Lifebuoy Help a Child reach 5

I usually skip those annoying adds on youtube. I couldn't skip this one. you HAVE to see this. If it doesn't touch you, ah, what happened to your heart???

The Eliphant that forgot

Elepha was troubled to the point of perplexion . This was bad, very bad. It was an 11 on the scale of one to ten type of bad.
He had never forgotten a thing in all of his 87 years. Until now.
Elephants are legendary for their recall ability.
All his memories from the time he was a wobbly calf with the biggest ears in his calf group till now were accounted for except one!
He knew he had forgotten something and that whatever it was, it was very important but he couldn't even figure out what it was.

His trek to Phanti's enclave was fraught with trepidation. He knew Phanti would bend his ears to no end over this, and he was, put it mildly,  very embarrassed about asking her for help,  but he had no choice.  If any Elephant could help him feel less like the world was about to end, it was Phanti. 

He had known her for more than Seventy of his years. Her family had joined his herd in 1938. They had trekked all the way from India.
He still remembered the scary tales her parents told his herd about life as circus Eliphants. How they were starved for days as punishment for missing routines during a show.
Their trainers were mean and desparate for money, fame and glory and would stop at nothing to get some form of obedience from the often very overworked and underfed Elephants.

Phanti's Father kicked a trainer one day. That trainer had been trying to  force Phanti's mother to do a stool balancing routine. Poor Ellie was too starved and dizzy to stand on one leg on a tiny stool, she knew she was going to fall off if she dared. So she just stared blankly at the trainer and pretended not to understand the commands.
The trainer went berserk and started to whip Ellie. Eli was going to do like the other Elephants and just watch, this was not the first whipping Ellie had gotten, the 'whip appeal' as they called it,  but that trainer chose the wrong day to go too far.
When he pulled out a gun after he figured out that whipping wasnt getting him anywhere, Eli didnt stop to think. He gave the most ear deafening bellow and lunged headfirst at the startled man.
Eli was furious. He later wondered if that extra kick was necessary, but it helped them all escape so he figured it was good.
Years of wandering followed. It was tough going but they were free and that freedom was a right they defended fiercely. 
By the time they wandered into Nigeria, Ellie and Eli had become a couple, and Phanti had been born.

Now Elipha hoped his old playmate could help solve his problem because they had at least seventy years worth of shared memories.

They hadn't become a couple, but they were fast friends.

Phanti was the only Cow who could cuss him out without fear of being gouged to death.

She was biting into a carob pod when he got to her. Her ears flapping like banana leaves being teased by a gentle breeze.

He stood by and let her fininsh chewing. He knew her well enough to know she would ignore anyone while she was chowing.

When she was done she pressed her head gently on the trunk of the tree then she walked round it. Next she rubbed her entire side along the tree as she whispered "thank you mother tree, your nourishment is good for me."

That was her way. She remembered to thank every tree she ate from.

"Elipha you creaky old sod, what brings you this way today? Don't tell me you've missed my tongue?" Her old eyes were twinkling.

"Phanti I wish I could say I had," he grumbled as he squinted into the young and eager morning sun, "but you already know that'd be a lie. I'm many things but I'm not a liar".

Phanti chuckled at that. "Thank the trees for that," she agreed "but that still doesn't explain the worry I see in your eyes." She looked intently at him, and realised, amongst other things, that his trunk was curled downward and was almost tucked between his knoby legs. The way it always did whenever he was trying to hide something embarrassing.

"Phanti can you help me remember what I'm forgetting?  I know I'm supposed to remember something important today but I don't know what it is."

Age and time had done something curious to Phanti. It had taught her empathy.
A younger Phanti would have laughed and teased him for doing the unbelivable; for forgetting.  Everyone knows Elephants never forget. Her friend obviously had. But she didn't laugh at him or tease.

Instead, she reached between his legs with her trunk and nudged his trunk back out.

Then she grinned. Remembered mischief climbing fleet-footed across her leathery face. "Remember when we disturbed that hive of bees in '39, and had all the grown ups flapping ears all day"? And that was how the rest of the day was spent.
They stood together under the carob tree and recounted seventy years worth of shared memories to see if he had forgotten any of them. He hadn't. He remembered each one.
Just as the moon began to draw shadows around the Nigerian nightlife, Phanti threw him a sideways glance and told him in her most nonchalant manner; "oh, by the way, this is the best anniversary of my parents' death yet."

The fog lifted! That was what he forgot! Today made it ten years since his best friend's parents both died in a tusk raid by poachers.
"Some friend I am huh"? He said, his trunk inching between his legs again in mortification. She nudged it back up. "You're here Elipha, you came to me like you've always done whenever you were worried. I didnt spend today weeping for my parents. You kept me too busy poring over treasured memories to be sad. That's a friend."

They stood there, the Elephant that forgot, and the one that wished she could, as the crickets began their nightly ode to the moon.

The Trashcan

It was not the best of feelings, being the go-to point for every discarded thought.

It felt more dribble than drool really, more decay than manure.

This is where thoughts come to be ignored till they disintegrate to become the force behind an irritating sneeze.

That didn't seem like the best of reasons to exist.

The thoughts that were usually sent to it were sad, depressed things at times. At other times they were gruff, snarling, angry bandits who didn't particularly like being relegated and were not at all shy about letting everyone know about their discontent.

The would create enough rocus to start a head-quake or start a civil unrest with help from other disgruntled elements in the system.

Those types of thoughts were usually the first to be quickly executed with any assortment of thought tranqilizers within ready reach.

Alcohol, drugs and other modes of escapist measures have been applied at various occasions to suit the size of the unrest.

It sighed at the tasking nature of its calling.

'I suppose it could be a good thing,' it thought to itself. 'Youre not entirely useless; there's some sort of need in there somewhere, so alow yourself todays ration of a smile old fellow, and enjoy delivering the cursed service of being the gaol that holds discarded thoughts... 

They all think they hate you, they all think youre useless, the thought hate you for existing and she regards you with all the love a mollusk would feel for salt,  but where would the useless thoughts live if you didnt exist? And just imagine how hopeless the thinker would be if she had no place to banish worn thoughts to...'

And with that spritely bit of pep talk, the Trashcan gave its "lodging available" sign a brisk rub, hung it on the tip of a sturdy thought tree and hunkered down to wait for its next inmate.

When I’m gone

When I’m gone, here’s what I’d like you to remember.

If you are in my first family, remember how I loved to sing, draw and paint, how I loved vegetables and could never get enough of Moi-Moi, Akara with bread and beans porridge with yellow corn.

If you are Jonathan, remember how that day long ago (you must have been about two years old) as I came back from a holiday that was supposed to heal me of my bed-wetting embarrassment, you ran to me and I lifted you into my arms and you held on so tightly that I could feel your little two year old self telling me in that tight cuddle, how much you had missed me while I was away. 

See? I never forgot that day. It made that much impact on me and my love for you never waned... 

If you are Benjamin, remember how we used to fight when we were younger, and how I used to threaten to beat you up one day to show you how much the seven year gap between us ought to mean to you? And how the day you got me so livid that I slapped you I ended up crying along with you after the sight of you in shock at that slap and the way your face reddened and crumbled into tears broke my heart? 

See I managed to keep my promise to never beat you again didn’t I? Even though we still kept on squabbling as often as we could, you were to me the little baby Brother I tied to my back and waddled about with as I did my chores.

 You were the little toddler who dunked my precious baptism photos in a pail of water because you wanted to “wash” them. You were the baby that came almost a decade after me to dash my bliss at being the last born to pieces. I loved you…

If you are Baba, or Mama, You shouldn’t read this, it’s not for you. I Faith you will not have to bury me. Parents should never have to bury their children.

If you are Joshua, I wondered how we managed to drift apart. We used to fight too, and you beat me up good, but we always patched it up. 

Why did growing up mean we had to forget how to just love each other? I remember once, a very long time ago, (I must have been four years old to your 8) when Mama and I came back from a trip to Lagos. I was sleeping off my road weariness when you came back from school. I opened my eyes and there you were by the bed waiting for me to wake up. You had wrapped my feet in Brown Sellotape.  

You must have wanted to make sure I didn’t disappear again before you’d had time to welcome me from the last trip. 

I remember you gave me one of your treasured Marbles as a welcome back gift. That marble ended up in Mamas grinding machine. I never told you that story did I? I was playing with it while Mama was grinding pepper for a customer when suddenly, the Marble popped out of my hands and into the machine while mama was turned to fetch more pepper.

 I quickly dipped my hand in the machine hoping to retrieve it before she noticed. She noticed after all, my shriek as the grinder grabbed my right ring finger gave the plot away. You gave me your share of chicken at meal time that day; remember the miracle of how I stopped crying for long enough to finish eating the chicken..?

If you are Brother Gbenga, Dude, I never understood you, not while we were children, and certainly not as we grew older. You were always beating me up. It’s hard to forget that phase. You didn’t need to beat me so much. You are the reason I had to have stitches on my head. You were always fighting someone or beating me. Kiliode?

 Remember the fight with Sister Foluke? The one I got in the middle of trying to separate? Well truth is, when I got between both of you, I didn’t expect to break up the fight by ending up on the floor with my head split open and bleeding. 

You shoved me with such force and lack of concern Brov; and the beating you got after Baba brought me home from hospital with a shaved head and plaster sitting smack in the middle of said head was sadly not enough to sober you up effectively.  

You need God. I swear you do…

If you are Sister Foluke, Know that I’m smiling as I write this.

I have too many beautiful memories of us to fit in any book. How you used to plait my hair, how we used to bathe together long ago when I was a Toddler, how I once wondered why I didn’t have the two rosy swellings on your chest on my chest too. They looked nice and I wanted them. But I was too scared to ask. 

I remember how we used to make rubber ball from bunched up rubber bags. We’d bunch them up; around any sticks we could find and melt them over an open fire. Well at least that what you and the others used to do, I was condemned to just watching. I was the ‘baby’.

Then there’s that day I tried to make one of my own. Your back was bent as you melted your wad and so I found a broom and formed a wad behind you. The wad melted, the broom burnt. The wad fell off the broom as I lifted it out of the fire. The molted blob landed on your back. 

I did not forget where that mark on your back came from…

If you are Sister Ranti, I have let the past go. You traumatized much more than Brother Gbenga did. It was hard to get over the memory of you calling me a fat Pig, and how I started binge eating after that and had to fight a battle with threatening anorexia for years after that, but I let the past go.

Find peace, be well…

If you are a known or unknown Friend who stumbled upon me along the way, and liked how much I enjoyed life and my work, THANK YOU.

Know that I got better because thoughts of disappointing you kept me going and striving to render better service every time. 

If you are a Mentor, You taught me well and I thank you…

Remember that I loved a good laugh, I loved children, and I was grateful for the gift of each new day. 

My life wasn’t perfect, but I loved it, and I was mostly happy. The sad moments did come, but you know I never let them keep me down for long. I enjoyed being happy, so I strived to keep things that way for as long as I could.

Now go and life your lives in gratitude, hope it lasts years longer than mine did.

Cheers to Life, Love, and a lot of laughing…

Lydia pHisayo Olanrewaju 05 06 2013

Joohlee...

Not even the Sun could stay away today. From all indications it was already getting ready to step out of the clouds and dominate the day. Today will definitely be sunny if not hot.

Julie made a mental note to increase the order for ice as she walked down the dusty street with the sort of grace and surefootedness that only time and age can bestow. Her hips were wide and her buttocks swayed as if remembering the old days when heavy and tightly packed ileke used to adorn her waist. Her hips were much slimmer then, and her buttocks were firmer and saucier of course, but they had widened seven times to accommodate the four sons and three daughters she had borne for Isola. Time had taken a large swipe on her now ample form.

The years had however been kind to her dark skin shiny skin, even though her neck had gone soft and the folds were deeper and less elastic, she could still pass for late fifties or early sixties at least. Her skin was dark as palm kernels and just as shiny in the sun. Her eyes had become weaker over the years but they still had that twinkle in them when she smiled or laughed at something funny. The laugh-lines around her eyes and mouth had become more pronounced as she got older. She did not believe in rationing laughter, she would open her mouth wide after a quick pause to fetch a lungful of air and she would let out an airy laugh. The sound was similar to the gurgle of a river over rocks after a July rainfall.

People loved to make her laugh just to delight in the experience.

She had followed her eldest son Ige as far as the first junction from their house at seven o’clock this morning and then she had told him to drop her off so she could walk back home. Ige wasn’t at all surprised. His mother loved to walk. It kept her healthy, and he had figured out years ago that walking was his mother’s version of therapy.

Her walk today had no particular hurriedness about it. There was purpose to it, but it was also obvious to anyone watching that her feet were on auto pilot; they knew where they were going and she let them do their thing while she followed her mind back into time. To a day like this one, 45 years ago, when the crowing of the cock told her she had slept and woken up for the last time as a maiden in her uncle’s house. She remembered how of all thoughts that could have entered her head that morning, the one that got there first was how she would not be the one to eat the wings and feet of the cock that just crowed. Tawa or Shade would probably now have to continue with the household tradition of getting the much coveted-among the children at least- parts of the birds in the compound. She knew which Cock it was. There were three cocks in the compound, and she could tell each one apart without having to see them, by their crowing. They would usually do it by hierarchy, as the oldest rooster was fiercely protective of his rank. The younger cocks dared not even crow in their dreams before the rooster does. He would peck them to bleeding point if they did.

She had fed them all from chick-hood and settled cockfights on various occasions with a well aimed throw of whatever was nearest to her, broom, slipper or even fistfuls of sand as they grew. It was part of her daily duties as a young orphan living with uncle Shofoluwe and his wife.

They were good to her, and she had often wished God had been kinder to them and blessed them with children of their own.

As it was, she and the other cousins and wards who always came to live for different lengths of time at the large house were all the Shofoluwes ever got to call children.

“Mummy ekaaro ma, a ku ayo oni o” the greeting snatched her away from the past and deposited her smack in the middle of the present without ceremony. “Ose iya mi, good morning to you too, thank you for the kind wishes, you turn will come soon too ehn…” she responded in greeting to Tina, Iya soji’s second daughter. “tell your mother not to forget about the cooking pots, emm, you can even help her carry some on your way to our house abi…? It was a matter of course that Tina would be coming to the house, all the young girls in the neighborhood were surely going to be trooping to the house today to offer help in one way or another.

“Haba, mommy you know she won’t forget. She has called Supo, he’s bringing them from the shop.” Iya Soji sold food to the entire neighborhood, and it was a given that her cooking pots would be required today.

“Very good, see you later then” as she walked away, she wondered randomly if anyone knew her name anymore. Those who needed to be formal called her Mrs. Atinrira. No one called her by her first name, not even her friends. They referred to each other as “iya..;” ‘mother of..;’ and would add the name of each woman’s first child as suffix. To her friends she was “Iya Ranti.” The younger generation just called her mummy.

As she ambled along she said her name softly to herself almost like she was invoking the woman she had been before all this. Before the wedding that pulled her, roots and all, from Sango in Ogun state and replanted planted her in the hot, dry, red earth of dusty Kaduna. “JULIE.” She giggled to herself. She did not say the name like her children had taught her to say it after they become old enough and schooled enough to know how the “oyibos” pronounce it. She pronounced it the way her Uncle and Aunt used to pronounce it so many years ago. “Joo…lee” the last vowel would be elongated or shortened to suit their mood. Depending on how good or bad she had been perceived to be at the time. The giggle threatened to turn into good natured laughter as the memories teased her, but she smothered the laughter. Today was not the day to be seen laughing out loud on the street at no apparent joke, especially as one was walking down the street alone.

She looked around to see if anyone had been watching, but save for the nanny goat bleating animatedly at her kids, there seemed to be no one about on the usually mildly busy street. Children were getting the usual Saturday break from morning school rush, and mothers were probably getting ready to come over to her home. She sobered at the thought. Today wasn’t ordinary by any means. Her daughter’s engagement was today. This was it. Bolanle would soon be leaving home. She knew she was supposed to be thrilled. It was every mother’s dream to see her daughter get married, and she had been thrilled when Ranti and Ibukun got married, but this time, she just wasn’t so sure.

Bolanle the favorite child of the house. This daughter was the one who looked the most like her. She was easy to love. The most affectionate and the cheekiest of her seven children, if Bolanle wished, she could get away with anything from her father and especially from her. She wondered if that was why she wasn’t too eager to see her go now, but shook her head as soon as the thought formed. No, that wasn’t it.

The problem was she had a feeling that Bolanle wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be married yet. Never mind the fact that by the time she was Bolanle’s age, she had already had five of her seven children. At 35 her last daughter was a strong, fiercely independent no-nonsense type woman. Truth be told however, the woman hadn’t said anything or done anything to cause the niggle Julie been unable to shake for the past few weeks now, but she knew her children.

She was so connected to them she could always sense when there was trouble. And this time, the bells in her head were clanging away. They were telling her things were not all good. She however knew better than to ask her daughter what the problem was. Bolanle would just smile and tell her nothing. That was one other annoying trait she got from her father. Isola was a fiercely independent man who was unshakable in his belief that he could handle whatever life threw at him without help from anyone. He believed other people had enough of their own issues and he didn’t need to add his burden to their load. 

So Bolanle would almost certainly die first before confiding in anyone, before first exhausting all the avenues within her power to solve her issues. She was her father’s daughter when it came to that. The best way to handle the matter was to just pray and be there for her.

She walked into her compound to find her husband unfurling tarp and muttering to himself. He looked quite miffed; “Woman where have you been all morning? The canopies need erecting, and these bumbling so-and-sos have got absolutely no clue…” 

Most times when she looked at her husband of 45 years she just saw the man he was several years ago when they were both younger. She saw him as a total experience more than just as a man. It was a full experience of laughter tears and anger. He was a lot more than the rock she had clung on to as a new bride who had to move with her husband to a strange land of people with a different culture, religion and ideas. These people spoke a totally different language from what she was used to. He had told her then, that the language was called Hausa and encouraged her to learn it as fast as she could, as the markets were filled with them, and she would have to speak the language if she wished to be understood when she went shopping.

She felt lost and desperate so far away from home and wept herself weak most of the time. Especially as she had to stay home and await her husband return from work each day. There was nothing to do, and no friends to visit or who would visit her. She cleaned and washed the house over and over in order to keep herself occupied, but how much mess could two people create? Especially when one of them was a husband who left home at dawn and almost never came back till dusk six days a week? She’d finish cleaning and have enough time on her hands to get bored and weep. She would look forward to the evenings with unparalleled eagerness. She loved the evenings. They were kind to her, they brought her husband home. Tired yes, but she always had hot water waiting in the aluminum kettle for him to take a bath with.

As soon as she heard his motorcycle revving into the compound, she would grab the iron bucket and head to the kitchen to turn down the knob on the blue and white double burner butterfly stove he had bought for her as a wedding gift a week after they got to Kaduna. The stove he had been using before their wedding had rusted and peeled. It was a small green stove that had seen better times. It was charred and leaking and she kept is as ‘back-up’. The one he bought for her was the sort that had a compartment which held a glass bottle for kerosene storage. She had felt envied by their neighbors back then, because her stove was the only two burner stove in the communal kitchen. It was also the newest.

As soon as she lifted she kettle off the stove, she would place her pot of soup on the fire to heat while she prepared his bath water.

She knew how hot he liked his bath after a long muscle testing day at work as a carpenter. His work often included stints as a mason, climbing up and down scaffoldings to work on roofs for new buildings or to fix old leaky ones.

She was the carpenter’s wife. They were not rich, but there was always something to eat. And she made sure she kept him fed and there was always hot water waiting to wash the red dust off his tired body every evening.

By the time he finished having a wash, she would have his dinner ready. Usually, dinner was Eba with stew and okra soup with an assortment of beef cuts and fish. The weekends were days to cook rice and black-eyed beans with chicken in stew.

She would serve him food in transparent glass dishes the color of watered down coffee. She loved those dishes. They came in a complete set of 24- tea-cups, Saucers, Plates, Soup bowls, Mugs and Side plates. She loved counting them and rubbing her fingers over the embossed clover petals and groves on the outside if the glassware whenever she was bored.

She only took out two sets of the entire lot. The rest she kept tucked away under her “Hausa bed”. That bed was the type every Amariya or ‘new bride’ got in the north. It resembled something from an Arabian night’s tale. It had long poles of about five feet protruding from all four corners. The tops of each pole had carved cones covered in gold paint screwed on to each of them. The bed itself had springs over which a heavy mattress was placed.

She looked forward to the evenings every day. They brought her husband back to her, and after a hot bath and hot food, she knew the evenings usually ended nicely in that “Hausa bed”. Oh how she loved the bed’s springs then, the way they gave with each urgent thrust from her husband’s waist, sending her deeper into the folds of the mattress, then pushing her right back up against his exquisite turgidness. There was nothing quite like it.

It was much better than the bed they had shared on that first night after all the noise and merrymaking of their wedding had died away with the night. Her train had escorted her as was the custom, to the home where she was to give herself to her husband. They would go with her to her husband’s house ordinarily, but, in this instance, they couldn’t. He lived in “Ile Awusa” the Hausa man’s land. So they followed her to his uncle’s house instead. His uncle had a large house, and a ‘boys-quarter’ had been made available for the occasion. It came with an invitation for them to stay as long as they wished.

She was terrified out of her wits, and her train, comprising of her mates from standard six to the cousins she had lived with at her uncles’ house- did not help calm her nerves. They terrorized her with horror stories of how much pain she was about to suffer, as her hymen would first have to be cut with a pocket knife by her husband “so that he can pass…” they advised her to have a swathe of clean cotton nearby so that she would have something with which to mop up the blood she was sure to shed. On and on went the tales until she fairly burst into terrified tears at the ordeal she knew she couldn’t get out of.

When the time came for her conjugal duty, she was as spooked as any horse could be. Isola was so eager to consummate their union he cut straight to the chase upon getting into the room having successfully shooed her friends off amidst giggles and advice to “take it easy o…”

He promptly took off his shirt and undid his Sokoto, shrugged off the indigo dyed item one leg at a time and stood before her in his Y-front BYFs. She couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat. Her eyes darted over his pelvis in one anxious sweep and her heart almost deafened her ears with the thudding. She broke out in cold sweat and her armpits began to itch. She stared at him transfixed and he looked at her with the first half of an anticipatory smile. Totally mistaking her trepidation for awe, Isola tucked both of his thumbs in his BYFs and promptly pushed it down revealing himself fully to her for the very first time.

She had never seen a grown man naked before. Worse, no one ever prepared her for the sight of a fully aroused one.

She burst into tears.

He moved towards her to reassure her but she ran to the side of the room furthest from him and cowered against the wall with a strangled shriek.

“Okay, calm down. Julie..? Julie I said calm down. I’m sorry I frightened you. I’m going to put my clothes back on…” She did not lift her head from where she had hidden it under her left arm. Her right arm protruded from under the left and her hand stayed stiff as the fingers splayed out as if warding off something feral.

She heard his footsteps recede as he walked back to where his discarded clothes lay. He smiled wryly at the forlorn looking heap as he picked up his clothes one after the other and quietly put them back on.

When he was done, he turned around and saw her watching him. Her breasts where heaving, and her nostrils where still flaring as she struggled to calm her nerves.

His heart constricted at the picture. He grabbed the only chair in the room; a hard, high-back ‘student’s chair’ and turning it in her direction, he sat and just watched her.

They stared at each other like that for what seemed like an interminably long time. Eventually a part of her mind told her her leg was cramping so she uncurled it and sat down with her back against the wall, her legs spread out in front of her.

She kept him in her line of sight all the while, not quite sure about how capable he was of lunging at her at any moment.

Isola didn’t move. He just watched her. When he was sure she was calm enough to hear him, he got up and headed for the door. “Where are you going” her voice was a mixture of relief and befuddlement.

“I’m going to sleep in the parlor. You’re obviously not ready to be my wife yet”

“That’s not t..t..true,” stuttered, “… I’m your wife already”

“You know what I mean Julie” his voice had a hint of disappointment in it, and curiously, the sound of it hurt her. “What do you want me to do?” there was fright in her voice again.

“What do you want to do?”

The pause that followed was long as she contemplated the question and the possible consequences she’d have to face depending on what her answer turned out to be. “I want to undress you.”

His heart began a slow thumping. He let her undress him as he focused desperately on reigning in his arousal. He knew he was going to lose the battle; still he tried like his life depended on it. His wife was a beautiful woman, and the smell of her up close as she pulled his dashiki off him was doing his head in.

She kept her eyes averted as she reached for the ropes that held his Sokoto tightly tied to his waist. When her fingers touched his stomach he trembled. His sharp intake of breath startled her and she froze. His jaws came down hard on each other and he cursed himself in his head. ‘Calm down you fool, before you scare her off again’

“Did I hurt you?” her question was raw in its simplicity. Her eyes were round Kobos. “No…no you didn’t hurt me…are you sure you want to take that off? You know what it means if you do?”

“I’m not sure.., but I’m your wife...” He smiled at that. “Yes you are, and I’m a lucky man to have you as my wife” she glowed at that, and her fingers seemed to find a stash of fresh confidence. In no time, he was standing before her, naked. She looked at her husband. Her eyes travelled shyly from his face down his torso, further down over his belly, lower… He thought he’d burst and when she asked in a voice half curious and half afraid; “Can…can I touch you there?” He did burst. He burst out laughing. “Yes dear wife, yes you can touch me there, in fact I intend to insist upon it till the day I die, but not tonight”

“Ha? Not tonight? Why not?”

He couldn’t control his laughter anymore, and the sight and sound of him laughing lifted her spirits and squared her shoulders. Everything was going to be alright with her as long this man was with her. “Woman you can’t touch me tonight, because if you do I won’t be able to control myself. I’ll have to make love to you like you know I’ve wanted to do for a very long time...” His voice had lost all mirth. There was a hunger in it that had her melting and turning warm in primal places. “So, who’s stopping you?” it was whisper, but it was loud enough. He took her hand and placed it his most pressing need.

She did not need the swathe of cotton her friends had told her about after all, and he did not cut her hymen with a pocket-knife…

In the morning he went to the main house and asked his uncle’s wife for a pair of scissors. He came back; cut off a part of the bed sheet, folded it neatly and walked out. She opened one lazy eye and watched his bare back as he walked out the door. She knew he would give the piece of cloth to his uncle along with money to replace the soiled sheets and enough to buy a spotless white ram which would be sent along with the cut piece of bedding to her uncle’s house with gratitude, for the gift of a virgin bride.

As she looked into his eyes now the memories threatened to drown her as they glided past in full color. She had inherited a photographic memory from one or both of her parents so recalling the past was easy. She had often driven her family close to crazy with her total recall skills as she would announce dates and times of events that everyone else remembered as chunks of memory. All her children except Bolanle would remember events in summary or highlights whereas she would irk them with total recall of how much Naira and Kobo was spent by whom in which year, Month and date. ‘That was when Mrs. So-and-so had just given birth and so and so’s car was given a fresh coat of green paint.

She smiled at this man who had been her friend, enemy and tutor over the years. She wanted that for her daughter too. Marriage was meaningless if to people couldn’t quarrel as often as she did with Isola safe in the knowledge that they would resolve it, no matter how dirty the fight got.

“Woman, did you hear me?” she liked it when he called her “woman” the word was an entire book as far as she was concerned. It had several chapters with detailed description of the different places life together had taken them.

Yes, yes, I heard you, I haven’t gone deaf yet. I will attend to it. But please make sure those butchers do not make a spectacle of killing that cow. I don’t want any child below fifteen at the site either. It’s not the sort of experience a child should be exposed to.

Things went into overdrive from that point on. People literally started stepping on each other’s toes as preparations for her daughters engagement party went into full gear. The in-laws were due to arrive by 4pm. They had about six hours to get ready.

She went in search of her daughter and after conducting a search around the house eventually found her snug under the duvet not in her room, as for some reason, Bolanle had found a need to curl up in her mother’s bed.

Julie didn’t need any more proof; something was wrong. She burst into the family Oriki- the praise chant of her husband’s people. “Bolanel mi, omo agbegi gberekete. Omo awodi jeun epe sanra omo awodi jeun epe ma ru. Omo asojo koto sakin omo asalo saaju ija. A jeji ko gbudo wo ‘gbo baba re ajeji to ba wo’gbo babare a fi se’bo. Ikereku merin tutu nene. B’ikereku kolowo b’ikereku ko la, ola merin to je.

Bolanle, talk to me now? It’s true I’m don’t know the way things are run in your generation, but I’m still your mother. You know anything that hurts you hurts me in four places my child. Ki lo de? So fun mi?

“Mama what are you talking about? I’m fine, nothing’s wrong.”

“And nothing will be wrong by the grace of our God, but I’m insisting there’s something heavy on your mind. Bolanle, I know you. She let out a short chuckle; I know you like the wrinkles on my face. Dear child, there is something behind your eyes…”

“Mama that is emotional blackmail. Bolanle’s chuckle was a younger version of her mother’s; “I can’t believe you’re pulling that card right now.”

“Well, is it working?”

The younger woman just smiled. “Maybe, but I don’t want to talk about it right now, I just want you to hold me like you used to Mama. Can we just stay here a while? Do we have to rush?”

Julie did the only thing a mother with a distressed child could have done at that point. She walked to the door and locked the rest of the world out. Then she got into bed and pulled her daughter to her breast. As she stroked her hair, she sang the same song she had used to lull all seven of her children to sleep when they were babies. “ijo ki’mba ko w’omo o? ara ki’mbada ko W’omo..?” The world shrunk for them at point. Only two people existed then; a mother and her child. The only sound that mattered was the sound of a mother’s velvety voice singing away the shadows.

They lay like that for all of one hour while the world outside the room carried on with preparations for the engagement. The search for mother and daughter had started about fifteen minutes after Julie locked the door. Several calls had been made to Julies’ phone, but she had set it to silent just before she dozed off. When she woke up, she picked up the phone, and called her husband first.

“Isola, you called me?”

“Of course I called you.” His voice was exasperated. “Where are you? And where is Bolanle?”

She’s with me in the bedroom. Did you need something?”

“Not anymore, the women wondered where you both were. Shouldn’t she be dressing up by now? You know how long you women take to dress up. I don’t want to drag anything for longer than is necessary you know?”

“She will be ready when she’s ready. There’s no need to rush anything. Please don’t stress yourself out; we paid professionals to take care of this for just this reason, so that we don’t end up overly stressed out.”

After that conversation she turned to towards the reason for the small tornado ripping through her home and saw that Bolanle must have woken up during the phone conversation.

“Mama, did you have second thoughts about getting married?”

Ah! Her child was finally ready to confide; “my dear, I had second and third thoughts. I knew I was going to have to leave my life as I knew it and follow your father to a place where he would be the only one I would know for a long time. I was a basket of confusion long before and long after I married your father”

“And yet you went ahead with it? What convinced you to do it?”

“For one thing, your father was a handsome man…” she said with a laugh. “... He was what your generation would call a ‘catch’ at the time, and I loved him almost as soon as he came with his uncle to my uncle’s house to declare his intentions. But over and above that, I had to settle within my heart that I was going to try and make us work. I was 22 when we met; he was ten years older, and wiser too! When after almost one year he came from Kaduna and said he was ready for marriage, I set my heart on being as good a wife as I could be, and jumped. I’m glad I did.”

She could tell her daughter was in distress and her heart ached with the urge to make whatever it was go away and stay gone.

“What do you want to do my child? We can cancel this wedding if you’re not sure?”

“But the people…”

“Which people? The people can eat the food and drink all they can. We’ll hold a party all the same, and tell them this is a rehearsal and we will invite them again when we are ready.

Marriage is not about the people. It’s about two individuals and how resolved and ready they are within their hearts to walk through life together. You will be happy and you will be sad. You will be angry and there will be times when you will both hurt. The thing that will keep you in it is love, your mutual resolve, and what you do with it.

So, what do you want to do my dear?”

“But I’m 35 years old!” she almost wailed.

“But you are still and will always be a child to me. Besides, it’s not as if you’re calling off the wedding permanently…” it was both a question and a statement.

“No mama, I love Chimdi to bits and I know he loves me too. I just…” she faded off and looked around the room as if the answer to her quandary was hiding in a corner.

Julie took her daughter by one hand and with the other hand she turned her face around with a gentle tug on her jaw. She looked in her eyes; “Bolanle omo Isola, what do you want to do?”

The hand against her cheek felt rough and moist at the same time. Age and time had turned it from the soft moist hand of a young woman into this texture that spoke of dedication and duty. This hand had cradled and spanked in turns. The hand nurtured and carved character into her home through dry and wet weather. Bolanle wanted her hand to tell this kind of story too. She lifted her right hand and placed it on her mother’s. “Mama, I think we should have a party…”