Mama is telling me this story for the one hundred and fifth time. This tale hangs at the tip of her tongue. There are three parts to it, like the three acts in literature.
In those you-think-you’re-now-a-big-girl moments, it’s the third act that spills, splattering to the ground. And she will carry her sagging belly to show it to me—that black line running horizontally along her lower abdomen. A reminder that my coming into the world almost killed her. She would describe the pain and fear of being told she would have to go under the knife to birth this child. She speaks of the burst of blood flowing down the stairs of the hospital; she says it would fill two buckets. She knows it tames me in a way nothing else does. I do not like to think about this fear that breeds in my womb, so I swallow hard to keep it still. But I feel it growing into something that brings fear and pain.
When she tells the second act, she speaks of it with detail and a certain tenderness. It comes pouring in those moments when we both become aware that time ticks, like now. It’s our excuse to savour each other’s presence while we still can. This is the fifth time she is telling this story today. She is like that these days, repeating what she said moments ago, punctuated with coughs that make my breath pause and deep sighs that carry so much burden. I don’t mind; I hear her words, but my focus is on engraving all of her in my memory.
So I listen, staring at her head wrapped in grey silk resting against the yellow-painted wall, now a dingy brown from years of dirt accumulation. The patterns on the scarf remind me of the art created on wet soil swept with dried palm fronds. Her eyes are shut, and her lashes are thick, black, and scattered. Her eyebrows are just as scattered but are a mixture of grey and black hairs that speak of beauty. The darkened scalds on her face are a testament to years of suffering under the Nigerian sun. As her lips move, I notice they aren’t pink but a burnt orange with brown edges. My heart melts, solidifying all of her and this house that has been all I have known.
The second act captures the accident that happened in the year two thousand. She was sitting in an open market space, buyers and sellers clamouring under the slithering heat and dipping legs in mud. She was eating a green apple as her braids were being made. The hairdresser was telling tales of miracles—the crusade where the gods of Ogidi were evacuated from the village one by one for the real God to reign and how the young men were suddenly succeeding. Mama scoffs, a shame to the gods, a win for God. Beside them, boys were unloading containers filled with laces from a trailer. They carried huge bundles, struggling under the weight. One of the boys misstepped and accidentally hit a large signboard. The signboard landed on Mama’s eight-month pregnant belly. She said if it had been a sharp sword, it would have slashed her stomach open. The poor boy was crying; Mama was screaming, her belly searing with pain. At the hospital, the doctor confirmed there was no trace of a fetal heartbeat anymore. It was all blood. She blotted with blood.
My mind pulls up the scene again—the red smear on the sheets that brought my senses back that afternoon—the physical representation of a deed done. I force down the spittle that gathers in my mouth. It feels like swallowing shit. Everything in my tummy makes a journey to my mouth; I hold it back. Mama pauses. Are you still here? I look at her closed eyes and hum a yes as I nod.
Then she slips to the first act to tell me how she knew she was pregnant after a crusade prayer where the air was diffused with the scent of baby perfume after the priest prophesied. She smiles, that night, I knew the scent of a miracle, she says. This act makes my heart squeeze in prayer. I implore God to take this cup from me. I feel like Jesus in Gethsemane, carrying my sin.
I do not want to remember getting lost in his arms, the world disappearing in blues, my senses walking out on me. When I walked into his room, with white and black block wallpapers plastered across the walls, swirling blue lights, and soft music that met my ears like kisses, I had gone to get a book. But he was reeking of everything I shouldn’t have drowned in. I beg God because one time things shouldn’t leave such heavy weight, such growling evidence.
Mama pauses again, says that I am her miracle, and opens her eyes. Her pupils are fading; it’s the cataracts. Her gaze stays on me as she warms everything with a smile, then shuts her eyes again.
Tears betray too much. I try to control it, but I fail. I fail as terribly as Jesus failed to carry the cross on that second fall to Calvary. I feel it—the weight of my sin. The weight of knowing that I would sin again and crucify Him more. My heart squeezes because I have consented to flushing out tomorrow, the one who is to be my miracle.
Mama’s cough erupts again. I pat her, clearing my throat, hoping that would clear hers, but it lingers for too long. I rush to get water, saddled with the knowledge that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for either of us.
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Image: Chris Barbalis on Unsplash cropped