4th of September, 1992

Image Source: Pexels

The last time she saw her mother, she had had her head buried between her laps, with her right hand sticking out of the space between her right leg and thigh. Clutched firmly in her mother’s grip was an empty bottle of Guinness. She was seated on the raised slab of cement Baba had made the previous week to stop the flood from flowing into the house.

Baba had tried to get professional bricklayers to do it but they charged too high, and so in a burst of anger, fueled by an empty pocket and a broken heart, Baba mixed cement, sand, and water into one messy lump and spattered it all over the verandah. Thank God the heavy June rainfall had stopped already. Her mother had laughed at Baba’s poor attempt at construction and she even called him a few names. A few unsavory not-the-kind-of-words-you-use-with-your-father kind of names.

She spat at Baba’s feet that evening and swore to leave the house by morning because she was ‘sick and tired of the stench of poverty oozing out of Baba.’ Like Baba would always do, he shook his head and went inside his room to listen to the radio and stain his already decaying teeth with old snuff.

The last time she saw her mother was that Monday night. With saliva running down generously from her mouth to Baba’s slab. She had on her a white camisole and black leather jeans – the clothes she wore to her meetings. Her heels were resting comfortably in one corner of the compound.

‘Mommy.’ She had tried to call out to her.

‘Mommy, wake up.’

But her mother did not respond. She did not even budge.

‘Mommy.’ Sylvia had called a third time, with more pain than words. ‘Mommy, wake up. People are looking at you.’ And she was not lying.

People are easily drawn to two things- disasters and breakthroughs. And more so when a child is involved. Passers-by saw a scrawny ten-year-old girl still in her oversized school uniform at 9 pm and they could not tear their gaze away. Throw in a few stares from the young child and you have a stadium, watching, waiting.

‘Make una wake the woman now!’ Somebody shouted from the crowd. Things were already getting too boring and people wanted to see a resolution fast. They started getting antsy and decided to go a step further in their mission and actually interfere. One woman the size of three women took a bold step and walked up to her mother. She looked like the type of woman to do that. With her heavyset physique and breasts the size of two small countries, she looked like the type to command attention…and even fear.

‘Madam.’ She called out to Sylvia’s mother upon reaching her. She didn’t even wait two seconds before she tried again, but this time with a heavy smack to the back. ‘Madam, your pikin dey call you!’

The crowd did not see the slap coming and they reacted with a loud shout, but still, her mother did not budge.

***

That was three months and three days ago.

Sylvia didn’t hear from her mother, not even in conversation for that long.

That night, somebody had gone to call Baba from his favorite pepper soup joint to come and assess the damage. He had come home in a rush to find a crowd at his doorstep hovering over her mother, talking over her, and doing everything else but helping.

‘Leave my dormot! Comot for here, all of una! Vultures!’ He thundered at the crowd.

She had never seen her grandfather that angry. She did not even think his voice had that range and depth to them. After confirming that her mother was still breathing, he carried her like a child into the dusty sitting-room. Sylvia followed quietly behind him, twiddling her fingers, unsure how to act or feel.

Baba made her hold her mother’s head on her laps as he tried to force a spoon into her mouth. Her teeth were tightly clenched and she refused to budge. It was thirty minutes later that Baba realized that none of his home remedies would make Sylvia’s mother wake up and that he would have to take her to her hospital.

‘Why is my mother always drunk?’ Sylvia had asked as she and Baba sat in the hospital lobby, waiting for the doctor’s diagnosis.

‘Because she is angry.’

‘Why is she always angry?’ A genuinely curious Sylvia had asked but Baba remained silent.

That same night, Baba had handed her over to her mother’s sister, her mother’s evil twin, Aunty Chigo. They never told her what the doctor’s diagnosis was but it was serious enough to keep her mother bedridden and Baba firmly planted by her bedside.

Sylvia would have given the earth, the moon, and all the stars, anything at all, to not go to Aunty Chigo’s house. Every time she went there, she returned with at least four bruises and a broken something. The last time, it had been her pinky finger. Although it healed, it was still not as flexible as it should be.

Aunty Chigo was always angry too. Theirs was a family destroyed by pain and anger and Sylvia was caught in the crossfire. As she drove her to the dingy flat she shared with six other women, Sylvia clutched her backpack like her life depended on it. She had taken a few clothes, her school books, and Baba’s diary which she had found a week before in the thrash.

She had been fascinated with all of Baba’s stories about his time on the war front and living in the village with his five sisters and two brothers. He spoke about how much he missed them when he had to go to school in the city and she found his stories to be very soothing. Although there were a few time gaps, she found that she could still understand the progression. It had become her favorite pastime.

***

After completing her chores, Sylvia would sit down to read. Since she had stopped school, she became devoted to reading at least one chapter of her textbook and five pages of Baba’s diary.

But she found Baba’s diary more interesting than any textbook. She discovered more about her mother in those pages than she ever did in eleven years. As she read, she found something that piqued her interest.

‘Today, I did an abominable thing. I know God will strike me dead for this thing I did. On this day, Friday the 4th of September 1992, I committed a sacrilege against God and against my daughter Chisom.

5th of September

Chief said he was not satisfied with my daughter yesterday and that he wants to go again before he clears our debt

6th of September

Chisom agreed to help us again and Chief gave her extra money for dash. Chigozie stole the money’.

Sylvia did not understand the full implications of what she just read but she knew that September 1992 had to be when everything started going wrong. She let Baba’s diary fall to the floor as she stared transfixed at her image on Aunty Chigo’s mirror.

Tiny Hidden Scars

***

‘Your mother is dead.’ She said in a way that suggested the news had literally no effect on her. How do you tell an 11-year old that her mother is dead with the same tone you would use to tell her to shut her mouth?’

At 11, Sylvia had already mastered the art of silence, keeping her emotions in check, and never letting her enemies know her pain. And Aunty Chigo was more an enemy than the devil himself.

‘Thank you, ma.’ She said without remorse.

Her mother was already dead to her, so this news was more of a confirmation than anything else. She tried to bring herself to tears, to make herself feel remorse, but nothing came. Her eyes were dryer than the desert on a sunny day.

‘You no dey cry?’ Aunty Chigo asked in a mocking manner. She looked at Sylvia with a scowl that threatened several rounds of beatings that would force those tears out. Sylvia knew what was expected of her as she looked up at Aunty Chigo with as much sadness as she could muster, even though she did not feel it.

‘I will cry later, ma.’

‘Na the same witch weh your mama chop na im you sef chop. And na that same die weh she die you go soon die for my hand.’ She said as she shuffled out of the cubicle she had Sylvia live in. It was not even conducive for a wild animal, but she thought less of Sylvia anyways.

The next time she saw her mother, she was wrapped with a piece of white fabric from head to toe, looking like a badly dressed Egyptian mummy. The fabric was loose and transparent, one of those ones they sold to children learning how to stitch their clothes. Whoever wrapped her probably had something against her for she made enemies quicker than she made friends.

They did not even try to prepare her body for the burial. Baba could not afford a coffin or enough yards of white cloth apparently because she still managed to have her head peeking out of the fabric in a horrific manner. Her full head of hair had been badly shaved and she looked more angry than dead.

Sylvia looked at her mother and remembered how much her mother used to obsess over her hair, talking about how it was the only good thing left in her life, not minding the fact that Sylvia was standing right in front of her. She took care of her hair more than she took care of her daughter and it showed.

She had morning and evening treatments for the hair and had once used Sylvia’s term fees to purchase some styling products. It was the only time she ever saw her mother smile and look happy, so she didn’t even mind staying home the whole term while her mates were in school. She inherited the same head of curly and tender hair but she never paid it any attention. Her mother’s was better to look at.

She looked around and one thing struck her. Nobody was crying. Not even to pretend. As she walked towards Baba’s house, she saw his slab and like a dam breaking forth, she burst into tears. She sat on the slab and wrecked her whole body with sobs. Like the last time she saw her mother, people gathered around to watch her cry, watch her mourn her loss and they shook their heads in pity.

She wondered if they knew she was crying not because of her dead mother but because she was back where she started and the safest place she knew was the place that was going to eventually kill her. She wondered if they knew that she would end up like her mother. Broken, dead, and with no one to cry at her funeral.