Shadows in the Dark.
Photo by Ariv Gupta on Unsplash.
I.
My father Atti was late again. And for a sane moment, I imagined him running away from his family. If he wasn’t, why the incessant disappointments? Why refuse to show up when he had promised to be home in time for my birthday celebration, the first intimate family birthday celebration we agreed to have? And his phone number wasn’t going through. I asked Ayah, my mother, why he always had this canny way of disappointing me and the whole family. Weren’t all fathers synonymous with God, choosing to remain mute and invisible when you needed them the most? She quickly forbade me; there must be a reason for his late coming, probably traffic. But I was aware she knew there was hardly any traffic because it was the weekend. I hissed and left the table, with the cake in the middle, the five candles unlit, my meal untouched, nearly knocking over Indi, my immediate younger sister.
But what I didn’t know was that my father was truly late and wouldn’t be returning home that day. He wouldn’t be returning any other day as well. And as I emptied my love for him in the bathroom sink where I watched the water I had poured gurgle down the sink, his body had emptied his soul on the cold tarmac along the Abuja expressway. News would later reach us that the streets had swallowed him. The news would replace the brooding silence suspended in the air by the splitting wails of my mother, which resembled the cry of a wounded dog before she collapsed.
Mama Zinta, our next-door neighbor who brought the news, dropped it at our feet like a hot metallic spoon the moment she stepped into the house. There was no forewarning from her, no dragging away your mother to a corner to whisper into her ears, no telling me or my mother or my younger brother to brace ourselves up.
But somehow she was quick to stop my mother from collapsing as if she had been prepared for that singular act. The ringing in my head became louder and louder, but it wasn’t because of my mother’s voice; the face of my father fleetly fading away, becoming distant. Later, when I went into my room to hide from the endless flow of sympathizers, I knew that even if I acted as God and willed the hands of time back to when my father departed the house, so that I could stop him from going or save his body from the onrushing vehicle, he might still wake up one morning to see himself lying on the bed. As I grew older, I realized this fact, because I hadn’t seen any man who carried the cross of his loved ones on his shoulder who did not walk the lonely, rocky path to Golgotha.
II.
My grief was a double blow; the sudden absence of a father and a mother who was in between. The news of our father’s death didn’t quite sit well with her, and she had been in a coma ever since. The tears blurred my vision, and when no one was watching, I let them spiral down my cheeks like rivulets. I tried to bury my thoughts beneath the debris of memories. The wind of time flips it here and there until it opens and turns into a tide. Every part of my body worked together to torment me. My eyes leaked. My heart twisted and churned. My mouth sang dirges. My nose flowed with mucus. My ears were deaf from my cries. My younger siblings, Indi and Zizou, unaware of the situation at hand, but surprised at seeing a lot of people gathered around and crying, were confused on whether to join them in their tirade or simply sit limply and watch.
So I was instructed to sit idly for days, receiving endless streams of people, mumbling gratitude for their condolences and amens to their prayers for me, Ayah and my siblings. My uncle Arinda, who worked and lives in faraway Kaduna, came in with a friend of his, who, after the introduction, took one pitiful look at me and muttered. “Eyah, death can be so cruel. This young boy?”
“He is even in SS2 presently.” Uncle Arinda chipped in. The man dropped a bulging envelope on my lap and patted my back. And on and on they went about the unfortunate situation and the unfairness of death, with the other sympathizers nodding their heads in total agreement. Some of the sympathizers, like ardent archaeologists, tried to uncover the memories of my father I had sworn to bury in the cemetery of my heart. They thought it wise to reminisce the goodness my father had done to others, of his benevolence to his family, friends and even foes to pass time. I shut my ears, but somehow the voices reached me, and I almost asked them all to leave. To me, they all looked sympathetic in a false way, like people who wanted something from me, as if they had known my father all their lives, as if they could name one attribute, describe him beyond physical features, as if they knew that while he was always there for his siblings, he had starved his family of his time.
As I listened, I couldn’t help it as the dam of tears held back by my shut eyelids burst open. The tears slipped through my eyelids before I could stop them. A man with brooding eyes said to me. “You are crying?” And for a moment, I was taken aback. Wasn’t he expecting me to cry? Was he expecting me to move from one person to another, grinning from ear to ear and asking if they needed soft drinks and meals? “Don’t you know you are the man of the house now? You have to be strong for your mother and the younger ones, my boy.”
I murmured that I wasn’t his boy and left, not minding if he heard or not. I knew the people wouldn’t mind me being rude — I was simply mourning my father. My uncles, aunties, and other relatives from my father’s side suddenly turned heroes and worked tirelessly for the success of his funeral. Atti was buried at the Yakwanto Cemetery, which was located in our area, Sangawa. We were staying in a rented apartment, so we couldn’t bury Atti there, and my uncles complained about the limited space in the village for burying Atti. You see, Atti was busy running around to meet the needs of his immediate and extended family, and didn’t think it wise to claim land for himself or even build a suitable house in the village. His money went into taking care of his family through parcels of envelopes he gave to his ever-visiting relatives. The cemetery was not far from our house, but we got into any car that was available while the others walked there from church. After the funeral, they all left like moths when the fire had been quenched, and we, the children, were left to ourselves.
III.
Ayah was discharged three weeks after Atti’s funeral. Uncle Ayinda, Atti’s younger brother, settled the bills at the hospital and drove both Ayah and me back home. He reiterated that I should take care of Ayah, and I was determined to do more than that; to be there for her the same way she was there for us.
On most days, she sat as quiet as a mannequin, which made the memory of my father suddenly disappear, how his absence left the recollection of an exaggerated version of him, a towering figure, his voice the beacon of direction in our household, the one who moved around making the house come alive while Ayah was the timid, quiet one obeying all of his command. And I tried to imagine if our house had ever been this quiet.
I sat by Ayah all day long, waiting for her to move a finger or split open her lips so I could fetch her anything that she wanted: water, food, a hand fan to blow herself when the room got hot. Ayah had become a muted version of herself. It seemed like she had switched places with Ati, becoming more absent in the house, even with her presence.
I wish she would say something. I wish she would cry and let the pain out. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, I would place my ear on the door to listen if she was crying. And there was no sound. Other days, I got frightened each time the silence became like a swollen air and different negative thoughts swirled round my head: “Is she okay? Is she trying to harm herself?”
So I would knock on her door at intervals to check on her and search the room for something like a drug, a bottle of poison, or a rope well tied to the ceiling. There was none except the emptiness in the eyes of Ayah that I stopped looking into for fear of falling into an unending, vast hole of nothingness.
IV.
My friend, Aninta, came to visit me at home. I had been away from school for three weeks, and everyone misses me, he said. We sat in the parlour, laughing and basking in memories, trying to keep a happy face when Ayah came back. My friend greeted her. I greeted and turned to continue the gist.
“Why would you let your friend sit on your father’s chair?” Ayah said, frowning at Aninta. “You know he doesn’t like people sitting on his chair, you know this and yet you allowed him.”
I apologized to my friend and led Ayah into her room.
“Ayah.....”
“Don’t Ayah me! What if your father comes back and meets him sitting there?” She said, frowning.
I was quiet, fully aware that Aninta was listening to our conversation. In the end, I apologized to her and went back to the sitting room. But I wasn’t comfortable seeing how jittery Aninta was, locking his fingers between his hands and squirming over his shoulder. I suggested we sit outside to receive the cool evening breeze. Aninta jumped at the suggestion, but we did not last five minutes outside before he resigned to go home for chores he had to do. I escorted him to our junction and returned feeling downcast.
I waited outside for some fresh air, contemplating if I should go soft on Ayah or be mad at her. After counting to ten and taking a long, deep breath, I walked inside the house, almost colliding with her in the dining area. She was coming out of the kitchen. “Ayah, where are you running to?”
“Your father, is he in the sitting room?” She ran past me and I followed behind. There was no one in the sitting room. She looked around, then at me. “I was in the kitchen when I heard him call me. He called me.” I held her close, and together we sat on the sofa. ”Ayah, Uncle Arinda has paid for you to see the doctor. You need to see him as soon as possible.”
“I am not sick, so I don’t need to see a doctor.”
“Ayah, this is different. Please, I would go with you.”
She stood up and said she was still busy in her room before she left. I buried my face in my palms. Then the perfect idea came to me. I stood up and went to the store to get a cutlass. I knew exactly what I needed to do.
V.
Ayah’s appetite improved the following week, and she began to eat a little if I coerced her. But she still looked everywhere but not at my face each time I brought in her food or sat close to her: to the door of the room, the windows which the grey curtain had blocked in rays of light, to the ceiling, her brows arched in a way that showed her thoughts communicating aloud, even in her silence.
She took seven spoons, took more time staring into space and took her uneaten plate of rice to the back and called Blade, our dog, thrice. When she got no response, she returned to the sitting room and asked of Blade. I told her it had died. But I didn’t let her know I had killed it.
“That’s why you have not been seeing Blade of recent,” I replied, trying to assess her reaction. “Ma, when something or someone dies, you don’t see them again.”
She heaved and went back in without saying a word.
VI.
I was attending to Zizou’s homework the next day when Ayah came out fully dressed. It was the first time seeing her dressed up for an occasion ever since she returned from the hospital. She had a shawl covering her hair and wrapped around her neck. She smiled at me when I looked at her in surprise.
“Are you busy? I wanted us to go somewhere. I wanted you to take me to see my husband.”
“Ayah.....” I began.
“It won’t take much of your time. Let’s go, you will finish up when we return.”
She instructed Indi, my immediate younger sister, to lock up and remain indoors until we returned. Ayah and I went for a walk to the Yakwanto Cemetery. I was surprised that she suggested it. When we got to Atti’s tombstone, I allowed Ayah a moment of silence before I said.
“They had to bury him immediately because his corpse was a bad one. And then, you were in a coma, so we couldn’t wait for you.” I paused for a while before I continued. “I’m sorry, Ayah.”
Ayah’s eyes welled up, misting into two ponds. She broke down, knelt on the tiles of his grave and let loose throaty sobs, her shoulders heaving under the weight of her grief. I squatted close to her and put my arms around her shoulders and squeezed. Her whimper became louder, and her body shook. After some time, she stopped crying and just stared at the tombstone. “Is tomorrow okay? For us to see the doctor?“
I nodded. “Yes, Ayah.”
She sniffed, her voice hoarse. “I am ready now.”
I smiled and hugged her. “Thank you Ayah.”
She stared at me for a long time and smiled. “No, thank you for taking care of your siblings this whole time. I know that it wasn’t easy for you. Coupled with your school work. So, thank you.”
I looked away when I felt the heat on my cheeks. “Ma, you are the only family I have got. If I don’t do this for you, then who do I do it for?”
She nodded. “You are taking it too hard on yourself, Ikuchi. I know you are doing this to try to forgive yourself for all of the negative things you thought of your father while he was alive. It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t his fault, as well.“
“I have forgiven him, Ayah.”
“But have you forgiven yourself? If you put this pressure on yourself to try to live up to your father, you would only hurt more. You must also forgive yourself if you want to truly heal. Your father had his flaws, which I see that you too want to take up. There is nothing worse than burying yourself in grief tainted with regrets and unsaid words.”
I nodded at her and wished I could hug her and cry my heart out. But she held out her hands to me, clasped them into hers and squeezed. It was the only assurance I had that I wasn’t alone in this journey of life, that even though I didn’t quite get the chance to meet him and apologize for the hurtful things I might have said to him, I now understood all of the sacrifices he had to make for our sake. It was my own way of making amends.
Ayah, seeing me lost in my thoughts, assured me that all would be alright because we have each other. We sat there on the tombstone until the sky had taken on the colour of indigo and the orange sun was swallowed by the horizon into an equal half, before we stood up and started walking back home.
