The room felt smaller than what I was used to. Although, what I was used to was not particularly big but my body told me I was in a different location. A location I wasn’t familiar with. A location that didn’t feel like home in any way. My nose caught the awful smell that came with the wind into the small, lightness, strange room I happened to find myself in, and for a second it almost choked me. All that coupled with the voices of people shouting and laughing called me back to reality.
I slowly regained consciousness as my brain tried to decipher where the hell I was. I realised I layed on cold concrete floor in a tiny room with two other strange faces staring at me, while the last person stayed close to the wall motionless. In me grew so much fear that could move a mountain. It soon dawned on me that I was in a prison cell when I opened my eyes fully and sighted a small gate. It was exactly how, in my head, I thought a prison cell would look like. Exactly how they show it on tv. A tiny room, with unpainted walls and no light, no bed either, one dirty old sink by the corner, no window but a small rusted gate that either leads to your freedom or destruction. And all that rang in my head was ” what have you done , Oriaku?”
The 20th of September 2003, was the day I saw my mother die. I was 10. And it wasn’t an accident, that much I can say. I remember that day all too well, and I swore never to forget it. I swore never to forget her. Mama got married at 18. That was then, when marrying was more like a duty. A duty you do “for” your family and the society. A duty expected of you. You get married early, your parents get the bride price, and you automatically become a thing of pride. Something to brag about. So, my mother did what was expected of her. She got married and moved with her husband to Lagos. The city that never sleeps. After 5 years of failed attempts to conceive, God had mercy and I was born. But this bundle of joy was not a bouncing baby boy, so the birth of my soul became the death of my mother’s. She made a mistake that could not be ignored. Like she was God. Like she had the power within her to alter the sex of her unborn child. Like it was her doing. She gave birth to a girl. That was her mistake. But four years later, an opportunity for a rebirth presented itself. History was repeated. And hell became reality. My father lost his job, had a house full of women and not a single boy to call his son, that changed everything.
I have thought of scary moments. I have had scary moments. I remember when Mama took us to the village to visit her parents, my grand father had killed a snake in the compound the next day and everyone gathered to see it, but only my Obianuju, with so much excitement, carried it to scare me. I was the timid one and she was all shades of brave. I thought I had had scary moments, but nothing beats waking up only to find out you are in a prison cell with no idea on how you got there and no one to ask . I finally walked up to find answers, called on the officers I could sight, but all ignored. I couldn’t see their faces, there were two candle light trying effortlessly to pierce through the darkness that enveloped the entire building. So, lost in a room that oozed of urine, I was close to tears. But I sighted the faces of those that were in with me and I knew there was no room for softness. I knew I would most likely be beaten. In my mind I said to myself ” you better control yourself” Just a night in prison toughened me up. I pulled back the tears and sat in silence. Hoping to hear Obianuju calling me. Hoping to wake up again to a different reality. I sat and thought of what I had done . It felt like I hit my head pretty bad. One would think I ought to know why I was in a prision cell right? I was known to be one with few words. Never showing anger . Then finally, like a part of my brain woke up, I remembered. How could I forget my crime? Maybe because it did not feel like a crime. Maybe, because it felt like justice served.
As the years went by, our home became a house with occupants. My father became a drunk, leaving my mother to fend for us. That simply made her my super hero. I watched her weep and work. Cook and work. She bent in all directions just to please my father. Just to correct her wrong. Giving birth to two beautiful daughters was her ultimate mistake. She was at the mercy of his whips. I never knew my father to be loving. But his cruelty intensified after the birth of my sister. I would constantly hear him call my mother a failure. A failure. That’s what women who didn’t birth boys were called. Her inability to magically make the X chromosomes Y was a crime in her days. And women like her didn’t deserve love from their husbands or their people. Mama kept silent and cried. Although she tried to hide, I saw it all. I would look into the eyes of the man I call father and see the heighten hate burning in him, I was ok with that, because the feeling was mutual.
One night Mama and I got back from her market shop late. I knew all won’t be well the moment Obianuju came into the kitchen saying “papa is back”. His food wasn’t ready and he was tipsy. That was reason enough to beat. Not like he needed any. One look at Obianuju and I sufficed. But tonight was different. I could tell he was somewhat angry when he walked in. He walked in with his fist rolled up ready for a fight. Sweating profusely like a bull at war, his eyes were red and he reeked of alcohol and smoke. I could see the vains on his hands trying to jump free. The fight that night was epic. It started in the kitchen and progressed to the parlour, back to the kitchen. For the first time, I saw Mama fight. She threw things in his way. She fought. She fought because she was tired. But she was weak and it was too late. I ran to my father, pulling his legs and screaming, he simply tossed me to the side like I was meat. I heard Mama scream “don’t you touch her” she didn’t see him coming , when he hit her from the side. That was it. The end. She was dead. The fight was over. He won. I ran to look for obianuju hoping she didnt see it all, and she didint. She was in the toilet shaking in fear,with her ears covered, and eyes red from tears. This little being became my responsibility. How Papa got away with it, I still do not know. I never asked. I never told. On the 20th of September 2003, I saw my father kill my mother. And it wasn’t an accident.
The night seemed to go by slowly. I wasn’t bothered. “What is the rush “I thought. Darkness ruled my night and day. I was fine with that. I sat on the dirty concrete floor with an empty tummy and a headache with my back against the wall, and eyes wide shut. I was there and not there at the same time until I heard the sweet,gentle voice of my sister. My Obianuju. In her voice, I heard the fear beneath the boldness. I rushed to the gate as the officer opened up to let me out. And she brought food. I watched her watch me eat, holding back her tears. It was amazing seeing her being strong for me, her older sister. But I could hear her worry in the question she threw at me ” what are we going to do?” I stopped eating, looked at her and I didn’t know what to say . I didn’t know how the answer might sound but deep down I didn’t care. How was I to tell my sister that I don’t feel bad for killing the man I once called father?
For 8 years after Mama died, we became his “thing”. Not his daughters. He gave us shelter and food. Occasionally. When he was in a good mood, I would see his missing tooth on the right through his smile. A smile. I soon forgot how to do that. Not because I was ugly, but I had become accustomed to being tough and angry at God and everybody. I tried to smile and be nice when I was out of the house, but beneath that was the kind of hurt that isn’t written on the face. Take off my top and it stares right at you. You see my story waiting to be read, boldly written in marks. Some are healing,some are healed.
I grew to accept my story. I didn’t fight it, even though I had so much anger in me with no one to talk to and loads of trouble. I cried when obianuju wasn’t looking. She was my responsibility and I stayed for her. She was my responsibility. My one job was to protect her. She didn’t have to suffer any of this. But fate thought otherwise. It was a Saturday morning, I went early to start sales at the market shop which I took over from Mama, obianuju was to come later. But in the midst of the chaos I lost track of time and obianuju wasn’t here. I panicked as I rushed to the house just in time to see Papa on top of his 14 year old daughter. I heard obianuju screaming,crying and begging for mercy. I boiled with rage. I felt my heart race as I thought of a thousand ways for him to die. I ran outside to grab a stick, running in with so much anger and speed in my tiny body. With all the strength I could muster, I flung the stick at him and missed. He pushed me as he struggled to pull up his trousers while walking away. Not going down without a fight , like a tigress on drugs, I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and without thinking , I ran into him. With a tight hug, for the first time, I pushed the knife in. And thought of Mama and obianuju. He was not going to get away with this. She was my responsibility. In tears and rage , I brought out the knife and put it back in, even deeper. Twisting and turning. I closed my eyes as I killed the man I once called father.
poeticrandomness 