Tiny Hidden Scars
“I am in love.”
The first time I said those words was to my mother when she was packing my lunch for school one morning.
“Love?” She asked, her voice filled with amusement. “My boy, you are too young for love, you should face your books.”
I don’t know why I thought she would understand, adults never understood me, especially at the tender preteen age of eleven. They never took anything I said seriously but I was determined to show my seriousness on this particular matter.
“I can be in love and face my books mummy,” I grumbled. She stopped what she was doing briefly to look at me, “Darling, what do you know about love?”
I didn’t really know how to answer that question, all I knew about love was from television. When a boy met a girl he couldn’t stop thinking about, it usually ended with him saying, “I love you.” So I looked at my mum in pretend confidence and I said, “Everything.”
She smiled warmly and nodded her head, “Okay, so who are you in love with?”
I smiled then because I couldn’t help it whenever she came to mind. “Aunty Maggie.”
My mum was surprised, I could tell from the way her eyes widened like saucers then she burst out in laughter. As my mother chuckled, I stood there, feeling a mix of embarrassment and determination.
Aunty Maggie was our neighbor and the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I loved her big brown eyes and full, usually untamed kinky tresses. There was something ethereal about her that sometimes she almost seemed like a mirage of some sort. Like I imagined her, my subconscious had created the perfect image just for me. But then others would see her too and I would know she wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t just her beauty, she had this distant, glass-like eyes and quiet manner that often made her seem almost unreal.
I loved the way she stood apart from the other adults. Like how she never expected me to greet her all the time like they did. And when I did greet her, she didn’t respond with words but touched my shoulder gently, and her eyes would crinkle into a subtle smile. It was an uncommon response, but I cherished her touch. She didn’t talk like other adults either. Where they were loud, bold and talkative, she spoke in a manner that was almost like a whisper. She spaced her words out as if she was never sure of the next one about to come out of her mouth. It was odd but I assumed English just wasn’t her first language.
I loved how Aunty Maggie seemed to exist in her own world, often oblivious to those around her. Even during the neighbourhood gatherings, she sat alone and remained silent, lost in her thoughts. I heard she was afraid of the dark, just like me. I hid my fear from my parents because my dad said I was too old to sleep with the light on. So most nights, I would force my eyes closed and pray for sleep to come.
There were nights we would hear her wails and cries from next door, all through the night. Mr Augustine, Aunty Maggie’s husband – not Uncle Augustine, because I was not as fond of him – explained to my parents that she had night terrors when they first arrived. My parents looked at each other puzzled when our new neighbour explained, it seemed they had never heard of an adult who was afraid of the night. But I understood Aunty Maggie, she didn’t hide her fear like most people did.
“Maggie, really?” My mother teased, still amused. “But she’s much older than you dear.”
I shrugged, undeterred by her response. “Age doesn’t matter mummy, I just feel happy when I’m around her.”
She finished packing my lunch and handed it to me, ruffling my short locs affectionately. “Well, if your love makes you happy and doesn’t interfere with your school work, I suppose it’s harmless.”
I still remember the day they moved in. I was only nine at the time. She was much thinner, even frailer then, and I initially thought she was Mr Augustine’s daughter, not his wife. Her night terrors were much worse back then too. Her screams rang out every night. She never left her house and rarely smiled or spoke to anyone. But that was before she started coming over to our house for fellowship.
The weekly neighbourhood fellowship at our house was always a bustling affair, a congregation of 20 to 30 of our closest neighbours gathered for worship and a mini hangout session afterwards. They would gather in our living room sharing stories, discussing local news, and occasionally, enjoying my mother’s homemade treats. My father had extended an invitation to Mr. Augustine, and one Friday he showed up for the first time, Aunty Maggie in tow.
As the fellowship ended and the meet-up commenced, Mr. Augustine took centre stage, he was a very boisterous man full of jokes and loud laughter. He did most of the talking for Aunty Maggie as she stood quietly by his side. He told us her name was Margaret, but she preferred Maggie. According to him, she was quiet because she was newly from Togo and was still getting used to life in Nigeria. They didn’t have any children yet, he mentioned with a proud smile.
Throughout Mr Augustine’s lively monologue, Aunty Maggie remained detached, her gaze fixated on a distant spot behind the audience. She only seemed to acknowledge the attendees when Mr. Augustine would affectionately put his arm around her waist, drawing her into the conversation. Even then she never quite looked anyone in the eye.
Mr. Augustine, a real estate agent, and a natural-born talker. He flaunted his charm and persuasive skills effortlessly. He spun tales, cracked jokes, and somehow managed to weave property investment pitches seamlessly into the conversation. His loud laughter echoed in the room, coaxing laughter from the audience and winning over their trust.
To be honest, I found Mr. Augustine’s jokes unamusing. Their punchlines sailed right over my head, and his laughter seemed too forced as if to compensate for the lack of genuine amusement. No one else seemed to share my sentiment because, by the end of the fellowship, a good number of our neighbours seemed so swayed by his words and were considering property investments through him.
Aunty Maggie just sat in the corner constantly adjusting the sleeve at her wrist.
She always wore slightly baggy clothes and always had her arms and legs fully covered no matter how hot the weather got.
“Mummy, you packed beans?” I already knew the answer to my question before I asked, I had already gotten a whiff of its palm-oily smell the moment I opened my lunch box.
“Of course dear.”
“But you know I hate it.”
“Yes… but you need it so that you can grow strong and tall for Aunty Maggie.”
I never saw things that way, strong and tall was good. That way I would be able to protect her from bad guys like Mr. Augustine.
Mr. Augustine and Aunty Maggie soon became regulars at our house. He used it as a marketing opportunity and she sat in a corner quietly staring off in the distance.
One day, during fellowship, she joined my mum in serving snacks. As she handed me a piece of my mum’s delicious homemade chocolate cake, her sleeve shifted, revealing white lines of tiny scars on her wrist. It was a fleeting moment, but I caught a glimpse. She must have sensed my gaze because as soon as I took the cake, she quickly covered them up again. I wished I could tell her that she didn’t need to cover them up because I loved her with her scars too.
That day was also the first time I saw her laugh. Aunty Laide from across the street gave a soulful rendition of Freedom by Hillsong Worship and the adults became so captivated. I guess it was one of those moments my mother called “in the spirit”. Aunty Maggie didn’t sing along like everyone else did, she just stood there eyes closed and tears streaming down her face. When the song ended she was still emotional so Aunty Laide wrapped her arms around her, rubbing her hand on her back and saying. “You’re free Maggie, Jesus has set you free.”
Aunty Maggie opened her eyes for the first time in several minutes and looked Aunty Laide right in the eye. “Not yet.” She replied weepily, “Not yet… but one day.”
Mr. Augustine got up then and wrapped his hands around his wife’s waist, pulling her out of Aunty Laide’s embrace and taking her outside of the house.
Aunty Maggie smiled at her husband as he took her away. There was something about her expression that was odd, maybe it was the way the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Wemimo, what’s going on outside?” My father yelled from the top of the stairs, I could hear his footsteps as he rushed down.
My mother looked at me puzzled and then looked towards the kitchen door where my father soon appeared. “Outside?” She asked.
My father nodded and walked over to the kitchen window, behind my mother. With a swift motion, he pulled up the blinds, unveiling an unexpected sight – strange lights blinking in a mesmerizing dance of blue and red. Even as the sun shone brightly in its morning glow the lights still painted the room in an eerie ambiance.
That one day, I excused myself to use the bathroom. My mum and the others in the room seemed a bit stunned by Mr. Augustine and Aunty Maggie’s display. I didn’t go to the bathroom, I snuck upstairs instead. I headed straight to the balcony in my parents’ bedroom. It was right above the front door and happened to give a clear view of the argument Mr. Augustine was having with Aunty Maggie outside our house.
“Stop it.” He whispered harshly.
“Stop what?” She asked innocently.
“Smiling like that, people will think there is something wrong with you.”
She let out a deep belly laugh but it sounded as empty as Mr Augustine’s, “Let them… think what they want.”
He grabbed her elbow and jerked her, “Stop it. Stop it now!” Mr. Augustine was still whispering but his whispers were getting as loud as his anger. “Don’t make me make you stop.”
She stopped laughing then looked at him and shrugged,
“Do it.”
He paused for a moment then let out a frustrated grunt, “You this woman, I will kill you before you kill me.”
She laughed again, “Either by your hand or mine, I will soon be free.”
The police cars lined our quiet street like there was a bank heist nearby. There were uniformed officers at every corner.
My parents and I slowly walked out of our gate, watching the officers walking around. They seemed aimless as some lounged by their cars, others chatted with the neighbours.
Suddenly Mr Augustine and Aunty Maggie’s gate opened and instead of my familiar next door neighbours, a bunch of police men walked out. Following them were two men pushing a trolley with a human shaped black bag on top.
I stepped closer to get a good look but my mother grabbed my shoulder tightly and held me in place. “Maybe we should go back inside.” My mum said and pulled my shoulder back. But I had no intention of going inside so I held on and didn’t budge.
Soon the gate opened again and Aunty Maggie emerged, she was in handcuffs and surrounded by some more police men. She had tears streaming down her face, yet in her emotional state she wore the widest smile I had ever seen on her. It was a smile that contradicted the sadness in her eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” my father muttered. “You never know who’s living right next to you.”
“How could she do it, how could she?” my mother added, her voice tinged with shock.
As they were about to put her in one of the police cars Aunty Maggie turned as if she could feel my eyes on her. She looked at me, and for the first time, her eyes held a brightness, they were clear and focused. She gave me a slight nod, it was like a silent acknowledgment of our bond. And I nodded back.
All images are sourced from pexels
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