Mama rarely spoke; she did not like to. Yet on the days she forgot where she was, days when she remembered Chinua as Akubekee, the little girl she had brought home from France, she untied her tongue and spoke in broken details about her love.
By Uchechukwu Onyinyechukwu Onowu
High in the sky, behind clouds covered with ash-like dust, as they were wont to be this season, hid the December sun.
From where she sat, Chinua could hear Mama’s voice rise to Onyeka Onwenu’s new song. She couldn’t see into the mud-coloured house, but she knew she was dancing, swaying her hips to the beat. Papa said she had been doing so since the song hit the radio.
“Your father would have loved this song”, she had told her this morning, holding her hand and forcing her to sway with her, as though it was norm—ritual even. Chinua had held on, allowing herself to be moved by the older woman.
There was a time she would have stopped her, a time she would have paused the dance to ask questions. But not anymore, not today. Today Mama was happy. As happy as Chinua imagined her to be back when she was a child, and they lived somewhere not here. When the shadow she had come to identify as her father moved around their living room, full of life. When the sky was blue, when Mama’s heart still lived.
Mama rarely spoke; she did not like to. Yet on the days she forgot where she was, days when she remembered Chinua as Akubekee, the little girl she had brought home from France, she untied her tongue and spoke in broken details about her love.
“Akuchikwelu”, she called for him with a wounded smile, the only kind she ever gave, her Yoruba tongue getting in the way of the love declaration.
But she never spoke about the days that came after. No one ever did, not even Papa, who talked about everything. He, more than others, avoided the topic, brushing it aside whenever it came up.
Chinua did not remember much. She did not remember the soldiers who barged into their home in search of something she could not yet name, or the gory executions that happened in front of their church. She did not remember the women crying by the roadside for their husbands to be spared, did not often think of the dead bodies lining up the road to her school.
But she remembered Mama, inconsolable, as she strapped her to her back, even though she could walk. She remembered Iya-agba shouting, “Tosin! Tosin! Pada wa’bi!”
She remembered the rapid succession of French and German that flew out of Mama’s mouth as she waved her passport in the face of the soldier who drew a gun at her, as though she wanted to, needed to convince him that she mattered, that she was not a threat.
She remembered arriving at Papa’s house and seeing the rubbles; remembered wondering if this was where they would live, wondering how this small crumbling house would contain Mama in all her largeness. She remembered staring at the bullet holes every morning and sometimes even sticking her fingers into them and scooping sand into her mouth.
Now she looked at the house. Even with the new additions to it, what remained of the old house did not look so small.
“What happened to the holes in the wall?” she asked.
“Enyinnaya called a painter last year”.
She stared at him. “You let Enyinnaya redo the house?”
“Obinna was constantly sticking his fingers into the walls and picking sand into his mouth”, Papa replied.
When she didn’t reply, he added, “It is not good for children to live in the ruins of the war, in the shadows of what happened to their fathers”.
Still she stared, unbelieving of the words making their way out of his mouth. She had lived in the ruins of that war, grown up in the shadow of the silence it shaped, a silence that eventually shaped her. But she did not say this. She said nothing; so he kept talking.
“The war was hard, the years that followed, even harder. Many were missing, many more were dead. Every morning we feared what the day would bring—”
She remembered those mornings, mornings when Mama’s fears would rear their head and she would lock them inside.
“The sky is black”, she would mumble, “the days are dark”. And that they were. With the sun hidden away in the sky like a refuge of war, Mama was only trying to keep them safe. She knew this, yet she still cried, begging to go out. But Mama never let her out, not until she was convinced the threat was gone, not until the sun stood proud in the sky again.
The news always came in the morning, as though tragedy awaited the dawning of a new day to announce itself. Molokwu, who slumped and died at the sound of the mkponana, Egwudobi, who shot himself in the head after several unsuccessful attempts to find his brother; Asidanya’s wife, who was found pregnant by a Nigerian soldier. She remembered their names. Just as much as she remembered the soldiers who returned to make trouble for the village, she remembered how Mama hugged her every morning before she left for school, hands lingering around her back as though she feared to let go.
Papa was still talking, saying something about the war. Something she could not hear, as Mama’s singing found her; the sound reaching deep into her soul. She saw her sitting with them—singing, talking, laughing—before she disappeared; her voice leaving before her body did, slowly, in drawn-out bits, like a rainbow fading from the sky, taking first the French she swore she would teach her, followed by the German she often buttered her words with.
Then the Yoruba she always spoke with Iya-agba—that, she scrubbed off her tongue like an exorcist ridding a demon from its host. But of all she remembered, Chinua could not remember when Mama’s smile left, did not even know if a true smile was ever really there. Once, Genevieve asked why she never smiled; and she just shook her head. She couldn’t tell her it was because her mother never smiled. It seemed too intimate a thing to tell a lover.
She imagined now the meeting Papa must have had before Enyinnaya was allowed to renovate the house. How Mama would have sat silently if even she showed up, how Epueli must have accused him of favouring Uzoeteka and her children. How right she would have been. But who in his shoes wouldn’t do the same? Uzoeteka was the wife he chose for himself. Epueli and Mama—responsibilities he inherited from his late brothers. It was as it always is: The men start wars, but the women are the spoils of war.
When Papa’s words found her again, he was done with the war.
“The man has no idea what he is doing”.
“Who?”
“Obinna’s new teacher”
She wanted to ask who Obinna was, but he sounded like she should already know, so she asked instead, “Why didn’t you return to the classroom?”
“When the war ended, why didn’t you go back to teaching?”
He smiled. “But I did, Ohh I did. I rushed back immediately, and I was at it for six months. Until Uzoeteka called me one night, hands on her bare chest as she swore: if hunger kills my children, I will kill you”. He laughed.
“You see, our people were not interested in going to school after the war. Who would blame them, after what was done to us? Everybody wanted money. Look at Uzowulu, his son was once bright—the brightest in my class even. Then the war came, and he vanished from the classroom. He never came back. Now he sells ogwu-pharmacy down the road.”
Chinua remembered him bemoaning the same thing years ago.
“It is the younger ones I pity. Ahhh! Agha melu ayi iwa!” he had cried, his misty eyes restraining him from delving into details. But there were no misty eyes in sight now, instead he was laughing.
“He is very rich now o. I hear his younger brother owns a huge pharmacy in Lagos.”
“You should visit Uzowulu, say hello to his sons”, he said, his lips curving into a grin. “They say the youngest is in the market for a wife”.
“Papa! What did I tell you?”
“I know”, He laughed. “I know.”
Chinua sighed.
The ashy clouds were clearing, the sun peeking out, finally winning over the dust. Soon, the sky would be blue again.
Papa started saying something about another one of Uzowulu’s sons. She wouldn’t let herself wonder why the man had so many sons. Mama was still singing.
“Falling in love assoboomoo”, her voice rang from the room. “Mu na gi ga eboo a oyeomu”.
Chinua chuckled. Mama’s Igbo, after all these years, still sounded wrong.
Papa paused, the smile on his face still, as though shocked, as though surprised.
“You’re happy”, he said, part question, part statement.
“Mama is happy”, Chinua replied.
“Ahhhh, yes!” His smile deepened. “Onyeka Onwenu is good for her soul”.
“That she is”.
Uchechukwu Onyinyechukwu Onowu is a Nigerian writer, spoken-word artist and storyteller passionate about exploring Africa’s rich history, culture, and spirituality through her works. Through storytelling, she seeks to not only reflect the world but to also inspire meaningful dialogue and influence change. Her short stories have been published in Brittle Paper, Afritondo Publication, Herlore Magazine and Tales and Whispers. She can be found on instagram @onyinyechukwuonowu and substack @adaide1
Photo credit: Ninong Chris