Stains and Spots
The early morning fog covered the tops of everything. If anyone had been out of bed in that lazy place they could have seen the cups of foamy and webby substances on the ground. These wispy coverings would slowly fizzle away as soon as the sun came out, bare minutes before the human inhabitants stretched out of sleep, roused by the exotic mix of birdsong and cock crow.
Many miles away the river sleepily stirred like a fat lady waking up and having to gather all of her flesh before rising. The honks of cars and Lorries traveling through the nearby city could be heard faintly. 6am and those men were already out of bed and braving the cold to their various places of work. Everything was clear here, every sound, every movement deeper felt at the edge.
Everyone called it “The Town” but it was actually a village, slightly larger and set smack dab between a city and a big river. As large as it was, all the respectable villagers (98 percent considered themselves respectable and the other 2% were either very poor or had married into the wrong families) went to one church. A large chapel that had been built by a very prosperous son of the soil who had built it for two years and thereafter installed his father as the church’s Reverend.
Reverend Moses had three sons, one was the shining star (as the whole village called him) the second was a tall, handsome and brooding boy the same age as Swanta’s elder sister Bolu who was seventeen years old and the other had just clocked seven years of age like Dike, Swanta’s little brother.
Reverend Moses treated his sons with a very firm hand, his second son Bete received the brunt of his high handedness and grew moodier everyday. Rumor had it that the boy was always brooding because he was both plotting his father’s death and lamenting at his failure to do so early on.
His wife Samantha was a quiet lady who was as fat as the river. Her enormous behind and breasts made the young men speechless every Sunday as she passed by them in church. Every time Rev. Moses would call for folks to come out to be anointed with the Lord’s oil which was just plain olive oil by the way.
All the young men would hurry forward so they could line up in front of Samantha. While she prayed for them, her enormous breasts would be brushing against their face, their heads, their mouths. Swanta knew this because her elder brother Peter went for anointing every Sunday. The first time, he had leaned over his seat to tell her his “great experience”. Right there in church, his eyes had been alight with something Swanta didn’t understand, something she didn’t want to find out.
One time the Reverend spoke on the value of having good children quoting from the bible children are an heritage of the Lord. He had nevertheless said it in anger, his mustache bristling. The whole town knew that he referred to his eldest son and that one or both of his younger sons must have annoyed him in some way. Both boys would be sitting quietly somewhere, swallowing this expected part of the punishment. Bolu Swanta’s sister found the Reverend’s mustache very handsome, when she talked about it she would hold her hand to her chest and say, “Oh my world! So handsome!” but Swanta found the Reverend and his sermons boring and stale.
Her sister rooted for anything Moses said no matter what, Swanta had caught her making eyes at the tall brooding idiotic son many times. She had wondered what her sister was really in love with; their money or their anger issues? Bolu was an overly dramatic person and that oddity often affected her common sense.
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On Sundays, Bolu would leave early for church so she could sit in the front row. Their mother called it devotion to the things of God, Swanta knew what it really was: “sluttiness.” While Reverend Moses preached, Bolu’s eyes would be brimming with tears that would all too soon slide down her cheeks, giving her a reason to lift a corner of her skirt and clean her face. Everyone thought Bolu was a sweet girl who loved God so much but Swanta knew she was just flashing the Reverend a nice view of little red pants (Red was Bolu’s favorite color) framed by curly black pubic hair.
Swanta hated the town most for the wagging of its tongue. It was a miserable few square miles of people who couldn’t keep their mouths shut for a minute and let others live their lives. When her mother had given birth to their youngest brother Dike, an albino, the only yellow haired and freckled child among a family of five older children with black hair and honey brown skin. The town had gone wild with delight.
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Women began to visit each other more often, every man except Swanta’s father could be found in the bar, drinking and gossiping heavily. They were all talking about the Tanyo family. Everyone was sure that the baby was not for Mr Tanyo. Certainly, his wife had just played a fast and dirty one. Someone said he saw her sneaking to the city Thursday morning by 8am. Mr Peju who was the town’s Lorry driver cleared his throat and said,
“She entered my Lorry back home around 10 am and with foodstuff from the market”
“What do you know of women nowadays?” Mr Tojo asked.
He was the head of the community “policemen,” a large man with a pot belly that accentuated his large and ugly head
“She must have grabbed the nearest man and fucked him faster than a minnow can swim a dipper”
They all roared with laughter at that comment, imagining that their wives did the same things too when they went for a little shopping in the city.
A popular custom in the town was that when you visit someone and find them doing one chore or the other it is only right to join them in the chore as you both discuss. That season every woman kept her washing close at hand, with two bowls of water standing there waiting for when her friend would knock at the door.
Then she would quickly turn detergent into the water, dip some clothes in. As she answered the door, she would noticeably clean her now wet hands on her apron. The other woman would hug her while looking over her shoulder angrily at the pile of clothes. When they finally detangled themselves from each other’s arms, the visitor would offer to help her host wash with a beaming smile. The host would pretend to refuse for some seconds before they both began to wash and gossip in earnest.
In their discussions, the women of the town wondered if Swanta’s father was the father of all five children. They chewed around the idea that he was either infertile or impotent and that her mother had “gone out to bring good in” a short phrase used to describe a situation when a woman goes to get pregnant for other men just so her husband would have children to bear his name.
Everyone agreed, both men and women that the birth of an albino child was an unfortunate incident and that closed the case. Before then Swanta’s mother had been working in the palm oil mill close to the river but after Dike’s birth she became weak and ill. She was now unable to return to her job and Swanta’s father was left to take care of the family’s responsibilities.
The oil mill was a large and forbidden house blackened by the smoke from the machines. The process of making oil involved having the workers who were mostly female stamp on the soft boiled Palm kernels with their feet. Juss told her daughter Swanta one day that she had been standing there stamping with all her might, her belly heavy with Dike, when her water broke.
The Tanyo family’s house was at the edge of the town. Whichever way you looked at it, you would clearly see that it was a hovel. It had two squat doors, one at the front and another at the back. Four of its five windows were shuttered with rough wood and the other one would be pushed open in the afternoon to let out some of the heat.
The walls of their house was painted a bright green color by her father who had used oil paint so he wouldn’t have to ever paint it again. It was this wish of his, to never touch his house with a brush that caused him to beat Bolu mercilessly one day. Everyday, when Swanta’s father came back from work in his grey overalls and rubber boots he would take his slow way round the house from front to back inspecting it for damage.
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That day Bolu had brought a piece of chalk home, very excited and twiddling it between her fingers like Mr Gbenga the teacher always did. Swanta had begged to write with it, but Bolu refused remarking that chalk was not for children. Then she pranced to one side of the house and wrote Tanyo House and the writing seemed to glow on the walls.
Mr Tanyo’s feet had dragged against the dead floor as he staggered home that evening. His breath stank of ogogoro and he was whistling a tune loudly. At this time, Bolu had realized she had made a big mistake and was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and two fingers in her mouth. Swanta sat quietly a little distance from her. They both listened as the whistling went round the house and suddenly stopped at the place where Bolu had written.
Their father staggered into the house, his hand fumbling against his belt. When the first lash landed against Bolu’s back their mother ran into the room to help. Swanta’s father branding the belt her she leaped back in fear. One hand raised in supplication, the other hand wrapped protectively around her big belly.
Later when Swanta asked her mother why their father would beat Bolu so terribly for a simple chalk mark. Her mother told he did this because of the guilt that he couldn’t bring in money for his family even though he went to work every morning. All the energy for work, he used it up walking around the house. Juss had spat violently after saying that and Swanta wondered if it was because of disgust, or the baby.
The Tanyo family waited another seven years before they allowed themselves be the bowl for the village spittle once again. One morning Mr Tanyo had taken his suitcase out of the house, he had been wearing his customary overalls(he wore it everyday except Sunday) his umbrella slung over his shoulders. He was a tall dark haired man, handsome with the high cheekbones and bright eyes he had bestowed on five of his children.
After he walked away, his wife got up from the bed she had lain in for seven years. As frail as she looked with her hair sticking in all directions like her collarbones, she began to work. With her shift containing more air than actual body she began to clean the house gently. Telling her alarmed children why are you scared? I am strong, black women don’t grow weak from childbirth, we go weak with hate.
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Two years later Swanta was fifteen years old and in love with Bete the reverend’s son who was also Bolu’s boyfriend at the time. She watched them when they hid behind the house and kissed. Watched Bete’s hands slide beneath Bolu’s skirt and the ensuing back and forth movement. Times like this, Swanta would feel the need to relieve herself in any way and she soon began to fantasize about Bete putting his hands under her skirt too, fantasize about what would come after.
She began to pay attention to something in church, she would stare at Bete until she decided that his brooding was not idiotic at all. She became familiar with the gentle slope of his nose, his dark eyes and the angry scowl of his mouth. While Bolu slept she would lie on her side staring at her sister’s lips in the darkness. Wondering at how it must feel to kiss Bete.
Bete began to openly court Bolu around the time Juss took up a stall at the market. Swanta went everyday to the busy colorful market which was not very far from their house. It boasted of a healthy mix of people from the city and the town. The city people called it village market and the town people always felt insulted at this and would rebuke anyone who said it. Near Juss’ store there was a tinker who mended pots and pans, a woman who sold cosmetics and bleaching creams. A man who sold meat and was known to be the best meat seller in the market and a woman who sold native medicine.
Juss traded in rice and beans, she bought these items from the big market at the middle of the city in large quantities and retailed it. Swanta’s years in secondary school helped her make correct calculations and remember prices. She was in the stall one day when Bete came to buy rice. She watched him get down from his bicycle, he looked nice in a T Shirt and a pair of shorts. Swanta greeted him kindly like she should greet her sister’s husband to be.
Bete smiled at her, making her eyes linger too long in his lips.
“I want to buy a rubber of rice and a rubber of beans” Swanta understood only because she was reading his lips.
“It is 1000 for rice and 700 for beans,” Swanta said. Bete brought out the money, too rich to bother haggling with her. She collected the money and put it in her apron, lowering her head so she won’t see him smiling at her.
A week later they were pressed up against the wall of Bete’s father’s house. Swanta was beginning to discover that those lips on Bete’s handsome head contained some kind of hypnotizing drug. His hands played with her breasts through her shirt as they kissed. Then he lifted the shirt up and began to play with her Nipples and her small round breasts.
Swanta’s head was gone, she was in a state of dreamy ecstasy, his hands fiddled with the flesh above her knees and her legs parted on their own accord. In her dreamy state, she remembered the innocent look on her sister’s face as she slept peacefully on the bed and she jerked against the hand prodding her. For a moment Bete takes it as a signal to continue but she begins to struggle against his hold and he lets her go.
Swanta ran through the darkness with all those twinkling fireflies jumping out of her way, and the crickets jeered loudly at her as she stumbled against a tree stump and fell. She whimpered as she got back up, knowing she couldn’t stay down for a moment longer in the darkness.
The sun filled the sky with its golden light the next morning and the tiny misty cups fizzled off the ground. The birds sang happily and the cock crowed. The inhabitants of the town stretched out of bed under the faithful watch of a guilty fifteen year old girl -Swanta. It said something about the depth of her character that Swanta couldn’t sleep all night because of the guilt eating her. She knew that if she closed her eyes she would have nightmares where Bete reported her to Bolu and Bolu never spoke to her again.
“Come and buy your fresh meat” the meat seller called out in his deep baritone voice
Swanta turned to her other side so she could look outside from her vantage point, lying down on a bench inside her mother’s stall. Few customers were already at the meat seller and the cosmetics seller stand. Mrs Bose the native medicine seller had come late to the market today was praying loudly in her stall for God to bring customers from the east, west, north and south.
Every trader prayed before they opened their stalls but even though Swanta had come to stall today without her mother she hadn’t had the boldness to pray to a God she knew she had disappointed with her actions.
A few hours later, when the rain began to fall, Swanta dashed outside and packed in the bowls of rice and beans into a corner, locked the door and fell asleep on the wooden bench. She dreamt that both her and her sister Bolu were doing an impossible thing: kissing Bete together on both sides of his face and her, Swanta, asking her mother over and over again, “Mama, what else makes a black woman weak?”
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