Auntie Sister.
Painting from the Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash.
I’ve come bearing bad news. When I arrived at the front door, I wanted to lift my skirt, turn away, run into the street, and never come back. However, I’d already made it this far; there was no turning back. I press my thighs against each other, ignoring the ache in my hip bones, as my sweaty palm overlaps the other on my knees. My eyes survey the framed pictures on the wall, around where the large television hung. I imagine this family at night, nestling on the sofa opposite the screen, watching their favourite soap opera. My chest tightens. They have not been the same since the incident. I know it. And this—what I’m about to tell them could be the final stone taken out that’ll bring this house crumbling into rubble.
Twenty years ago, I watched two people interlock fingers and melt in fluttering lashes. Adora was always searching for a fairytale. Someone who will cradle her face in his palms and trail kisses from her forehead to the tip of her nose to her lips—feathery as his breath warms her face. A person who would ignite a flame in her belly, make her heart race, cause her to curl her toes and make her body tremble in ecstasy. So, I gave her my twin.
I noticed how her voice softened whenever he was around and how she’d spend most of the time staring at her feet till he left. So, I sprang into action. I’d feign illness to make him accompany her to night class or the market. During holidays, I’d leave the pictures Adora and I took together during the semester on my brother’s bed, bringing her into conversations at every given chance.
“Auntie Sister, you promised to take me out the last time you visited.” The teenager says, placing a fogged bottle of cold water and a glass cup on the table before me. She pouts, crosses her arms, and stares at me.
“Auntie Sister, when is daddy coming home?” Her younger brother asks, fiddling with an action figure. There’s a gap in his mouth from his two missing front teeth.
I do not l know what to say. Instead, I rummage through my bag, take out two five-hundred-naira notes, and squeeze them into their hands.
Their eyes light up. “Thank you, Auntie Sister.”
I smile back.
“Where’s your mummy?”
“She’s been in her room since morning. I think she’s sleeping.” Ojima says.
“When are you going to get married?” Her little brother chips in.
“Auntie Sister cannot get married. She’s a Nun—”
“Does that mean we will never have a little cousin?” he cuts in again.
“Akowe, you shouldn’t interrupt when adults are speaking,” Ojima states while picking up the TV remote.
I chuckle, reaching for the bottle of water she’d served earlier.
There are milk stains on the glass table. Old, sticky stains. There’s dust on the furniture too, and the cream tiles have been darkened by accumulated dust and muddy feet. When was the last time this house was cleaned? I cannot ask. Not at this time. A wife is yearning for her husband. It’s the weekend, but the children are probably trying to catch up with schoolwork after their mother drove them around from one broadcast station to another during school hours. I walk to the kitchen, open the door, and the stench of decaying leftovers strikes my nose. Bile rises in my throat; I slam the door shut and retch. I pinch my nostrils close and open the door again. A pile of dirty plates grace my view.
“Sweet Jesus,” I mutter.
My stomach churns. I step inside and push the windows open for fresh air. I scan for a sponge and find it in an abandoned bowl of soapy water. I take out the slippery sponge and place it under running water for a minute before lathering it with soap. My mind wanders to the day Adora called me twenty years ago. It was during the Christmas holidays. I didn’t follow my parents to evening mass that day because I was down with a fever. My cellphone had only two bars left, and I was about to sleep off.
“Hello, Aruwa…” she trailed.
“My love! How are you?” Just hearing her voice made me feel better. “I miss you.“
“I miss you too.” She muttered. I could imagine her gripping the phone with both hands, thinking of what to say next. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay…go on.”
“I hope you won’t be angry with me? I really cherish our friendship”
I laughed. “Did you murder someone?”
She scoffed, “Of course not! Look, your brother asked me to be his girlfriend.”
My face heated up; I rolled off the bed and began to jump, holding back a squeal.
“Are you there?”
I cleared my throat, “Yes, yes! And what did you say?”
“I haven’t told him anything yet. I wanted to seek your permission first.”
“Ah! Seek my permission for what? This is good news! We’ll become family.” I said.
“Please! He hasn’t mentioned marriage,” she chuckled.
“Trust me, he wouldn’t want to date you if he wasn’t planning to.”
Their relationship launched when we resumed school after the holidays. My brother began to take Adora out twice a week—on Fridays and Sundays. She’d leave around 7pm and return by 9:20pm just before the porters locked the hostel gate. I looked forward to seeing her return with a white plastic bag containing ice cream and meat pies. She always shared.
“I know that even though I beg Ogecha for two weeks, he’ll not buy me a doughnut, but look at him doting on you.” I’d say, munching on the snack.
She’d nudge me and say, “Don’t be jealous. You should also find a prince charming.”
I’d scoff. “I’ve already told you that I’m going to become a Sister.”
“You and your Sister talk. It’s because you haven’t experienced love before.”
“I’ve experienced Christ’s love, so I’ll become a Sister and devote my life to Him.”
Adora’s forehead would crease; she’d stare at me with a scrunched nose and upturned lips. Then she’d kiss her teeth and slap the snack out of my hand. “Then stop eating carnal food from carnal love.”
Her disgust towards my decision to become a Sister made me lose surprise when they invited me to join them at an eatery, and I ended up meeting only Ogecha’s best friend there. It was Adora’s birthday, so I didn’t suspect any foul play. In fact, I was excited because it meant free food from a twin brother who had never even bought me chewing gum. However, when I got there, I saw Orji sitting there. We weren’t strangers.
I’d once assisted him in putting together an investigative article for the news company he worked part-time with. We shared a sizzling hatred for nepotism and corruption. We also disliked the fruit of colonial remnants in the country. Like how everyone felt the need to have an English name to show how civilized they were. Or how ladies who didn’t relax their hair were seen as poor or unkempt. The difference between us was our religious stance. He never understood my faith. He often called it a colonial weapon.
We ordered food and paid for our meals, barely saying anything to each other. Then we took a tricycle back to the school gate. It was dark, and few students were outside then. I hoped some of those notorious boys wouldn’t jump out of the shadows.
“Let’s pass the Chemistry department. We’ll get to our hostels faster,” he suggested. I shuddered at the thought, “Chemistry? No. It’s dark, and someone was robbed at gunpoint last week.”
He laughed, “But I’m here with you. Don’t worry, I’m an area boy. My fists are faster than bullets.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Look, let’s just take the normal route.”
That building, like many others in our school, had a dark alley that led straight to the hostel in a matter of minutes. However, it came with many dangers and atrocities. Last session, two girls were assaulted there while going to morning mass. I couldn’t eat well for days after hearing it. I wondered why God let such a thing happen to them. Then shoved the thought away.
“Oh. Look! A shuttle bus is approaching.”
I knew that I screamed at Adora when I returned to the hostel because by the time we were done talking, my voice was hoarse and I was panting by the time I got to my bed. I ignored my brother’s phone calls. Adora and I went three days without talking, although we stayed in the same room. Did they believe I wasn’t old enough to decide the future I wanted? Or did they think women only chose to become Sisters because they couldn’t find love? How myopic.
As our three days of silent treatment ensued, I was sure Adora expected me to apologize like I always did. But no. Not this time. I had had enough of her disdain. My dreams being different didn’t make them any less than hers.
On the fourth morning, I found her lying beside me with her arms around me. She was warm.
Typical of Adora. She was always very warm.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
That day my brother bought me something for the first time in my life.
Sandals.
Three weeks later, Orji called and announced that he had just finished writing his poetry chapbook. He’d been working on it for over a year, and he wanted me to help him edit it before sending it to a publisher. So after class, I swung my bag and made my way to the library where he was waiting for me. My walk to the library sealed my decision to pursue an editorial career after graduation. Orji had once said it would make sense for me to become an editor. According to him, I was widely read, and I had golden eyes.
I still remember that walk. The sunset was magnificent behind the trees that lined my path, like green embroidery on a golden fabric. The branches swayed, and the leaves rustled as the soft wind raked through them.
Then I finally saw Orji. I called out his name. He turned towards the direction of my voice and waved. I waved back. And in the split moment before I took my next step, a bullet tore through his head, and his body landed on the ground like a sack of beans.
My brain had little time to process what had just happened. Survival instincts kicked in. I didn’t scream. I ran and hid behind one of the trees, pressing my trembling lips shut with my palm as tears burned my eyes. People who had been hovering around the area were screaming and scrambling for safety, some tripping in the process and abandoning their belongings. No one cared to check on Orji, including me. He was gone.
I can never forget that day. The first time someone died before my eyes. The only things I have left of him are my editorial career and his bloodstained poetry manuscript that I’ve still not brought myself to publish.
“No! Not again!” The children groan as the power goes out.
Children. They were silent the entire time they were watching TV.
Footsteps approach. I’d already cleared the plates, wiped every surface in the kitchen, and mopped the floor.
“Auntie Sister, what are you doing?” Ojima asks, entering the kitchen. She looks around the kitchen and rubs her elbow, stepping back outside as if trying not to dirty the place. “T-thank you, ma. I was actually planning to clean it this evening,” she stuttered, biting her lower lip.
I flash a smile. “It’s fine. Now that I’m here, let me help my favourite girl out.”
I was a teenager once, and I understood how she felt at that moment. Having an older woman clean the house when you were around was embarrassing. It was just like your mother finally doing the dishes after yelling all day long for you to do it.
“Can you quickly clean up the sitting room while I cook? I want your mother to eat something when she wakes up.”
This time, she smiles like a knight that was just given a chance to redeem themself. “Okay, ma.”
She picks up the broom and mop stick and heads to the sitting room.
“Akowe! Make sure your legs are not on the floor by the time I get there!” She screams.
Sometimes I wish I could pay to spend a day in the past. To experience bantering with my brother once again. To hear my mother yell at me and my father ask if I’d read my Bible. I wish I could go back at least two days before someone bathed, dressed, ate, picked up a gun, and left their house just to end Orji’s life.
Rumours began to fly after his death. Many claimed he was a cultist and a rival cult had come for their pound of flesh. However, my brother knew the truth. On his way back from reading at the school’s basement one night, he’d seen a girl lying in the bushes, gasping for air. Her clothes were torn, and she was covered in bruises. There was a knife lodged in her stomach. He rushed her to the school clinic, but she didn’t make it through the night. Orji picked up a departmental ID card from the spot where he found her. He suspected that the culprit was the one who mistakenly dropped it there. He submitted it to the police, and the person in question was taken in for questioning that lasted barely an hour. He was let go after they discovered that he was the Deputy Governor’s son.
The two weeks leading to Orji’s demise had him receiving consistent death threats. He should not have taken it lightly. He should’ve returned home and maybe changed schools. Perhaps he knew that he’d be hunted down regardless. Maybe—just maybe he wanted to get his manuscript published before dying. I still cannot imagine how he felt during those two weeks. Living with the knowledge that his death could happen anytime.
When Orji died. Ogecha picked up a pen and decided to be an investigative journalist. He succeeded and became a splinter in the skin of corrupt politicians and elites.
However, the weight of injustice rests heavy on this nation’s back. The girl from twenty years ago and Orji, who never got justice because the offender had influence, are amongst the many ghosts birthed from Lady Justice’s removal of her blindfold.
“Ogecha, be careful,” I said the last time we spoke. “You have a family. You have so much to lose.”
“But someone has to speak,” he replied.
Ogecha was always chasing something. One politician or the other. I always tried to ignore it. He once called me a coward, who chose the easy part to service because it’s safer. The teenage me would’ve had an outburst, but I smiled and told him not to speak of what he knows nothing about. Even if I could rewind time, I would still make the same choice.
I measure three long cups of rice and set it on the stove. Then I rummage through the fridge and find some frozen stew. I take it out and keep it in the sink to defrost. Rice and stew on a Saturday afternoon. Growing up, we mostly ate rice and stew on Sundays. A dull ache spreads through my chest. I’ve been feeling this way since I received that call about Ogecha. Ogecha and I always had that twin connection. I’d always experience pain whenever my brother was ill, nervous, or in danger.
Ogecha went missing last Thursday on his way to work. We do not know what happened, but he never made it to his table. Adora and I visited the police station, wrote statements, and did the needful. We were told to wait for forty-eight hours. Who even made that useless rule? We posted his picture online and contacted news outlets, newspapers, radio stations, and broadcast stations.
Investigative Journalist, Ogecha, Goes Missing on his way to Work. I also told my fellow Sisters to pray along with me.
“Aruwa.”
I turn towards the familiar voice coming from the doorway. “Oh! You’re awake. I hope you rested well?”
She nods and folds her arms. My heart is pounding. Her eyes are red and swollen. She’s wearing an oversized maroon shirt paired with navy blue shorts. I used to see Ogecha wear them sometimes. She sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her palm, leaving traces of snot across her upper lip.
“I’ll be with you in a minute. Let me add more water to the rice.”
“You’re cooking?” She asks.
“Uhm…yes?”
She takes a deep breath, glances at the pot then back at me. “It’s been fifteen years since you last made me a meal. Aruwa, what’s going on? Why are you suddenly cooking me a meal?”
My tongue goes numb, and I suddenly lose the ability to speak. I place the lid on the steaming pot and move closer to her. I gaze into her weary eyes for a moment before pulling her into my arms. She holds me tighter and breaks into sobs, her body trembling, as the air around us grows cold.
We have both lost a part of ourselves.
