OUR MOTHER IS A MAN

Ekuba and her younger brother watched their mother tackle her daily morning routine – woke up at 4:30 am, swept the house compound, pressed their school uniforms, prepared their breakfast, packed their lunch, took them to the junction and waited for the school bus. That was how their mother spent her early mornings from bed while she and her younger brother spent hours in the washroom.

Mondays were the most difficult. They reset their lives to waking up early after a long weekend of waking up late. Even though it was agonising, Ekuba never saw her mother mutter, nor did they. They knew she needed to get her goods to the market immediately. Mondays were peak hours for marketers, so they had to leave the house as early as six o'clock in the morning.

The bathroom seceded from the main house – a little farther away from the shared kitchen, which was the link from the compound to the toilet. Their mother swept the compound and all corners of the house. Ekuba and her brother bathed in the space left between the wall and the bathroom because they feared a ghost might clutch them in the dark, alone in the restroom.

“Ekuba, you better bathe your brother and yourself!” Their mother yelled, and the sleep suddenly died out from their eyes.  

“How many times should I tell you to clean yourself there before you come here.” Their mother took the towel from their shivering bodies.

“It was cold outside,” Ekuba responded in a quavering voice.

“That is why you should wipe yourself and your brother after bathing. Just look at him shaking like the dancers at a carnival.” She laughed. “Here, let me clean you up.

“Ma, Ekuba said there was a ghost, so we ran,” cried the younger brother.

“Which ghost?” Their mother asked.

“….”

“Don’t frighten your brother,” their mother warned her, “There is no ghost anywhere. You were bathing outside. Why would it come and scare my sweet baby, hm? She said playfully, “Now, help him get dressed.

Ekuba was three years older than her brother. Six months after her younger brother was born, their father was dispatched for peacekeeping. They had been told beautiful stories about him. Such stories that they relived every moment. Seven years passed, and their mother told them their father would be home one day. The only memory they had holding them was a family portrait on the wall.

The walls were adorned with photographs of their wedding ceremony, Ekuba, her brother, and their mother. The only portrait of their father hung above the television. He wore his Army uniform with a faint smile, and his moustache erupted in the photograph as every other army man preferred, distinct and precise. The picture looked anew, looking at how young their father was in the picture but had been kept safe.

“Junior!” She shouted at her brother, who fumbled the lotion, “Stop it before Ma gets here,” She pulled her brother to her side, sat on the squeaky brownish settee, and rubbed off the cream from his body. No sooner than they heard, the door squeaked.

“Come on fast, put on the socks before Mum gets here,” Ekuba whispered.

“…,” Their mother chuckled and strolled into the bedroom with her towel wrapped around her.  “Ekuba, what did I tell you?” She shouted from the bedroom.

“Is Junior; he wouldn’t stay calm for me to dress him,” cried Ekuba.

“And she’s always got an answer to whatever you say!” she continued, “Did you help him finish his homework?”

“I told him to write, but he would rather do something else.”

“Ekuba! Didn’t you help him? Their mother exited the bedroom half-dressed and drew Junior to her side. She stretched for his school uniform on the centre table, which served as the ironing board, put it by her side, and dressed him up. “Make sure you help him do it before he gets to school”.

“I will help him with that on the school bus.”

“Focus. Don’t ever lose it,” she bawled, “enough of the games. I am not preventing you from playing, but you should limit it. You’ve got to concentrate more on academics.”  She sternly warned them. “…And you, too, be calm for her to teach you.”

Junior appeared classy in his white shirt, blue shorts, and polished black shoes. She had combed his hair, and it relaxed smoothly. Ekuba dressed up in a white shirt and pleated blue skirt.  

Their mother entered the bedroom.

“Ma…” Ekuba shouted.

“Yes”

“Come and look at Junior; he is not eating. He is instead watching cartoons.”

“Junior!”

The two siblings never agreed on anything. Maybe Ekuba thought her brother did not respect her. On the other hand, the younger brother knew Ekuba was too much to handle and dramatic. So, under no circumstances did they come to a stand.

“Get up, guys, let’s go – we are late already. Come on, take your bags; let’s go. Ekuba – switch off the TV.”

  As they walked outside, she stared at her mother like she had seen a stranger. She admired everything about her mother and only wished to be as strong as she was.  

The atmosphere was as peaceful as an orchestra's sound, and the houses were beautifully arranged along the roadside. Their mother explained that she needed to relocate them here to avoid the crooks in her previous neighbourhood. The children in these estates were well-behaved. There was no unnecessary honking from cars or shouting. You barely found someone outside in these places.

Their mother knew this was the best place to raise her children because most kids in her former home became junkies or school dropouts - or at least a large portion of them did. Alavi was located on the outskirts of Merindina, about 3 miles from the town. It stood on a hill with a view of the community around it. It was dubbed the "Eden of Rich Men." Ekuba and her family were fortunate to discover this compound house in Eden.

They made their way to the intersection. Their mother was dressed in an overall work outfit, her handbag slung over her arm, and she held their hands. Except for Saturdays and Sundays, this was how it went every day of the week. They could get at least a few more hours of sleep before weekend classes and church. They walked three blocks away from their house to a convenience store.

“Eno, good morning.” Their mother greeted the store owner, fetching money in her handbag.

“Good morning, Nona.”

“Can I have two Malt and Milk biscuits, please?”

“How are you?” Eno asked.

“We are fine,” they responded.

Every Monday through Friday at 6 a.m., the store owner knew they were the first to patronise her. So they walked away from the store and up the hill to the bus station. Their mother made it a competition for them always to run, no matter how steep the mountain was. Their mother panted as if she had lost her life while climbing the hill. Ekuba and her brother relished every moment because it was a bonding experience, and they laughed at who came last.

The bus station was on the left side of the road on the hill. The painting set it apart from every other bus station. When they moved to the area, their mother contacted their school and requested that they be picked up there.  They crossed the street and waited for the school bus, which arrived at 6:35 a.m. When the bus arrived, their mother smothered them with kisses and hugs.

“Good morning, Madam,” the bus driver greeted.

“Good morning, Baba,” their mother responded.

“How are you doing, kids?” The bus driver asked Ekuba and her younger brother.

“We are fine,” they boarded the bus.

“Don’t forget to help him with his homework,” their mother continued, “Make sure you don’t leave your brother alone.”

“These kids…” the bus driver chuckled, “All right, see you later, Madam.”

They went to school cheerfully, hoping to come home to meet their mother. She was their hero and guardian angel. However, they knew nobody except their mother and her siblings, their uncle who lived in the neighbouring country, and their auntie – in the next town.  

Occasionally, Ekuba wanted to hear stories about her father, maybe his voice. But, of course, that troubled their mother since she hadn’t heard from him or any information from the Barracks. Nevertheless, she kept her hopes high and knew that one day, their father would come to them to meet his children. Ekuba spent a few years with him, but her brother, who knew nothing about his father, spent seven years in ignorance.

The bus dropped them off at the same spot it took them, and they hurriedly ran to the house. At 5 p.m., their mother had not returned from work, and they knew where the key was.  It was given to the next-door neighbour. She had a hair salon in front of the house. They took the keys, ran to the house, undressed, and rushed to the playground.  They knew they didn’t have much time left because their mother would be in about an hour and a half.

When their mother wasn’t in, they waited at the bus station for their mother’s return.  Their mother was never late except for days when she had to go to the wholesale.  And when she alighted from the bus, she saw her babies pitifully sitting there. And nothing could brighten their faces more than the presence of their mother.

In the cool of the evenings, when darkness hit the face of Meridina, their mother taught them scriptures from the bible. A way that she said was perfect for every little child to live. They laid a mat in front of their door. And when it was a blackout, they lighted a lamp and received the fresh air that blew around the house. And they counted the stars in the sky; half-moon – and their mother told them stories from her childhood. And when it was late at night, she sang them old lullabies to put them to sleep.

…

How their mother went from performing her daily routines to sleeping helplessly on the bed was enigmatic. But then, everything faded, and it started to feel like they were losing their sense of bonding.   It was as though their mother’s sickness ambushed them. Her body was covered with dark spots. It began with regular headaches – the drugs were not as effective as they should be, and it was deemed spiritual warfare.

The truth is – that everyone assumed their mother had committed a heinous crime and had suffered the consequences of her actions. Perhaps she had been thinking a lot about her husband lately. She gradually lost weight and never regained it. Ekuba had recently observed her mother and was terrified. She knew something was wrong, but their mother assured them she was okay.

Their uncle returned from the neighbouring country. He stayed with them and ensured they attended school to ease their mother’s burdens. Ekuba noticed her auntie visited the house often and would accompany their mother to the hospital – sometimes church and they would return late at night. Now and then, they visited a prophet or a doctor; the situation was a canker more than ever.

They saw her tears – and how she screamed in pain during the nights. Like a wailing piano, their mother screamed in the night.  The only time Ekuba saw her mother in these tears was when she woke in the middle of the night and witnessed her naked mother praying vociferously for her family. But this time was different – their mother may have hidden it from them, but Ekuba discerned that her mother needed help.

But help was the battle her mother faced. Her uncle never gave up and trusted that she would be back to her fair, glowing skin. And would add a few pounds to her weight and fit into her curvy dresses.

One frigid morning, when they had prepared for school. Their mother sat on the bed disguised in a whitish cream; They said it was to treat the dark ports on her skin. For beauty, they classified that for their mother, but a sunken clavicle was as strange as it appeared.

Don’t worry; I will be fine when you come home.” Their mother faintly uttered. She noticed Ekuba’s anxious face. It was a jumble of fear and hope. She didn’t know what to believe, whether they’d come home to see her mother hale and hearty or their mother lied to cheer her up.

“I know,” Ekuba responded.

“Be with your brother. Don’t let him be out of sight. You are my world. Focus, and you will be anything you want to be.”

They left.

Later that day, Ekuba and her younger brother fought over candy in school.  Her younger brother looked at her like a mafia. She could feel his anger ravaging her body.  She could read his mind. It was fixated on reporting her to their mother. No sooner had they alighted at the bus station than they heard a voice wailing in the area.  

“Again?” Junior lamented.

The voice got closer than usual as they approached home. Their Auntie’s eyes were puffed out from tears and reddish. Seeing them, she screamed their mother’s name with lamentations. Ekuba stood there shocked and remembered that she had seen this scene before. It was in her dream some time past when their mother waved them goodbye. Who was to say? She was a child, and it meant nothing.

Her brother dashed into the house in search of his mother. The incident perplexed Ekuba. They noticed a crowd gathered in front of their room. That crowd would only gather if something had happened. As she entered the house, she saw their open window and her uncle on the phone. There was nothing but murmuring, and they were staring at them anxiously as they strode down the corridors.

“Come, Ekuba,” called one tenant.

“Where is my mother?” Ekuba asked.

“Your mother travelled, and she will be back.”

“I want to see my mother!” she bawled and couldn’t hold her tears any longer. Her feet wobbled in extremities when she tried surging into the room. Her body quivered in the hands of the man who detained her. She felt the earth quiver under her feet. Something ran through her veins, and it was imperceptible: rage, anger, fear, sorrow, pain – all she wanted was to see her mother.

  As tense as the place was, everybody tried to avoid the tears to catch the attention of Ekuba and her younger brother. But Ekuba knew what had happened, yet no one would say anything, and no one would tell them their mother passed a few minutes after the school bus alighted them,

That night, they slept at their Auntie’s. They had never slept at any place and with anyone but their mother. The earlier events replayed in Ekuba’s thoughts throughout the night while his brother drowned in a deep sleep.

Then, they sat at the bus station the following day, waiting for their mother to return because they were told she had travelled.  And they waited and waited and waited….