It is said that when a woman loves, she gives her all but when her fury is provoked, it is worse than the furies of hell. I for one believe this because I witnessed it right in front of me. Buried deep somewhere in my soul memories hunt me, maybe all my life or part of my life. The only risk I face now is, will I be free after sharing my story or will I be held accountable for letting it out for what I have come to know now, I wish I knew back then.
My parents, clueless about parenthood, had me in their early 20’s. My father’s mother, who is my grandmother took care of my immediate younger brother Tari and I. Right now, as I think of her, God rest her soul, even as I make the sign of the cross, I have a smile on my face and tear drops, a trickle or two. You see, for a long time I thought my grandmother was my mother up until I was 15 years old.
‘Ene, your father will be coming to take you and your brother back to the city very soon’. My grandmother blurted out while she cleaned the pestle, she had just ground crayfish. I was playing with Tari close to her. My brother and I paused, looking at her for further explanations but she continued cooking dinner assuming we understood her perfectly. My younger brother looked at me with an expected smile of interpretation that everything was fine. The panic he saw in me was acutely mirrored back to me.
Sometimes, ignorance is a bliss. My brother and I enjoyed it so much that we were delusional of our family story. Our grandmother was everything to us. We know our father who comes home to see his mother and greet us as if we were just children but not his. At first, he would talk to our grandmother who will give us a stare that meant they should be excused. While Tari and I seat on the mat behind the house holding hands, straining to hear their conversation. Atop their voices they would argue and our father will burst out in anger, sneer at us, and leave without saying good bye. Tari fretfully lays his head on my shoulder and I will tell him a story to distract him when truly, I was distracting myself. How will grandmother tell us that a man such as that was our father? I never understood.
The week my ‘father’ took us back to the city; I was terrified Tari was so sad he nearly had a bout of asthma. I felt betrayed by our grandmother, she abandoned us to people we barely knew. They are our parents but I felt no bond for them in fact, they were strangers to me. The woman, who is my father’s wife, not our mother, did not do much as to try to get to know us so, there was no need to extend an iota of affection for her. Every day in the one-room apartment was a fight. Did I forget to mention to you that I had two step siblings? The atmosphere wasn’t right. Not for me or Tari.
‘Pa where is our mother’ Tari asked frowning at the plate of cold meager rice and salted palm oil for stew. We froze at his question as if it was forbidden to ask of our mother. Tari only meant our grandmother but what we got to know was way much deeper than he could ever fathom. My father’s wife dropped her youngest son in anger and went to the room. My father followed immediately and then there was an argument and a fight. I held Tari while the baby cried and his helpless brother joined. Tari and I couldn’t cry anymore because we had seen it before and my father’s harsh fighting voice wasn’t new to us. Suddenly I had an idea. I was 16 and old enough to face consequences. At night when I blew out the candle, I whispered to Tari that we were going to leave and go back to Mama. Even though I didn’t know exactly how it would happen, I knew we wouldn’t survive in this house with my father. Besides, we hadn’t still resumed school. Our father promised to send us to when he had gathered enough money for the both of us which would include transportation and feeding. In the beginning, it felt as if our father was trying his best to make things right but along the line, we saw him for who he was. My father was the sweetest talker I ever seen.
Days went by and it felt as if our hopes of leaving seemed farfetched, our dreams being buried in the depths of despair. Then one bright afternoon when our father went out to drink as usual, his wife went out with her children to the market abandoning Tari and I at home. It didn’t occur to me that our god had made a way for us to escape. I tapped Tari who was asleep, ‘it is time for us to go’ I said with excited tension. We didn’t have a box so the wrapper our grand mother gave us as covering was our bag. I quickly put all our clothes while Tari grabbed the last loaf of bread and smiled in a nutty way. We didn’t know how we were going to reach the park. I relied on my skilled observation to take us there on foot and any means we could. That day was the last time I ever heard of my father and his family. It was a fearful and exciting adventure. In truth it was liberating. For the first time in my life, I had to beg strangers for some food, water and asked for help in reaching home where we belonged. Somehow, we got to the village and we were once more left alone to find our way.
If we had known better, the journey which could have been for a day and half took us five days to reach our grandmother. At last, the joy she felt on seeing us made her cry. I never saw our grandmother cry. Our grandmother looked as if she aged faster. She saw that we were emaciated worse.
There was a bond my brother and I shared with our Mama that could not be explained in words. That same evening, we arrived in the compound Tari nearly fainted. My grandmothers shout attracted onlookers and by standers. Immediately she took us in grunting and praising God and at the same time cursing under her raspy breath. Immediately, she gave us a cold bathe by splashing us in a hurry. She made fire to cook our favorite local soup which had the aroma of locust beans and dried fish. The joy and happiness Tari, grandmother and I was like no other.
Looking back now on those years, I wish I could turn back the hands of time. To tell my father that I forgave him and ask him what happened to the woman who bore us not necessarily to satisfy my curiosity. My grandmother was everything we had. She made me the woman I am. Strong, black and proud.
Written by Theodora Ekah