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 Happy New Month people! I was talking to someone recently and complaining about how this year has not been the greatest and this is an euphemism…But we still here, we still here and that more than everything else is more than enough to be thankful for.

Life affords us choices. Some of these choices will be wrong, some will be disguised as shortcuts to our destinations…I wish I could say I haven’t taken shortcuts but I have. These days I am learning to put my hand in the hands of He who knows tomorrow from today and let him lead me right. If you know me, you know I am not very easily led but I am here, I am here. 

Enjoy Aku’s story and keep your heads up. It isn’t over till it is. And when it is we still have eternity.

 

Morning descends on the slums differently  than it does the dwellings of the prosperous. The crowing of the skinny cocks that plague the neighborhood I grew up in is a thousand decibels short those of  the fat birds that dot the Mezies’ compound where I am maid, nanny, cook and other things that fit into no specific job category.

It is barely dawn but I can already hear my father making ready for his job at the factory. Papa has always been diligent at, and proud of his supervisor role at the cement plant. I have always wondered why this diligence failed to show up in his role as father. Before every month was over, my father’s wages were already spent, leaving our expectant bellies unfilled. There was Ibe, the pam wine tapper to be paid. There were numerous debts to lotto dealers. There was always something more important than our needs.

I push down the bile of bitterness that threatens to rear its ugly head. It is too early to be bitter. I have been bitter for most of my life and it has changed nothing. I hear my father curse out loud at some object with which he has collided. He only has himself to blame. Yesterday when Mama asked him for money for kerosene to fuel her lamp, he paid her no mind. It had been while he was singing one of his happy palm wine songs. He had not missed a beat as he heard my mother out.

I roll over on my mat and pull the little one closer to me for warmth. She coughs but settles back into deep slumber so quickly that I smile. I envy her. She sleeps on a mat and is content. I used to be content too until last month when I resumed at the Mezies’ and got a queen bed to myself. Things have changed so much in between now and then. I am no longer satisfied with the lot fate has carved out for me in these miserable dwellings.

I know now that there is escape from this place where ordinary soap is a luxury. I have dined with kings and now my mother’s cooking burns holes in my throat so that I cannot swallow down the fufu she lovingly pounded in expectation of my visit. Guilt fills my belly as I remember how I had turned away from my mother’s food last night. She had looked at me with hurt eyes. My brothers were only too glad to polish off the rest of my food.

I wait till my father leaves the house before I stretch and yawn. The sun has finally found its way to these parts and it is easier to see my squalid surroundings. My brothers lie on a separate mat from I and the little one. Okemute’s trousers are already too small for him even though Mama bought them just two months back. Ochuko lies sprawled like a drunken prize fighter. Only last night, Mama told me with so much pride how he has been chosen to participate in some inter-school sports competition. She assured me he is faster than Ben Johnson ever was. I had laughed long and hard at that last night.

I long to ease their slumber with one of the many soft blankets at the Mezies’. If I could, I would protect them from the mosquitoes and the life the slum breeds. I long to do better by them. I am no longer content with just being their sister. I want to be their savior.

‘Akueke!’ My mother calls out. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Ooh Nnem. I am awake.’

‘Did you sleep well, my child? Are you hungry? You know you didn’t eat last night. Should I make you something? I have the brown pap you love so much. Ojuigo’s mother just made a fresh batch.’

‘No Nnem, I am fine. I ate heavily before leaving the Mezies’ yesterday.’

I fold the wrapper that covered my dreams last night and turn my back on her so she cannot see my face and tell that I am lying. My mother always knows when I lie. When I finish, I turn around but she is gone from the one bedroom that serves as living room, store and home to my family.

I find her outside tending a newly made fire. I cannot tell whether the tears in her eyes are from my refusing breakfast or from blowing on the coals.

‘Nnem, I have to be on my way back.’

‘O di nma. It is well my child. I hope they are treating you well oh? If they aren’t, I can always ask that woman that helped us find you work to look for another family.’

‘No Nnem, they are very kind and Mazi Eze has even instructed the children’s lesson teacher to help me prepare for JAMB.’

‘God will bless him for me. My chi will make his path in life easier.’

I do not say amen to her prayers. Instead, I open my bag and hand her my wages. Her mouth falls open at the sight of the sheaves of notes.

‘All this for us, Aku? Plus all that food you brought home yesterday? Ah! You have done well my child. God will continue to use you to bless us. Daalu, o.’

I smile and let my mother’s praises soothe my sore body and lighten the heaviness in my heart. She is still praying for me when the little one makes her unsteady way from inside the house. I had hoped to leave without any drama. One look at me and my packed bag and the eyes she was rubbing sleep from fill with tears.

‘Aku? Are you going again?’ She asks tearfully.

‘Only for a little while, my love.’ I say to her as I kneel to hug her.

‘I will see you again soon. Make sure you take care of Mama and Papa and read your books. When next I come, I will bring you a new dress.’

‘You promise?’ She asks, her lips quivering with unshed tears.

‘I promise,’ I tell her, my heart breaking.

I dust off the dirt from my knees and look in my mother’s direction.

‘Nnem, I am off.’ I tell her. We exchange a look and I mouth her a thank you that my child cannot see.

They are still waving goodbye as I take the turn that leads to the way out of this life. My heart is plagued with the picture of my graying mother straining to lift the child. She has no business taking care of a 3 year old at 52 but this is life in the slums, a vicious cycle, with no rest for the weary.

I stare at the half naked children that are already out in the streets, playing football to forget the hunger that gnaws their little bellies. Someday, I promise myself, some day there will be no need to leave my child behind in this sorry place. No need to wave unhappy goodbyes.

Mazi Mezie will be home alone. He had whispered this little secret in my ears as he forced sheaves of Naira notes into my hands after that first night he forced himself on me.

‘The children will go church and then their mother’s. We will have the house to ourselves. There is more where that came from.’ He had said to me pointing to the money in my hands.

I shudder as I think of the bald man who is waiting expectantly for my return and my stomach boils with vomit. I want to run back to my mother and find safety from the world in her bosom. But I think of the child looking forward to a new dress and I swallow back my vomit. I force my feet to go in the direction of Mazi Mezie’s four poster bed

There are different roads out of the slum. I hail one of the commercial motorcycles that dot the area like flies. I give him directions; I want the fastest way out. I want the short cut.

 

Song of the day: Cold Play – Viva la Vida

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3 Comments

  1. ekpo ezechinyere December 4, 2014 Reply

    PAINFUL!!!! I so hate poverty! Sadly, the shortcut is usually a long road….masterful as usual my sister…

  2. yougeecash December 4, 2014 Reply

    Beautiful.

  3. topazo December 13, 2014 Reply

    Beautiful

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