Memory At Seven
The first memory of my mother was at seven in our room and
palor house at Egbe road. A largely populated area dominated by the very
average and extremely above average people who live in one day peace
one day war with their face me I face you neighbor. We had recently
moved from Jaba, another small city in Kano where we left for during the
Abacha stove era. My sister and I.
I got up very early to take my shower. I looked up at the white
rounded faced wall clock above the florescent light in our parlor
minutes after minutes. I had recently been made the head girl of my
school. I wrapped round my towel that had become deep earthen brown. The
compound had two bathrooms with a slimy corridor and slippery walls
surrounded by rats running ahead once the swish of matches is heard. To
move the school forward was my one point agenda!
It had rained the previous night and I had recently got a blue and
white striped flay skirt with a tank top. The sun was setting. I leaned
on the gate. It overlooks the street. Just across mama Mayorkun had
placed a very massive pot on the fire that has three horns underneath
while Fatima and Afsat played different the same.
Just ahead of the street I saw a woman with a yellow and green
matted basket. The street no longer bustles as churches has taken over
all residential homes. I stare as she proceeds with this air, this grace
I could simply not understand. She smiles. I wonder. her. A tickle in
my heart recognizes her but I did not run to get her things nor embrace her. She must be tired her gait says that while the slouching of the basket indicates its heavy content. I
must have been ashamed or disappointed or maybe to have the pity of
people around when they say that is your mum and to blame my step mother
for being the reason for such a rift. I walk slowly with my head facing
downward while holding the black nylon where something lukewarm presses
against my palms as she scans my head and scratches off dirt with eyes
of pity on us from my neighbors.
They had
fight. My father and mother. My father for many days will simply
look through the window. This recognizable stranger was who my mother had
become.
S.J
