in the home used the last money she had to throw a mini-party to please Papa. That day when papa returned, he had been stone drunk, he’d accused mama of cheating and lying, and he’d beat her harder than ever. I had run down into the tiniest closet in the house hoping that the sounds, screams, yells, and sadness, will die out. With the arrival of Baby, God answered my prayers. Or so I thought.

Until recently, papa was never like this. Papa used to have a job. He’d always buy Mama and me, suya and bread every day of the week, and his arrival was usually anticipated by everyone. He’d cuddle me on his lap, laughing out loud, while calling me his most favorite girl in the world, while mama would continually tease him because of his overgrown mustache.

Indeed, it was strange how people could love something so dearly one minute, and abhor it deeply the next. With the rise of inflation in the country, he’d been put off work, alongside many others, sunk into depression, and became a shadow of everything he used to be. When Baby was born, he and mama had begun to draw closer again, but then it only escalated into more and more dreadful beatings.

The first time he hurt me was when I confronted him about the woman he’d been with, I threatened to reveal to mama his promiscuous acts. Papa smiled and grabbed me by the back of my neck, and unexpectedly shoved my face into the bed. That night, he’d come to my bedroom and attempted to fondle my breasts, he threatened me not to say a word. I was frightened because the man who had stood before me was nothing like my papa. How did a man become a demon all at once? After fondling for a while, he had immediately changed his mind and slapped me hard in the face. The slap had left a lasting scar on my left cheek. A bruise I told mama I got while playing in school. He had taught me to be afraid of my voice, and mama, he’d taught her to become a shadow of her boisterous self. As I stared at His body, I felt relief, pity, and fear. Relief because I would not have to endure those ear-piercing screams of mama and quiet sobs that choked her at night.

I looked at Baby and felt pity for her, she’d only met the wrong side of papa. The father she knew was a deeply troubled man prone to violence and psychological complexities. A demon of a man. A man that should never have birthed such a warm soul.

Day Three: When Shall The Rain Come?

A week after papa had been laid to rest, Baby’s feverish bouts of illness began. That night I had dreamt of a sunny field filled with withering daisies. At about 3’0clock in the morning, the bed that I and Baby shared in a tiny room, in the small house began to shake violently.

I woke up with a start and found baby, the one whose laughter filled our hearts with joy, struggling for life as she convulsed violently, rolling to the floor.

I ran to mama, with tears in my eyes, calling for help.

That night we rushed her to the hospital, while mama tried to administer first aid.

The next morning, the doctor had informed my mother that Baby’s convulsion was nothing serious as she just had a ‘first seizure’.

The next week, I’d had to spend all of mama’s savings to invigorate her back to good health. That week, Baby had begun to smile again. I had been relieved. She’d be fine soon. but the thing with smiles is that they could be a sign of goodbye.

Day Four: Petals Sauntering in the Wind

On the 15th of November, Baby returned from school smiling brighter than she’d ever done since papa’s demise. I looked down at her, as you would in wonder staring at the sun, and gently compelled her to tell me what was so exciting about her day.

And then she spelled these words on her lips like honey sputtering from a honeycomb “Michael tells me he loves me!”

Just like every other older sister, I laughed gently, Micheal has always been her crush since class two. She’d repeatedly go on and on about how tall and bold he was in the class.

Micheal lived on the next street and was also about the same age as Baby. He was extremely tall for his age and was already known as the ‘lady’s man’. Whenever we walked past his house, Baby would peer into the windows hoping to catch a glimpse at her beloved fantasy. One day she’d seen a little girl from a lower class holding hands with Michael, at that time, she’d walked up to the girl, and point-blank told her to stay away from Michael, a childish but cute attempt at jealousy. She was a cute child full of life, who knew what she wanted, and how she wanted it. A strong spirited angel whose eyes could warm the world. Mama’s pride, my only joy in this world.

That day, I’d teased her for modifying our favorite song to be “Que Sera Sera, Micheal and Baby will be… will be.“

She’d giggled and laughed endlessly. Her eyes gleamed with joy more than ever. She was a child unmarked and unstained by the world. An innocent angel to grace mother earth with her lovely giggles.

That same evening I’d returned from mama Nkechi’s store to see Baby sprawled on the floor like a crumpled piece of paper. I immediately knew she’d had another of her convulsing bouts, and her body was stiff. Mama and I stood with fear as the doctor pronounced that her symptoms were quite similar to Epilepsy.

Day Five: The Beginning of The End

One day, I’d watched Baby peer intently into a mathematical problem. She was a child that loved to draw with bright colors and solve with eager dexterity. She loved science, she loved the arts, the perfect blend of all sides of nature. She’d sit at her reading table, and hold her books close as she unconsciously hummed ‘Que sera’, nodding her head in a passionate but equally funny manner. She’d look up at me and quickly ask the answer to a mathematical equation. On one of these occasions, Baby had eagerly exposed her desire to grow into a medical doctor. Even though I knew we didn’t have money to send her to the university now that papa had died, I smiled and wanted to believe in the possibility that maybe, just maybe, whatever will be… will be, after all. I’d asked her why she wanted to be a doctor. And then she’d replied that Michael, her little crush suffered from pneumonia, and when she grew up, she would like to help cure him of his ailment. I laughed harder, and harder as she smiled and returned to her books. That was one thing about Baby she was too pure and untainted by the world. And that innocence in her was everything I longed to protect.

On another night, she’d asked me to tell her a story, and so I did. I told her an Arabian tale of Hassan and Ali. Two brothers from different mothers, who grew up in the same house, under the same father. One was the perfect son, while the other was cleft lip, and because of these, he was a disgrace to the family. I watched as her eyes widened because of the injustice in this story. As she listened intently, she immediately resolved within herself, that after her doctorate, she’d proceed to become a social worker, so she could offer help to children like Hassan and Ali. And after she had become a doctor, she’d help save maltreated children from evil parents.

After that, I wept happily. She was good, and her goodness was contagious.

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That day, when mama had returned, I had watched as she recounted the story of Hassan and Ali, she promised mama that she would grow up to help children that suffered one way or the other. Mama had stared blankly at me, as she spoke these words. At that moment, as I looked back at mama, I wanted to return back to the days before it had all gone so wrong.

The days where mama’s song filled the house and papa’s satisfied whistle was enough to make a child fall asleep. The happy laughter that filled the kitchen whenever they sat down to talk, and how I’d run to hold papa’s hands whenever he was around. I know mama wished the same too, to go back to the happy days of reckless abandon. Where life wasn’t stifled into a monotony of screams, and tears.

Day Six: God Deserts His house

After the second bout, Baby’s health began to degenerate further with the drugs the doctor had prescribed.

The baby had lost her smile, and her eyes became shells that mirrored emptiness and darkness. She’d sit quietly, and talk gibberish to herself, unresponsive to her name, and unresponsive to our favorite song.

On some other days, after another convulsing bout, she’d lain down stiff and unmoving, and after a while, she’d begun to nibble at a pair of slippers.

Mama Nkechi, whose kiosk sat opposite our house, a voluptuous woman, who thought Baby had a mental illness, had advised mother to take Baby to a spiritual man, as the symptoms were obviously a critical case the doctors couldn’t fathom.

And so, mother took Baby to the House of God.

Every evening the pastor would douse her in endless bottles of olive oil, and flog her mercilessly, commanding the evil spirit that caused this strange sickness to come out. Sometimes she’d cry out, looking at me, as if trying to reach out for help from a cage within her, and then immediately her eyes would blank out.

With each stroke and oil that was supposed to cleanse her, Baby deteriorated further and further. The one whose soul was supposed to fill my heart, now caused me to bleed further than ever. She had scars all over her body, and her eyes were almost the same as papa’s the day he attempted to fondle my breasts- empty.

Day Seven: Shadows Have Come to Stay

On the day Baby died. I died as well. Mother died two times that night.

The convulsing and jerkings had been more violent than ever.

That night the House of God had rejected her saying “madam, the evil spirit has refused to let go, we no go fit help una oo” and advised Mother to visit the hospital. Mother indecisive on the way out had tried a new hospital, and the young doctor immediately chastised Mother for not coming sooner. He described Baby’s condition as a rare case of “seizures triggered by abnormal electrical impulses in the brain. Nothing serious but very delicate.”

The former doctor’s prescription had been wrong. The baby was not mentally retarded and never had Epilepsy, even though the symptoms had been very much similar to it. Baby’s life became another one lost to the quacks and the predators of ignorance.

That night we’d been too late, Baby’s eyes, smile, and heartwarming laugh had been lost forever.

That night till today, I weep because Baby’s dream to be with Michael was gone forever, I cried because she was a young promising girl whose eyes lit up the stars, and whose laughter will never fill our house again.

Every story has an ending, but the end of this is only the beginning of another. Baby’s smile will live forever in a heart that will never find healing. An imprint of dying flowers dancing in a yellow sundress.

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