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Fiction
That I May
Live
a short story by
Temitayo
Olofinlua
My Mama died
that night, that dark night when the rains tore
at the roof of the house; that night when
thunderclaps made me recoil under the wrapper
that I held close to my body, my legs bent
inward towards my chest like an embryo; that
deep dark night when the best place to be was to
be covered in the blanket of the warmth of a
lover’s bosom; that night when beds creaked in
the unison of human seeds being sowed to be
harvested in months; that night that flooded my
Mama’s heart with the darkness of gloom, the
hands of fear of rejection holding her down to
that seat with her gaze fixed on the emptiness
through the window.
When I
returned from the market, my empty tray held
down on my head with my left hand, I found her
resting her hands on the wooden frame of the
window, opened into the room, with her face
withdrawn, longing etched boldly into her eyes.
Her focus: the only path from the city. I
greeted her, she mumbled a response. I knew it
was one of her dark moods: she spoke to no one;
only eyes empty of affection casting deep looks
into nothingness; she replied no greetings;
didn’t move out of the room, all night and day;
not taking her bath and not eating. The demons
have come to haunt her again; she would speak to
herself, to people I cannot see. Sometimes I
understand and at other times, she is
incoherent. That night, I understood.
Clapping her
hands together, then standing her chin on her
right arm with her elbow resting on her thighs
as if in deep thought, she broke into her
speech: this man will not kill me o...going and
coming like a visitor when he is not. May the
Lagos devil eat him up...no, no, my God will
keep him. ‘Eeah!’ she exclaimed, tapping her
fingers over her head and out towards the
window. That night, my mother died.
That night, I
lay hungry and angry in the old bed where I
usually snuggled between my Mama and Papa
whenever he came on those stolen moments. That
night, the violent gnawing of the worms at my
intestines did not make me ask for food lest the
molten fires of her anger, having dripped down,
would burn me dark. When I turned to the wall,
feigning sleep and shutting out the demons that
my Mama summoned, I left her there staring,
waiting and longing for a lover.
Her voice came
to me again, those low tones that carried anger,
fear and helplessness on its wings: the dollar
has crashed, they say there is a crunch, global
economic downturn, others said. Na dem dey
crunch, me I dey kampe. Then, she laughed out
loud, not the one she gave when my father
tickled her. This one was throaty and dark,
almost evil. She walked around again, picking
and dropping unsold onions in the basket at the
corner of the room, I know that’s what she is
doing: I know the crashing sound. She dragged
out the old metal box from under the bed; the
screeching sounds making goose bumps rise in my
flesh. I turned so I saw her through my covered
eyes, she brought out her old Grade II Teachers’
Training Certificate beaten by age, with the
veins of the paper saved from falling through by
the lamination. She stood and called out her
grades: English-A2, Biology-C5, Mathematics-P8
(I too hate Maths), Economics-A1 (I liked that
one)...reeling it all out.
Then she paced
around the room, murmuring as if a thousand
mosquitoes were buzzing in the room. The thunder
clapped out loud again, and I shuffle in
pretended sleep. She pauses, not to disturb me.
Then she sobbed silently tears dropping from her
eyes: Odigwe said that I gave him the disease,
and I know I will die. Of hunger. Of people’s
stares heavy with unspoken words...of their
coldness, my unsold onions, where do I get money
for food? Yes, I gave him, I gave the cobbler
that died down the street, the pastor in church,
and the imam; I gave them all so they give me
money...
That night my
Mama died.
Today I look
back. Papa has not returned. My Mama still goes
out in the morning without washing and wearing
those dirty old gowns; taking her onions with
her sometimes in bowls at other times, hanging
heavily on her breath after eating them.
Sometimes, she comes home with the dry onion
leaves in her entangled hair, singing loudly and
dancing: I sell onions; I give them the disease,
onions and disease, I give them all. She still
comes in every night, pecks me on the cheek and
looks deep into the night. Waiting...
Tonight she
comes when the dusk has gone to bed and dawn
beckons; her black gown torn, stained with
something whitish as pap with blotches of red;
she has tears welled at the edge of her eyelids.
She does not go to the window to wait. She goes
outside, takes a bath and lies beside me. With
the tears dropping from her eyes wetting my
newly plaited hair, she snuggles close like a
hen protecting its chicks from the preying eyes
of the hawk. As I enter her again, she whimpers,
tracing my cornrows: Nothing will happen to you,
they will not give you the disease. I will
protect you.
She died that
I may live.
{ED’s Note: Another version of this story was
published year in Reindeer, the inflight
magazine of ABC Transport Company. }
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