NNE

Ezioma Kalu

It’s another Saturday morning, and I’m having Pap and Akara for breakfast. When I take a bite of akara, I also take a gulp of water to shove the tortuous ball down my throat. Thank God I still have my bandanna, the blue, polka dot hanky, Nne’s ex-lover, Uncle Obiajulu gifted me last Christmas. I swaddle my nose in it, and feel a little comfort. Otherwise, the cow-dung-scented akara balls will make me nauseous. And if I throw up, Nne will get mad and call me a bastard, and spank me. Nne does not love me, and I swear to God, the feeling is one hundred percent mutual. But if she is on an airplane and it crashes, I will mourn. I will mourn the airplane, because it doesnt deserve to experience the evil that is my mother, who is like a suction cup, sucking the essence, the goodness of everything she encounters, everyone she meets. I will mourn because the inanimateness of the airplane has caused its destruction. If it were animate, it would have clutched its wings and denied her access, because Nnes evil aura is conspicuous, one could smell it from a million miles away. Poor airplane I will definitely weep for it. Mothers are supreme, I believe, but some mothers are more supreme than others. Now replace some mothers with Nne, because she is the most supreme of all supreme mothers. Who else has the ability to dethrone Lucifer, snatch the keys of hell from him and become the commander-in-chief of all evil forces? Nah, no one comes close to her supremacy. Who fit try am kwanu? Nne controls the affairs of hell, Hades and everywhere in-between. Yes, thats how evil she is.
Im wrinkling my nose and picking at my food, hoping these balls of Akara will disappear, or eat themselves, or do whatever they like, anything but touch my mouth and slide to my tummy. But hope is not enough, so these miserable akara balls wont vanish from my plate, simply because I wish for them to.
In school, Aunty Nkiru says we should be cheerful while having our meals, its a good table manner, and it makes the food digest better. Odiegwu Does one look cheerful while fighting a battle? Because this - shoving akara balls and spoonfuls of watery pap down my throat, is a punitive activity, nothing like enjoyment. So why should I care if it digests in my body or goes to the septic tank?
If wishes are wraps of sharwama, then a pauper like me will be on her third wrap, devouring all the orishirishi that come with it. Cabbages and sausages are the banes of my existence, but I dont mind feeding on them all day. Unfortunately, wishes are no wraps of sharwama. They are simply what they are, wishes.
They say fake it till you make it, and if you pretend youre what youre not, youll really become that. But my attempt at pretending I am Kezie Amalu, the doe-eyed new boy in my class, who comes to school daily with a flask of mouth-watering noodles and fried eggs, and that I am eating that yummy goodness, as supposed to this garbage, is a hopeless fiasco. Because the stench from this bone-piercingly disgusting balls of Akara, is making me second guess my consciousness.
When Nne comes into the living room, I pretend to be relishing my meal, because I’d be in a hot soup if she smells something fishy. She is clad in a yellow bodycon gown and black high-heeled shoes. The pungent smell of the five different colognes she’s wearing stings me like a wasp, and I hold my nose with my thumb and index finger, so the odour wont compel my heartbeat to a stand-still.
Good morning Nne, I say, pressing my knees together and cutting the remaining Akara balls in my plate into tiny pieces. But she ignores me, as always. Not like I expect a hug and kiss from her anyway
She’s humming along to Flavour’s Ashawo, as she applies a glossy, red lipstick, deftly like a professional. When shes done, she peers into a mirror, smacks her lips and smiles at herself. Of course, she never smiles at me; I can go to hell for all she cares.
The concept of childbearing will never make sense to me, because whats the point? They even say women go through hell during labor, and Im like why? To what end? Why bring a child from wherever it is they come from, to this wild, wicked world, only to treat them like they are relatives of Satan? Im not sure why Nne resents me so much, but I know for a fact that Im not the cause of her misery. So why put it out on me? Did I make her lose her country in her previous life? What exactly is my crime? Did I ever ask to be born? Did she hear me lament that Father Abrahams bosom was itching me, and I was dying to relieve myself of that discomfort? Why did she have to make me leave there, and bring me here to suffer neglect?
Of course these questions never leave the confinement of my mind, because them no born me well to open my mouth and challenge Nne. The day I try that one is the day she will uproot all my teeth and give me to swallow. Ahh! Nne will skin me alive and use my skin to make drums. How can a feeble eight year old girl like me fight back kwanu? What powers do I possess? I can only cuss her out in my mind, while I endure her endless assault. But yadiba…
One day I will also be an adult, and have the balls to interrogate Nne on why she chose me to be the specimen of her test for wickedness, on why she deliberately brought me to this earth to prove that indeed she defeated Satan, and is flexing her new found nefarious power.
I’ve heard the other kids in school say their parents recite daily words of affirmation to them, to make them feel loved and appreciated. Words like, “You’re beautiful, you’re enough, you’re the best... Words I had waited, wished and prayed to hear from Nne all my life, but my case is always different.
Nne is no different from the parents of the kids in my school sha, just that she’s a bit creative in her own style of affirmation. In place of You’re beautiful, she says, You should never have been born. In place of You’re enough, she says, You’re a nuisance, and a freaking bastard. And in place of You’re the best, she goes on a narration binge, telling me cruel tales of how perfect her life was, when I wasn’t in the picture. Tales of how she tried so much to 'flush' me out, but my obstinacy and pigheadedness, somehow turned those abortion pills to folic acid drugs, and nourished me, instead of squeezing the life that shouldn’t have existed, out of me.
I do not really understand what 'flush' and 'abortion pills' mean, but those words manage to knock me out cold with a sledgehammer every day, because I know they are bad. Can anything good come out of Nne?
The first clap of thunder I hear makes me flinch and gasp. Asides Nne, the next worst thing to happen to me is rain. Im scared of rains, because Nne had pushed me out in the rain when I was five, because I forgot to clean her shoes. Id have died of cold that night, but for the timely intervention of Mrs. Orjiakor, the broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman, with a pair of tired eyes and a face that was always ready to smile, who lived next door, and who Nne called a barren witch when she brought me back. Id never been more afraid in my life. I was out in the rain till late at night, when she came back from vigil, took me to her apartment and gave me warm clothes and medicine.
Will it rain today? I don’t want to be alone in this house when it rains. Nne please, stay with me, I say inwardly. Though I act like Im tough and all, I am very weak and fearful. I always curl under my duvet, clutching my teddy bear, scared something will eat me up in the dark, whenever Nne leaves me and goes off. Her own mothering style is unique. Which mother leaves her eight year old daughter in the house alone the whole day, and comes back late at night drunk and wasted? Thats why I say shes the most supreme of all supreme mothers.
Nawa o… This rain should not just spoil my market. I gats make plenty money today, Nne says, chewing gum like a masticating goat. She adjusts her gown and is ready to leave, when I swallow my pride, scurry to her feet and grip her. I know I say I dont love her, but its what I force myself to believe. Pretending I hate her too, will lessen the pain in my heart and cut the spirit of expectation from me, or so I think. But its not working. I dont want to hate her; I want to be like other daughters.
I want us to be like normal families, one where wed say I love you to each other and mean it. One where she will stay home with me when its raining and Im scared, snuggle me in bed, kiss my forehead and tell me she loves me, that I matter, that shell always be there for me. Gosh! All I want is to know how it feels to be needed, to be cherished, to be loved. Is all I want too much to ask? Am I asking for the impossible?
“Nne, please don’t leave me alone today. I don’t like being lonely. Biko, please let’s stay at home together. I feel my breath bursting in and out as I plead. And I am blinking rapidly, as if to say 'get back inside now!' to the tears readying for their emancipation from my eyes' captivity.
“Bia, Kosi it’s like you’re crazy. How dare you touch me with those grimy, leprous hands of yours? Will you get out of my sight before I break your head?
“Nne, please it’s always scary when you’re not here with me. I don’t like staying alone, Nne, bikonu. The tears are streaming down my eyes now, like I didnt do my best to restrain them. The fight against tears is one I can never win. Each time I try, they leave me curled up in a ball, crushed, defeated. But Nne doesn’t possess the ability to sympathize with anyone. Nouns like Pity and Sympathy can never be found in her emotional dictionary.
“Kosi, if you don’t stop this madness now, I’ll throw you out in the rain, and even if Mrs. Orjiakor rises from her grave to bring you back, Ill never take you in. Oginidi? What is your problem? It’s like I’m being too lenient with you. I don’t blame you nah. You have a roof over your head, eat my food, and go to school. Even if it’s an all-expense paid government school, at least I sent you to one. She eyes me contemptuously, shuts her eyes and says, If I open my eyes and you’re still here, you’ll smell your ass. Ewu, Goat, Bitch, the cuss words flow like the Niagara from her mouth. She yanks me off her, toots, and says something about living in discomfort because of me, on her way out.
The second clap of thunder is accompanied by a drizzle. I wipe my eyes with my bandanna, place both hands on my chest, and mutter All Izz Well, like Rancho does in my favorite Indian film, Three Idiots. That action weirdly serves as a soothing balm to me, because I feel relieved, whenever I do that. But is all really well? I sigh, and stroll to the kitchen to get rid of the remaining pap and akara balls in my plates. The pap has already congealed, after the debacle I pulled with Nne.
“Good riddance I mumble, as I empty the plates in the waste bin. I am probably the loneliest eight year old human in Enugu or the entire Nigeria even. Did I ever ask for such a lonely life?
***
Each month meets Nne with a new lover. We are now in the month of May, but I’ve met five different men she brought home and introduced as her lover. There was Uncle Ebuka, the tall and thin and ugly young man, who looked more like Izaga masquerade than he looked human. He never smiled at me, and I made sure to return the favor, because who gives a hoot about him? Definitely not Kosisochukwu. Next was uncle Nnamdi, with his funny, receding hairline. Whenever I hear the story of Moses and the divided red sea, I think of uncle Nnamdis balding head. Thank God he anything good come out of Nne?
The first clap of thunder I hear makes me flinch and gasp. Asides Nne, the next worst thing to happen to me is rain. Im scared of rains, because Nne had pushed me out in the rain when I was five, because I forgot to clean her shoes. Id have died of cold that night, but for the timely intervention of Mrs. Orjiakor, the broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman, with a pair of tired eyes and a face that was always ready to smile, who lived next door, and who Nne called a barren witch when she brought me back. Id never been more afraid in my life. I was out in the rain till late at night, when she came back from vigil, took me to her apartment and gave me warm clothes and medicine.
Will it rain today? I don’t want to be alone in this house when it rains. Nne please, stay with me, I say inwardly. Though I act like Im tough and all, I am very weak and fearful. I always curl under my duvet, clutching my teddy bear, scared something will eat me up in the dark, whenever Nne leaves me and goes off. Her own mothering style is unique. Which mother leaves her eight year old daughter in the house alone the whole day, and comes back late at night drunk and wasted? Thats why I say shes the most supreme of all supreme mothers.
Nawa o… This rain should not just spoil my market. I gats make plenty money today, Nne says, chewing gum like a masticating goat. She adjusts her gown and is ready to leave, when I swallow my pride, scurry to her feet and grip her. I know I say I dont love her, but its what I force myself to believe. Pretending I hate her too, will lessen the pain in my heart and cut the spirit of expectation from me, or so I think. But its not working. I dont want to hate her; I want to be like other daughters.
I want us to be like normal families, one where wed say I love you to each other and mean it. One where she will stay home with me when its raining and Im scared, snuggle me in bed, kiss my forehead and tell me she loves me, that I matter, that shell always be there for me. Gosh! All I want is to know how it feels to be needed, to be cherished, to be loved. Is all I want too much to ask? Am I asking for the impossible?
“Nne, please don’t leave me alone today. I don’t like being lonely. Biko, please let’s stay at home together. I feel my breath bursting in and out as I plead. And I am blinking rapidly, as if to say 'get back inside now!' to the tears readying for their emancipation from my eyes' captivity.
“Bia, Kosi it’s like you’re crazy. How dare you touch me with those grimy, leprous hands of yours? Will you get out of my sight before I break your head?
“Nne, please it’s always scary when you’re not here with me. I don’t like staying alone, Nne, bikonu. The tears are streaming down my eyes now, like I didnt do my best to restrain them. The fight against tears is one I can never win. Each time I try, they leave me curled up in a ball, crushed, defeated. But Nne doesn’t possess the ability to sympathize with anyone. Nouns like Pity and Sympathy can never be found in her emotional dictionary.
“Kosi, if you don’t stop this madness now, I’ll throw you out in the rain, and even if Mrs. Orjiakor rises from her grave to bring you back, Ill never take you in. Oginidi? What is your problem? It’s like I’m being too lenient with you. I don’t blame you nah. You have a roof over your head, eat my food, and go to school. Even if it’s an all-expense paid government school, at least I sent you to one. She eyes me contemptuously, shuts her eyes and says, If I open my eyes and you’re still here, you’ll smell your ass. Ewu, Goat, Bitch, the cuss words flow like the Niagara from her mouth. She yanks me off her, toots, and says something about living in discomfort because of me, on her way out.
The second clap of thunder is accompanied by a drizzle. I wipe my eyes with my bandanna, place both hands on my chest, and mutter All Izz Well, like Rancho does in my favorite Indian film, Three Idiots. That action weirdly serves as a soothing balm to me, because I feel relieved, whenever I do that. But is all really well? I sigh, and stroll to the kitchen to get rid of the remaining pap and akara balls in my plates. The pap has already congealed, after the debacle I pulled with Nne.
“Good riddance I mumble, as I empty the plates in the waste bin. I am probably the loneliest eight year old human in Enugu or the entire Nigeria even. Did I ever ask for such a lonely life?
***
Each month meets Nne with a new lover. We are now in the month of May, but I’ve met five different men she brought home and introduced as her lover. There was Uncle Ebuka, the tall and thin and ugly young man, who looked more like Izaga masquerade than he looked human. He never smiled at me, and I made sure to return the favor, because who gives a hoot about him? Definitely not Kosisochukwu
Next was uncle Nnamdi, with his funny, receding hairline. Whenever I hear the story of Moses and the divided red sea, I think of uncle Nnamdis balding head. Thank God he anything good come out of Nne?
The first clap of thunder I hear makes me flinch and gasp. Asides Nne, the next worst thing to happen to me is rain. Im scared of rains, because Nne had pushed me out in the rain when I was five, because I forgot to clean her shoes. Id have died of cold that night, but for the timely intervention of Mrs. Orjiakor, the broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman, with a pair of tired eyes and a face that was always ready to smile, who lived next door, and who Nne called a barren witch when she brought me back. Id never been more afraid in my life. I was out in the rain till late at night, when she came back from vigil, took me to her apartment and gave me warm clothes and medicine.
Will it rain today? I don’t want to be alone in this house when it rains. Nne please, stay with me, I say inwardly. Though I act like Im tough and all, I am very weak and fearful. I always curl under my duvet, clutching my teddy bear, scared something will eat me up in the dark, whenever Nne leaves me and goes off. Her own mothering style is unique. Which mother leaves her eight year old daughter in the house alone the whole day, and comes back late at night drunk and wasted? Thats why I say shes the most supreme of all supreme mothers.
Nawa o… This rain should not just spoil my market. I gats make plenty money today, Nne says, chewing gum like a masticating goat. She adjusts her gown and is ready to leave, when I swallow my pride, scurry to her feet and grip her. I know I say I dont love her, but its what I force myself to believe. Pretending I hate her too, will lessen the pain in my heart and cut the spirit of expectation from me, or so I think. But its not working. I dont want to hate her; I want to be like other daughters.
I want us to be like normal families, one where wed say I love you to each other and mean it. One where she will stay home with me when its raining and Im scared, snuggle me in bed, kiss my forehead and tell me she loves me, that I matter, that shell always be there for me. Gosh! All I want is to know how it feels to be needed, to be cherished, to be loved. Is all I want too much to ask? Am I asking for the impossible?
“Nne, please don’t leave me alone today. I don’t like being lonely. Biko, please let’s stay at home together. I feel my breath bursting in and out as I plead. And I am blinking rapidly, as if to say 'get back inside now!' to the tears readying for their emancipation from my eyes' captivity.
“Bia, Kosi it’s like you’re crazy. How dare you touch me with those grimy, leprous hands of yours? Will you get out of my sight before I break your head?
“Nne, please it’s always scary when you’re not here with me. I don’t like staying alone, Nne, bikonu. The tears are streaming down my eyes now, like I didnt do my best to restrain them. The fight against tears is one I can never win. Each time I try, they leave me curled up in a ball, crushed, defeated. But Nne doesn’t possess the ability to sympathize with anyone. Nouns like Pity and Sympathy can never be found in her emotional dictionary.
“Kosi, if you don’t stop this madness now, I’ll throw you out in the rain, and even if Mrs. Orjiakor rises from her grave to bring you back, Ill never take you in. Oginidi? What is your problem? It’s like I’m being too lenient with you. I don’t blame you nah. You have a roof over your head, eat my food, and go to school. Even if it’s an all-expense paid government school, at least I sent you to one. She eyes me contemptuously, shuts her eyes and says, If I open my eyes and you’re still here, you’ll smell your ass. Ewu, Goat, Bitch, the cuss words flow like the Niagara from her mouth. She yanks me off her, toots, and says something about living in discomfort because of me, on her way out.
The second clap of thunder is accompanied by a drizzle. I wipe my eyes with my bandanna, place both hands on my chest, and mutter All Izz Well, like Rancho does in my favorite Indian film, Three Idiots. That action weirdly serves as a soothing balm to me, because I feel relieved, whenever I do that. But is all really well? I sigh, and stroll to the kitchen to get rid of the remaining pap and akara balls in my plates. The pap has already congealed, after the debacle I pulled with Nne.
“Good riddance I mumble, as I empty the plates in the waste bin. I am probably the loneliest eight year old human in Enugu or the entire Nigeria even. Did I ever ask for such a lonely life?
***
Each month meets Nne with a new lover. We are now in the month of May, but I’ve met five different men she brought home and introduced as her lover. There was Uncle Ebuka, the tall and thin and ugly young man, who looked more like Izaga masquerade than he looked human. He never smiled at me, and I made sure to return the favor, because who gives a hoot about him? Definitely not Kosisochukwu
Next was uncle Nnamdi, with his funny, receding hairline. Whenever I hear the story of Moses and the divided red sea, I think of uncle Nnamdis balding head. Thank God he didnt end up with Nne, or I would have had bald step-siblings.
Uncle Adindu was the worst. He was an anachronism, a throwback to an earlier epoch. I wonder why Nne has a horrible taste in men. Uncle Adindu looked like an artifact, like something you could only see in Museums, with his enormous nose that covered almost all the spaces in his huge face.
However, Uncle Izunna was better looking than the others, even though he always wore the same pair of shoes every other day. But I didnt like him either. He, like the others always pretended I never existed, except for Uncle Onyekwere.
Uncle Onyekwere, a charcoal-faced, beardless young man who would be in his late thirties, is Nne’s current lover. His face looks weirdly leveled, though his forehead swells unattractively above it, like a steamroller was moving slowly over his head, and then thinking better of it, reversed, and left his face half-flattened.
Whenever I see him, I think of Kevin Hart, the American Comedian, and Ukariwo, the senile, always-drunk neighborhood watch, who everyone calls Nwakpuda the dwarf, and who I’ve never met in his sober mood.
Uncle Onyekwere would have been appealing, if not for the twin handicaps of his height, and his funny-structured face. But he is more humane than the others. He always smiles at me whenever he comes by, and regards me as a human, even more than Nne, my mother. The third clap of thunder, and I run to the verandah. It’s better I die of cold, than slouch in the sofa of darkness. I’m scared, and wish Nne didn’t leave.
The sky is black like the coal-tar road opposite our compound, and the huge cloud is moving towards me, as if to swallow me. People are hurrying to their destinations to avoid getting drenched, because with the way the weather is changing, itd definitely be a torrential downpour. The dainty, brown-eyed woman who lives in the next street, yells at her two year old son to hurry, the rain is coming and they have no umbrella. She calls him Bobo. In Enugu, mothers use affectionate names for their kids. The little boys are called Bobo, while their female counterparts are called Maama. I’ve always longed to be called Maama” by Nne, to receive occasional hugs and kisses. I want to be fragile, to always be on her mind, to make her see me as something precious, delicate, special. Something she’d be scared of losing, something worth more than a bag of weeds.
The rain starts murmuring like white noise, making a lovely, lilting sound. Soon, it becomes a pitter-patter, and people scuttle for shelter in Mama Chukwuma’s shop in our compound. Umbrellas flip open from different corners of the road, as the heavens urinate on us.
I am about to go back into the living room, when I see Uncle Onyekwere running towards our compound. Suddenly, the hopelessness partying on my face morphs into a broad grin. But why is he here though? He never comes to the house in the noon time, never comes on his own, always trudges beside Nne every evening when he comes visiting… A knock on the door suspends my thoughts.
“Uncle…! I scream, as I open the door and hug him. I smell vanilla on him as he hugs me tightly, too tight for comfort. I feel a tingling sensation in my spine, as he breathes down on my nape, and I wriggle out of the extended hug. I dont know what it means, but I know Ive never felt this way before.

“Uncle, Nne is not home,” I say, gaping at him like a trout.
“I know.
And you came?
“Yes, to spend some time with you. Or don’t you feel lonely in this big house?
You bet I do... I feel a fluttery feeling in my belly, because no one has ever thought of me. Is God finally answering my prayers? What is going on? I want to smile, to tell him I’m happy he’s around, to tell him I appreciate his company much more than he can imagine, to narrate my pathetic, lonely tales to him, but when I open my mouth to talk, I say, You’re drenched. Come on in.
He comes in and looks around, as if today is his first time of coming here. As if he wasn’t here yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.
“I’d get you some Uncle Abuchi’s clothes. They’d fit,” I say.
Who is Uncle Abuchi? He asks, touching the large crucifix on the wall, and smiling to himself.
“Nne’s ex-lover…”
He breaks into a cackle, and asks me not to bother, that he is fine. “Instead, come and sit with me and make me warm, he winks at me and sits down on the black, leather sofa.
“Make you warm? How am I supposed to do that? I say. But he ignores me, pulls his wet shirt and trousers, flings them to the floor, drags me to his side and places my head on his laps. I can smell urine from his boxers, and wonder if he didn’t clean up after his last urination. He’s fiddling with my hair, and caressing my face.
It feels weird, lying on someone’s laps and having my face caressed. Nne would never do that, never allow me touch her, and she wouldnt touch me too. Then it feels incredible, I don’t want him to go. I want to be locked-up in that position forever. Is this the feeling of comfort? Is this the feeling of love? Is this the feeling Ive always longed to feel; of companionship, of care? I feel a strong awareness of my own heartbeat; it is thumping faster and faster.
Neither of us says a word to each other. We are just sitting and lying still, offering each other warmth, as he says. Then his hands slowly travel downwards to my skirt. What is he doing? It feels strange. I want to ask him to stop, but I’m nervous. I’m afraid Ill annoy him, and he’ll leave me to wallow in the darkness of loneliness and cold. So, I say nothing.
But my mouth becomes unnecessarily moist. So moist that I’m swallowing lots of saliva, but more seem to build up. I dont know what to make of that, what to make of this feeling, my heart rolling in my stomach. Im trying to ignore the thud of my heart crashing against my ribs, but I cant. I dont know what Uncle Onyekwere is doing to me, but I dont want him to stop. His hands keep going downward, and goose bumps as large as boils, overwhelm me.
Soon, he slides my panties down, revealing my tender private part. Aunty Nkiru warns that no boy should ever touch that place. It is sacred, and needs to be revered. Anyone that allows a boy touch it would go to hell. But Uncle Onyekwere is not a boy, neither is he my classmate, so does that rule apply to him too? This thing he is doing to me doesnt feel wrong, but Im not sure if its right either.
My lips are quivering, as I try to force a sound from my larynx. Uncle, please stop, I finally whisper. I don’t want to go to hell.”
Who says you’re going to hell?
“My class teacher...
What does she know? He toots in mockery. This is called love-making. It shows I love and care about you. It means you’re mine and I’m yours. It means you will be my wife.
“What about Nne? You’re her lover.
Not anymore… I’m yours now, he says, and removes my panties completely.
But Im still a child
It doesnt matter The younger, the better
A smile starts to build on my face when I hear him say that. Finally, my lonely days are over, the good times are here. I have successfully stolen something from Nne, something she cherishes. I want her to feel everything shes making me feel. I want her to be jealous of me too, like I am of her. She has everything Ive always wanted, love, care, companionship. She has so many people who love her, I mean she’s a man boutique, she changes them like clothes; she has them in various sizes, shapes and forms. But I have no one Oh, how can I forget? I have someone now, someone who wants to marry me, someone who will take me away from Nne and we will live happily ever after, like the fairy tales.
I shudder like a branch before a storm, when he touches my private part. He gently strokes and caresses. It doesn’t feel weird no more. In fact, it feels good. I dont want him to stop, ever! But he suddenly stops and asks me to kneel before him. I obey without asking questions, like a lamb about to be slain. If kneeling is the price I’ll pay to conquer loneliness and have my own person, I’ll gladly do so. He pulls his boxers and reveals his own private part, but I recoil and close my eyes.
The sight is too much for me to behold. His private part is extremely huge, so enormous like the Ji ohuu’ Nne buys for New Yam festivals, so dark and nothing like the size of my index finger, like Chimas own. Chima, my classmate in elementary one, always saw the need to show me his private part each day after school. His, was so tiny, exactly the size of my index finger.
I am so nervous that a shallow pool is forming along my spine, and my blood is beating so fast that I can only hear my pulse and nothing else. Why is it so huge? This is so scary, I think, clutching my chest, so my heart doesnt jump out.
“Kosi, please grab it, touch it, it’s all yours, Uncle Onyekwere whispers. How is it mine? I slowly grab it, and he lets out a yelp.
“Yes, rub it, squeeze it. Hard! Harder! He commands, and I wonder if his closed eyes denote enjoyment or pain.
“Now, put in your mouth. Suck it!” He bellows and I jolt. He speaks like someone in a trance, like someone under a spell. His eyes are still shut and his face contorts to a grimace. Without asking questions, I obey. What manner of activity is this?
I put his private part in my mouth, and suck and rub and run my tongue over the tip. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but if he says I should do it, then no complaints. I continue to suck and rub till he screams and I feel some thick, whitish, fluid rush into my mouth. I flinch and run into the bathroom. It’s like phlegm, or should I say a harmonious blend of two things that irritate me the most Pap and phlegm. I retch and vomit everything in my tummy. I’m feeling woozy and weird, but at least I did something with someone. I’m no longer alone.
“You’re mine Kosi, don’t forget that, Uncle Onyekwere’s hoarse and raw voice rings loudly in my ears, long after he’s gone. Now, I’m no longer the lonely, little girl that sits around in fear and whimpers at every slightest sound, during the dark and cold nights. Now, I have something and someone to look forward to doing, to seeing, and the anticipation is exhilarating. Uncle Onyekwere has ensnared me to him. Now, I don’t want anyone to come between us. I want him to be really mine, and mine alone, as he promises.
***
We make love frequently these days. He comes in the afternoon, after Nne has left, and leaves in the evening, before Nne comes home and we make love, to express our love for each other. I am happier than I’ve ever been, ridiculously delighted that I mean something to someone. Uncle Onyekwere is a sweet one. He loves me and I love him too. He buys me chocolates, Ice Cream and sharwama. Then, I suck his private part, and everyone is happy.
But, when I see Uncle Onyekwere in our house today, he doesn’t smile at me like before. He doesn’t bat an eyelid, or wink at me, because he’s not here to see me, he’s here to see Nne. How can he treat me like this? He says I’m his, and Nne won’t be in the picture any longer. So why are they giggling and kissing and touching in the living room? I’m peeping from my room and I hear Nne tell him she’s horny, she needs him inside her, and he smiles and spanks her butt.
I am grinding my teeth, as I watch him carry Nne and kiss her on the lips, cheeks and all over her face while they journey to the room. My mouth sinks into my throat, and I dont know how to retrieve it, how to speak, how to scream. A thickness seems to form in the air around me, and I can barely breathe, barely see Whats with my blurry vision?
“No, this isn’t happening, I whisper, and pace around the room. Nne’s moans make my heart stop beating for a second. When it revivifies, I’m no longer in control of myself. I am ping-ponging between hate and despair. Why always her? Why not me? When I can take the distress and torture no more, I fall to the floor in a scruffy heap. My utter hopelessness and jealousy convert into tears that stream down my face at lightning speed.
I’m no longer sobbing or sucking in snort, I’m wailing, like a widow who also loses her son. Uncle Onyekwere is heartless. He is nefarious, a depraved monster. He says he’s mine, why is he with Nne? My lamentations come from a place of hurt, pain, jealousy.
Why do I always have to lose to Nne? The only time I’m genuinely happy, she steps in like a witch and sucks life out of my happiness.
No, this can’t happen, I say, and spring to my feet. I must take my revenge, I cant accept defeat. No! I’m screaming now, as I run into the kitchen. I must end this madness in a way, I must do something.
“Those bastards can’t get away with this,” I say. Never again I scramble to the backyard, and thank goodness, the petrol Nne bought yesterday, is still in the blue jerry can beside our Elemax Generator. I grab the jerry can and dash back into the kitchen. I sprinkle the contents of the jerry can everywhere; in the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and outside the living room.
I should have never trusted that monster, I say, grabbing the match box on the kitchen cabinet and locking the kitchen door with a huge padlock. Then, I race to the living room. I still hear Nne’s erotic moans Don’t stop! Please don’t ever stop! Go harder! Faster! Deeper!
“Ashawo,” I mutter under my breath. It feels so good to finally garner the balls to address Nne as what she really is. She’s nothing but a cheap slut, a freaking whore.
I am quaking like a leaf, as I stare at the jerry can in my hand, and my mind is filled with self-loathing thoughts. First, I abhor myself for being used like a mere object and tossed aside right after that. Then, I despise Nne for being a witch, for sucking the happiness out of my life, for giving me nothing in my eight years of existence, but pains, agony and more pains. But on the top of my list of people I hate, lies Uncle Onyekwere, the Devil. I detest him for taking advantage of my emotions and playing me like a grand piano, for making a fool of me, and lying that he loves me, when in the end, he still chooses Nne.
Now, I’m outside the living room, a step away from victory. I lock the door, and nod in accomplishment. I wont let them win, not after treating me like a piece of garbage. If theres anyone that deserves to have the last laugh, then its me. I deserve to win; I will win, I will laugh at the end, because its finally my turn. I cast one last glance at our door and say, Hasta la vista bastards.” Then I light a match, and sprint down the stairs, and out of the compound. Away from Nne and Onyekwere, away from pain and loneliness, away from anguish and misery.

Ezioma Kalu is a fast rising Nigerian writer and book blogger. Her works have appeared on some online literary platforms like Kalahari Review, Writers Space Africa - Nigeria, Terror House Magazine, Libretto Magazine, Salamander Ink Magazine, African Writer Magazine, One Black Boy Like That Blog, LivinaPress and elsewhere. She runs a book blog, Ezioma’s book blog, where she writes amazing reviews on books. Kalu writes from Enugu, Nigeria, and she finished as the first runner up in the May 2022 edition of Challenging the writers writing contest. Connect with her on: Facebook : Ezioma Kalu. Twitter:
@EziomaKalu Instagram : @ezioma_kalu.
Book blog:https://eziomablog.wordpress.com/

Waiting For Five O’Clock

Chinonso Nzeh

A geyser of fury unravels over my chest as he reiterates the question under the swift swirling of the ceiling fan.
“Do you even know what you are talking about? How can you say you don’t want to get married?”
His face is insulated in disappointment as he folds his legs and curls even more on the raven three-seater settee opposite me sitting on the dining chair in the sitting room. I hate how comfortable he is in my house, how he slopes his back on the cushion as though his father bought the settee.
“Not everyone is like you. We have different choices and aspirations,” I say, with my voice unsteady.
“Omo, guy, it’s small pikin that’s worrying you. You’re talking like a child. You honestly don’t know what
life is saying, that’s why.”
I breathe hard. I gnash my teeth. I want to tell him to get out of my house. That I do not want to see him again. Ever. That the reason I let him come to my house is that I do not want to hurt his feelings by saying no. That we are not friends, and we can never be. That we are not equally yoked. That I regret ever pointing at my building to him when he asked, on that Saturday morning at the junction, if I still lived around the area, after many years of not seeing him since primary school. That he tampered with my sleep and evaded my space; I should be sleeping or reading or writing now. I clutch the flower vase on the dining table. Tightly.
“Do you know that even God said that marriage is important? It’s in the Bible! Why do you want to go
against it?”
“Not everyone believes in your God!” The words erupt like volcanoes. My riposte is less about my unbelief—because I somewhat believe in a God—and more about the fact that I want to make him, an ecclesiastical fanatic, piqued.
Silence. And then...
“This guy, you are annoying me. Look at everything you are saying… I won’t lie, it’s paining me that my friend does not want to get married.”
I want to ask him, “who is your fucking friend?” But I swallow the words like morsels of eba.
He continues, “so, you will not have children, and your parents will not have grandchildren from you?”
Tears start welling up in my eyes. I bite my lips hard. I close my eyes.
In my head:

I dart to the kitchen to pick up a knife. The sharpest knife. The one with the blue handle and fringed blade. I puncture the wooden table near the kitchen sink to see how sharp it is. I slip the knife inside my pocket, and I trudge back to the sitting room. I walk up to him, and he is deeply engrossed in his phone. Too immersed that he does not notice when I bring out the knife. I stare at his stomach heaving to the tempo of his breath. I take a deep breath, and I plunge the knife deep into his thigh. Now that he notices, he is too weak to say or do anything. The scarlet color of his blood gushes over the settee. He lets out a faint cry and tries to clasp his thigh. I tell him that he deserves this. That he is one of the privileged heteros who are blinded in their convenience that they cannot see anything beyond. I tell him that I love men. That I always have. I ask him, “how do I get married to the love of my life, a man when you people will not let me be?” I remind him about the ugly anti-gay bill that was passed in 2013 December and was enacted in January 2014. I tell him that he is a selfish being who thinks the world revolves around him. I tell him that I do not fucking care about his Bible. I ask him, “or should I marry a woman? Will you be inside the marriage to fuck her and love her so deeply?” I remind him about the previous time he came to my house; how he took my phone, scrolled through my gallery, and found a picture of two men black men hugging intensely; how I lied that they were brothers; how he said, “they should better be brothers because this thing looks like gayism, and gayism is disgusting and an abomination unto God.” How fear and crippling anxiety maimed me that day.
I saunter back to reality, with the fan still swirling, and the sun piercing through the curtain spaces and casting reddish gold prisms near the center table.
“Anyway, na you sabi,” he says, picking up my father’s Sporting Life newspaper to read. I want to tell him to drop the newspaper, to get out. I wish I could be a little of what I am in my head.
“I am going by five o’clock. Let me rest small,” he is saying again. I glimpse at the clock. It is half past four. I rest my head on the dining table, waiting for five o’clock, as the chiming of the clock and the swirling of the fan and the rustling of pages encroach the quiet of the sitting room.

Chinonso Nzeh is Igbo, and his works have appeared in Isele Magazine, Black Boy Review, and elsewhere. He has a forthcoming work in Evergreen Review. His writing explores grief, gender, queerness, love, romance, and history. He thinks of storytelling as a way to comprehend the world’s wonder. When he’s not writing, he’s reading or listening to old-skool music. He hopes to dump his law degree and become a professor in writing.

Exceptional Beauty Of Nature/ Art by Salami Alimot.

Salami Alimot Temitope (she/her) NGP X is an emerging Nigerian writer, Phone Photographer, Digital Artist, Essayist. She currently studies English Language in Lagos State University, Nigeria. Her works explores themes on life, grief, loss, and family. Her creative works have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Lolwe, The Drinking Gourd Magazine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Native Skin Magazine, Olney Magazine, Hey Young Writer, Icefloe Press, Brittle Paper, Arts Lounge, Terror House Magazine, Nantygreens, Shortlisted in Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest August September, Kalahari Review, Pawners Paper, Nymphs, Nnoko Stories Magazine, The Hearth Magazine, Naija Readers' Buffet and elsewhere. She says _hi_ on Twitter & Instagram @lyma_lami

Just Breathe/ Art by Salami Alimot.

Salami Alimot Temitope (she/her) NGP X is an emerging Nigerian writer, Phone Photographer, Digital Artist, Essayist. She currently studies English Language in Lagos State University, Nigeria. Her works explores themes on life, grief, loss, and family. Her creative works have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Lolwe, The Drinking Gourd Magazine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Native Skin Magazine, Olney Magazine, Hey Young Writer, Icefloe Press, Brittle Paper, Arts Lounge, Terror House Magazine, Nantygreens, Shortlisted in Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest August September, Kalahari Review, Pawners Paper, Nymphs, Nnoko Stories Magazine, The Hearth Magazine, Naija Readers' Buffet and elsewhere. She says _hi_ on Twitter & Instagram @lyma_lami

Poem In Which Grace Is A Scarce Commodity

Flourish Joshua

Lift up my spirit, I trust it
to obey the law of gravity.
I am still the boy with knives
crusaded to his tongue.
Still the boy curved to
the knuckles of his father’s
impotence. Still all the mouth
of sorrow acapellas. Call me
Judas: I am still capable of
betraying my savior. My
demons still breath fine
under my pants. Anywhere
the blades face; there, even there,
you will find me. I dissolve
into my shadow. I forget
to laugh at my lover’s joke.
Something. Something in me
wants me than I want me.
Take this limb, there is an abyss
here. Unplug that limb, a dead
piano there. There’s a hymn
convulsing in this finger.
Touch me. Watch me vapor.
Watch me seep through
yesterday’s pores. My vomit,
more juicy than a toddler’s milk.
Watch my mouth magnify a coffin.
Watch me become an extension
of my mother’s failure. Watch
yesterday lust after me, watch light
unbraid my name from its head.
Watch me forget existence & its

science. Watch me reach for grace,
watch grace consider me an antagonist.
Watch me fall. Watch me fall like the
sagging miracles of grandmothers.

05-06-22

after the St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church massacre; Owo, Ondo State, Nigeria

V.
Again, they are remembering the Sabbath day
but are not keeping it holy.
IV.
Unlike every other
Sunday, the temple of God is littered
with temples, but they are not
worshiping God.
III.
Perhaps shege is the substance of things
unhoped for, the evidence
of things our eyes will all see.
II
The name of the Lord is a strong tower,
whose safety is a song we know nothing
of its rhythm.
I.
The cursor is more assured another wink
than a Nigerian.

Flourish Joshua is a Nigerian poet, and a member of the Frontiers Collective. He is the winner of the 2021 Salt Nation Poetry Prize, the 2021 Young Writers and Creatives' Award (Poetry Category) and
finalist of the 2021 NO CONTACT Poetry Prize, and the 2022 Villena-Aldama Poetry Prize. He is Founding / Poetry Editor of Olúmọ Review, and a Best of the Net nominee. His works have appeared—or are forthcoming—in Palette Poetry, Poetry Sango-ota, the Shore Poetry, Indianapolis Review, miniskirt magazine, Olongo Africa, Blue Marble Review, Agbowó, Poetr Column-NND, Five South Journal, East French Press, Isele Magazine, Magma Poetry, Pepper Coast Lit, Lumiere Review, and elsewhere.

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
for Bhabi

Abu bakr Sodiq

a midnight sun settles on the windowpane
of a penthouse. i gaze at the shadow of a leafless oak tree
in the woods. the sky’s darkened blue crashes against
the stillness of the water in a pothole, lying
in the middle of the road. over here, there’s you & i,
on the opposite edges of our bed— two countries
bordered by an invisible river. a soft wind lifts your hair
to the corners of your eyes. my fingers dig the sheets for a sound
to break the silence. i try to remember everything i know
of what & what not to say to someone asking what it feels like
to be gone & by gone you know they mean to become earth.
the earth that’d once been bones. the bones, miniatures of wreck,
covered in flesh. the flesh— an ocean crouched over a desert.
desert being the soul within a holloed body. the body
that’d swallowed every theory of self destruct & fell face-first
into void. i claw my mouth in search of words to fold
into apologies for every hurt you’d emptied yourself into
i wish that you would say something & nothing at all.
imagine that i fist-screw the heart of our memories
unbuttoning the belly buttons of the merry days
we’d made of our bodies would you, darling, be convinced
that we too, like the sun outside had once been beautiful?

Abu Bakr Sadiq is a Nigerian poet. He’s the winner of the 2022 IGNYTE Award for Best Speculative Poetry and a Rhysling Award nominee. His work has appeared in Mizna, FIYAH, Uncanny Magazine, Augur Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere. He writes from Minna. Find him on twitter @bakronline

BONEYARD

Olamide Ayoade

A threnody is woven
on my sister’s face,
it is spreading like a
c a n d l e l i g h t
& I can’t bear it.
My father is skillful
in making ironies
for beautiful things,
in disentombing aches
that went with the years;
Our grief is outnumbered,
a man built us a boneyard
& gave it the painting of
a home. Once, I was held
in my father’s hand like
a fetus, then, his fingers
made a miscarriage out of me.
Last night, the wind led me
to my mother’s grave,
I tried to unbury her remains
from the scattering of dust
but I couldn’t recognize the color
of her bones, of her grief,
& here I am, standing
at the threshold of brokenness,
trying to hold onto a fading light,
gathering evening primroses
as I approach the exit of this
graveyard with the broken wind
parting my lips with dirges.

LEARNING THE WAYS OF THE WIND LIKE AN ABECEDARIAN

I’ve always wanted to blend with the w-in-d
& learn its ways of navigation, maybe, somehow,
I’ll find my father as I wander.
See, there are various ways to perfect
a disguise, & breathing is one of them.
I’ve misplaced myself in empty spaces
& the color of lucid dreams.
How do I undo this despair
& replace it with a touch of harmony?
I still search for a befitting metaphor
to wear myself,
but how do I compare this body
to the fittings of a seamless weed?
I find myself unnaming the things
I can’t give meaning to,
drowning myself in the crowd of heavy hopes.
Even silent prayers are not comforting anymore,
I forgot how to approach God—
I’ll learn that from the wind too.

Ayoade Olamide (he/him), NGP I, is a budding poet from the north of Abeokuta, Ogun state, Nigeria.
He is a Mass Communication Undergrad in Olabisi Onabanjo University, Nigeria, author of "Poets Don’t Sleep". He’s an ardent lover of music and a practicing song writer. He’s also the first runner up of BKPW (2021 October Edition). His works have appeared/forthcoming in PepperCoast Lit, Eremite Poetry, Hyacinth Review, PoetryColumn-NND, ArtsLounge, Woven Poetry, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Ariel Chart, WattNigeria, Bansi/Demigods anthology, & elsewhere. He tweets @HeisLamide and can be found on Instagram @heislamide

RETURNING

Muti’ah Badruddeen

I maneuver the car through the crowded road flanked on both sides by the boisterous Bodija Market and marvel at how little has changed in the years since I was here. The road, still choked to almost a single lane on either side, is teeming with traders; street peddlers displaying their wares in the most innovative ways, and with no regard for the traffic swirling about them. Their customers too, haggling over the smallest bit of a bargain, pay no heed to whatever inconvenience they cause. Often descending into loud, insult hurling exercises, haggling is a time-honored tradition here.
Pedestrians and commuters abound; coming, going, chasing or dropping off from the numerous buses. Buses – and surely, these, locally referred to as danfo, were the most ragged contraptions to ever bear that name – idled or were driven by at snail speed. Hanging off the spaces for usually absent doors, bus conductors added their own lyrics to the cacophony of noise.
'Agbowo. Yuu-Aii. Ojooooo!'
The scene holds the distinctive bustle of an African city, yet is less frenetic than would be expected of
one this size. It’s a welcome relief from the almost manic pace of Lagos, has a much slower and less
desperate air to it. The place boasts a distinct something – a soul, if one’s being prosaic – that, I never
noticed until now, is lacking in Abuja.
This is the incongruous, seemingly irreconcilable oddity that is Ibadan, the largest city in West Africa.
A feeling of home-coming, as undeniable as it was fleeting, washes over me. I lived in this city for a mere seven years as a girl. Most of it in the controlled environment of Noorah; the Girls-only Muslim boarding secondary school I attended. I haven’t been back in ten years. It is disconcerting that I feel – even so briefly – as though this, right here, is home. It is a sensation I’ve never felt about any other place in my entire rootless existence. Not the city of my childhood and current residence, and definitely not my country of birth and citizenship-by-default.
A few meters beyond the chaos of the market, I make a turn. The roads in this largely residential area are older. The tarred surface, as always, is in a perpetual battle with the dirt path that would have – in a country where things like that mattered – been a sidewalk. Erosion from the high annual rainfall, lack of an effective drainage system, and the endemic absence of a maintenance culture makes it a losing fight. This road is nothing but a narrow strip of tar, fringed on both sides by a large path of dirt, and generously dotted with potholes. I pull into a side street and… step back in time.
Nothing, at least none that I could see, has changed here. If anyone ever ascribed a 'sub-urban' appellation to Ibadan, it would be to this neighborhood. The streets are somewhat planned; a throwback to an era before everyone that could, grabbed a piece of land to put down a structure with no thought to pesky details like drainage or thorough-fare.
The houses are old; bungalows or single-storied, with low fences and fenestrated gates. When I stayed here, most had been occupied by the owners – older, mostly retired folks with long-empty nests, they saw no need to hide behind six-foot walls and impenetrable fences. And though the area lacked the elaborate ostentation of the newly constructed structures, it was a serene environment, quite unexpectedly so in such proximity to the mayhem of the market.

I park on the street in front of a non-descript single-story house and shove down emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.
Since the phone call yesterday, I have gone from feeling nothing to feeling… everything. I can’t handle my emotions, or so my former therapist always said. Sticking a mental tongue at her, I do what she was forever accusing me of; I push the feelings away, take a deep breath and exit the car.
The gate is not locked, something else that has not changed. If memory serves, finding it locked in the daytime would mean no one was home. The door swings open inwardly before I get the chance to knock. And although I can’t see into the shadowy interior of the house from my position in the blazing sun, I know there’s someone behind the door. That door has been a hijab for the women of this house since long before I knew them.
I step into the cool, dark house, and find myself automatically going through the motions borne from a lifetime ago. I move off to the side, toe off my shoes and turn to put them away. The shoe-rack is different, newer, but it occupied the same spot.
'As-Salaam alayki warahmatullaah wabarakah.' Zaynunah stands where I had envisioned her. 'I am so glad you could come.'
'Wa alayki salaam warahmatullaah wabarakah.' I am relieved, a bit saddened, that she didn’t try to
hug me. 'I am so sorry about your…' I falter, briefly. 'Mummy. May Allaah forgive her, admit her into His
Mercy, and grant you all the fortitude to bear the loss.'
I cringe at the stilted formality of my speech, at the quiet distance in her 'Aameen’.
Silence, short and uncomfortable, ensues. Then - 'Come into the kitchen. I’m alone in the house. Daddy went to the farm. I’m supposed to be going
through Mummy’s stuff but…' A small shrug, a wet smile. 'I’m baking. How long can you stay? I’m really sorry I pulled you away from your…whatever brought you to Lagos. When do you have to go back?'
There is so much I do not understand from what she said, but I do not ask. Her rambling, after all, sprung from the same place as my awkward condolence speech.
'It’s no problem,' I wave away her concerns. 'I was already done. And it’s a good thing I was in Lagos this week. So, I can, maybe, get a hotel… Stay a few days…'
'Oh, you’ll stay here!' she interrupts. 'Hotel, bawo?! You know you are always welcome here.'
That assertion, the floodgates of memories and emotions it carries in its wake, is too much. I bolt.
'Ok. Er…I’m just going to bring my bag in,' I toss over my shoulder as I yank the door open and rush
out.
Sitting in the car, I try to find some calm, some refuge from the grip of sensations that had been bludgeoning me since Zaynunah’s phone call yesterday. I had gone from my usual abyss of nothingness to this unfamiliar state of emotional overload. As someone who had spent the past decade or so of life almost completely detached from her emotions, I am unprepared to handle this. When she called me, out of the blue, yesterday to say her mum was dead, I knew this trip would be difficult. I just hadn’t realized how much.

The first time I met Zaynunah’s mum, I was a wreck of teenage nervousness. Zaynunah talked about her mum a lot, and I was in awe of my mental image of her – a cross between an angel and Wonder Woman. That she had invited me, a strange girl she’d never met, into her home for the four days of a mid-term holiday just seemed to buttress this point.
I hadn’t wanted to go to Abuja for the midterms. Even the two-hour bus ride to the airport in the air-conditioned school bus, with other long-distance girls drunk on freedom of being away from the strictures of Noorah, hadn’t been enough to make the trip worth it.
I would have been fine – kind of – to stay in school for those four days, along with any other girl whose parents did not make travel arrangements for the midterms. I had done that once: in my first year, when my mother and her husband had been away on their honeymoon. True, I’d hated it then, but I was a big girl now – almost fifteen – I could do it.
After listening to me prose along these lines for days on end, Z invited me to stay with her for the holidays. I demurred, she persisted; the school had called my mum, who agreed, and there I was. Squeezed into a rust-brown and dirty-yellow striped commuter bus, a first for me, between Z and a woman whose hips should have been charged a double fare by default. I did not know what to expect. 'As-Salaam alaykum,' Z called into the seemingly empty house some indeterminable eons later. She
removed her sandals, stuck her socks into them, and motioned for me to do the same. 'Mum, we’re home' she continued, removing her hijab as she walked further into the house. I mirrored her actions and followed, bemused. I had never seen Zaynunah without her hijab before. In our six months of after-school hanging out, it was my first time seeing my friend’s hair. I would occasionally remove my regulation headscarf – as Z calls it – claiming the heat, or not wanting to get it dirty. Pretty much any excuse I could find, really, to remove the head-cover. But not Z; she always sat there, calm as a clam in her bigger-than-mandated hijab, her ease and comfort long borne of familiarity and conviction. Before I could process this new development, though, and possibly tease her about it, a woman appeared in one of the doorways ahead of us.
'Baby, you’re back' she announced unnecessarily. 'Wa alaykumu salaam warahmatullah. How was school?' She turned to me. 'You must be Ruqqayyah. Welcome to our home, dear.'
'Thank you, Ma, for having me.' I said, putting up the pretty airs my mother ingrained in me, the ones I hadn’t bothered with for years. I very much wanted Zaynunah’s mum to like me.
She was older than I expected, her middle-age appearance probably more jarring in comparison to my mother’s relative youth. She was also much shorter than her daughter, closer to my own rather middling height. I could not make out her features clearly in the dimly lit corridor we stood in, but the vibes I got from her were welcoming.
'Oh, no need for all of that,' she waved off my thanks. 'Baby, take your friend up to your room while I finish lunch. Ruqqayyah, I hope you like amala?' she called, heading back into the kitchen.
'Baby?' I teased as I followed Z up the stairs.
'Well, with ten years between my second brother and I, yes, I’m the baby' She ducked her head, embarrassed. 'I’ve asked her to stop calling me that but…'
'Hmm, I don’t know,' I sniggered. 'I think it’s cute. And you are kind of a baby. She rolled her eyes. I had been lording the ten-month difference in our ages over her ever since we exchanged birthdays. We giggled as we made our way up the stairs.

Those four days would become a tradition. I never went to Abuja for midterms after that. I became a constant presence in the Sanusi household. Z’s family became my family of sorts, and her mother became
'Mummy’.
At first, this was because that’s what Nigerians, Yorubas especially, do. Any woman old enough to be your mother was addressed thus, if your relationship with her, and not necessarily a familial one, was close enough to warrant it. It was the first time I had a cause to use that form of address in years; my own mother had become 'Ma' not too long after her marriage.
Eventually, more than an appellation, Z’s became the epitome of a 'Mummy' to me; this woman whose effect on me, from a mere four years of contact, ripples across my life in ways I am still discovering. And I always thought I would come back. Someday. When I had healed. When I had become the woman Mummy saw in the lonely girl she accepted so unquestioningly all those years ago. When I found a way to shed the shell I became after leaving the cocoon of this family. Now it’s too late… Suppressing yet again, I pick my bags and head inside.

Muti’ah is a reproductive health physician and homeschooling mum. She writes contemporary fiction
from the framework of her cultural identity as a visibly-Muslim Nigerian woman. Her debut novel,
Rekiya&Z was the Daybreak Press Muslim fiction award winner, 2021 and the TLC Pen Factor finalist,
2022. Her short story, The Mirage of Home, appeared in the inaugural edition of OvertlyLit. When she is
not writing, reading, doctoring or mothering, Muti’ah can be found trying to catch up on her sleep.