Romola got off the bike and hurried down the narrow path that led to the clearing. What did the message mean by dead? She burst out in the clearing and under the bright day of the sun— In time to see Mr Ibrahim bend over his okada.

He straightened, squinting at her. 

She dropped her eyes, hastening towards the house on the right until he called out, "Romola is that you?"

She turned to the man. His mid-section looked bigger than she remembered and his house boasted of a fresh new coat of paint.

"Good morning Sir."

"Good morning. How are you doing?"

Romola looked towards the house. No sign of a living human remained. She turned back to her primary three teacher. "I'm fine. Do you know if my mother... if my mother is at home?"

He shrugged. "Where do you stay now? Are you working?"

Romola frowned at the man. Mr. Ibrahim did not care about her. Where was he when her father had chased her out of the house with a machete? All he wanted to know was the next story he could tell his students in class.

"I said I am fine." She turned away from him and marched up the staircase unto the house pouch and into the house.

The net door shut behind her while her pupils dilated to accommodate the darker look of the room. She looked around the living room and caught the faint sounds of sniffs in a corner. She followed the sound into her mother's room. 

 Her mouth twisted—her heart pounded—as she crossed the door post, wondering what she would see. The message had to be wrong. If indeed her mother were dead, there had to be mourners outside the house. Mama Nelson would be there, trying to co-ordinate everyone. There would be someone other than Lolade, clutching their mother's body fiercely.

A bread tray in the corner set her mind at peace. There could not be bread if her mother was dead. 

"Lolade." 

"Where were you?" Lolade turned to her with tear-stricken face. "He wanted to kill her. I told you to come."

"I'm sorry." Romola gazed at the right side of their mother. She took a step forward then another backward. What if she touched the woman and found the body to be cold?

Romola knelt beside her mother and placed her hand below her mother's nostrils. She stored air in her chest while waiting for any indication of life. Faint warm air caressed her arms. She let down her hand and reached under her mother's blouse, to the left breast. 

A slow but steady thumping of her mother's chest assured her. Romola let out the breath she held and the tightness of her face faded. "Thank God." She muttered.

She drew her hand away from her mother's swollen face. Her eyebrow had tripled in size and blood flood from a tear on her cheeks.

"She's fine."

"She's not moving." Lolade sat in a corner, sucking her sobs.

"She will be fine. What happened?" Romola reached to the pile of clothed in the corner and began to clump them together. 

No doubt her step father had lost his temper again.

Lolade buried her head on Romola's lap, holding on like her older sister was all she had.

"Brother Jide brought some money home yesterday and mummy told him to go and give it back because he sold the chicken he stole from the farmer but daddy told him to keep it, that he has business sense. Mummy told daddy that he doesn't know anything. That's when they started fighting and he locked the room."

"Where is he now?"

"He went out. This morning he gave me money to go and buy bread. When he left, I came back inside. Since that time mummy hasn't woken up."

Romola held her sister's face then hugged her. "Don't worry. Mummy is fine. We just need to get some smelling salt."

Romola tried to stand just before her mother's hand wrapped around hers slightly.

"No. Don't collect anything from anybody." Her mother's voice was as thin as a razor blade.

Romola settled back in a kneeling position as Lolade hurried to their mother, hugging her. "Mummy."

Their mother winced.

Romola pulled Lolade away from their mother. The older woman struggled to sit up. This woman— whose hands failed as they reached for a pile of clothes as a support—looked nothing like the woman who raised her. Nothing like the woman who trekked from one of Lagos to another just to make sure there was food for the family that evening. This woman that at one point would have given her life for hers. This woman, curled into the pile of dirty clothes, was a pathetic caricature of her mother. 

"Lolade?" Romola's hands slipped down the curve of Lolade's slender arm. "Can you boil water?"

"She...S.can." Her mother sucked air through her mouth before every word. "She...can...do...more...than...her...age."

"Ssh." 

Of course, her mother would be proud that Lolade could do that but was it right for an eight-year-old to have to fend for themselves? Was it normal that children in this household had to mature faster than their age? 

She turned to her sister. "Boil water in a big pot. Don't come back until the water has boiled."

Lolade scampered out of the room and Romola rose. Her eyes surveyed the room. Everything except the bed and cupboard was displaced. She began to pick the body cosmetics off the floor. Her eyes strayed to her mother's body. The woman sat still, lodged on a pile of clothes with her eyes shut. 

Now, Romola saw what Lolade had seen— a woman who had resigned to her fate. Her mother didn't even give her a disapproving look to tell her she was trespassing by touching things in the room. 

"What really happened?"

Romola placed the cosmetics on the old faded dresser table and began to arrange them in the order of size. It wasn't the first time her mother and father were fighting over Jide. 

"Why did he hit you?"

There was no answer. Just a shaky breath drawn through her mother's mouth.

Romola dropped her eyes. The damage she saw now was worse than what she had first suspected. She busied herself with setting the furniture in the right place, taking the pail outside and dropping it at the corner of the living room, before setting the clothes in their right place. 

She opened the wardrobe. Her step father's clothes in the cupboard were fewer. She pinched her nose and eyed them, itching to burn them all. 

She turned back to her mother. The pile of clothes and her mother on the floor were the only things out of place in this room. 

She spoke with confidence now. "When are you going to leave this man?"

Her mother's voice returned with strength but as no more than a hoarse pained whisper. "You are ungrateful. This is his house."

"Was his house." Romola didn't have the patience for foolishness. She settled on the bed and watched her mother like a scientist would watch an animal go astray during an experiment. "When was the last time he paid the rent? 2013? 2014?"

"He provides—"

Anger from the depth of her soul rose to the surface but she swallowed it, reminding herself that the woman at her feet was the woman who gave her life.

"Stop it! Is it not Lolade's hawking that brings the money? Or maybe you consider Jide's thievery as a means of providing?"

 "When you...when you start providing for yourself...you'll know."

"I do, mummy. I pay the rent for where I live. Nobody feeds me."

"Try doing that pregnant with an unwanted child." Her mother's voice grew from strength to strength. "Nobody wanted you. Nobody wanted us but he wanted us."

"No." Romola shook her head. "He doesn't want me and he will soon kill you."

The man who took them in was not the monster who lived in this house. An evil Spirit must have stolen his looks and returned in the form of a man. 

"Never." Her mother let out a shaky breath. "How many...many babies have you killed because of your job?"

Did the woman still believe she a prostitute? Even after she had told her what she did for a living and what she was doing now? Did her mother even deserve to know she had gotten a new job?"

I have boil the water." Lolade hurried into the room carrying a yellow custard pail."

Drop it there." Romola pointed to the foot of the bed. "Bring the rob from the table."

Lolade gave her the rob. She dipped her finger inside, curling it around to get a sizeable amount. How could her own mother be suffering so much and she couldn't do anything about it. 

But her mother was right. 

If they decided to leave, where would they go? And she couldn't even face her father. The scar on her leg had never healed.

"Is that rob not plenty?" Lolade pointed at the pail.

Romola stared at the large ball of the heating balm she had put in the water because her thoughts were far far away. She grabbed a clean pillowcase from the bed and dipped half of it in the pail. Her mother would have to bear it. If the woman insisted on remaining with such a terrible man, she would have to bear the pain that came with it. 

She squeezed the pillowcase till it was damp and knelt beside her mother. She held the woman's head in her arm and as the pillowcase touched her mother's temple, the woman screeched. Romola applied less pressure but the screeching continued. She hung the pillowcase on the side of the pail.

"Mummy sorry. Please stop crying." Lolade said amidst tears.

"Lola, put the cloth in the water, squeeze it and press her face, gently you hear. I'm going to get some drugs for her." 

Romola rose. She didn't turn back to see if her sister understood the instructions or if her mother would protest. She shut the door behind her, just as another scream escaped her mother's mouth.

She couldn't do it. It would have been much more practical to tell Lolade to buy the drugs but, she just couldn't stand the sight of her mother—the woman that was the source of her strength—in such a weak way.

Author's Note:

Hello you.

I know it's been a while. 

Still trying to settle down and get used to this NYSC thing. But I'm still working hard at this story. Updates may be slow but I'll still keep doing my best to post as often as I can. 

Author's Note (6th of June, 2022)

I thought I already published this a while ago.