Chapter 2: The Day Papa Died

The day my papa die, my mind just freeze.

You know that kain shock wey hold body, like say person tie you for dream. I no fit cry, I no fit talk, even my shadow sef no fit move. I just dey look, dey reason as life change overnight. Neighbours dey come, dey go, some dey chop rice, some dey gossip, me I just dey inside my mind.

That day, this same crowd of over one hundred people block our gate, group leader dey knock and dey cry.

Rain just fall that morning, everywhere still dey wet. People dey shout, "Open gate! Baba Doctor!" The group leader voice loud pass generator, he dey beat gate like police. Children from street come gather, dey watch as show dey happen.

"We come see Baba Doctor! Baba Doctor, rest in peace o!"

E be like say na concert. Some people dey sing, others dey wail. E shock me say people fit get energy to cry for another person papa, but for their mind, na medicine dem dey find.

My mama, as her heart soft, even though she sabi say my papa die with plenty regret, she still open gate for them.

Mama wear old lace, her eye red from cry, her hand dey shake as she draw bolt. She never eat since morning, but as she hear people dey beg, her heart melt. She whisper small prayer under breath, beg God make wahala no pass her power. For Naija, woman heart soft pass yam for fire.

As she open am, the group leader just force himself enter, shout, "Carry the medicine!"

If you see how dem rush—like market women wey hear garri don share free for junction. Dem no look face. Table, chair, even the old TV, everything turn upside down. Mama dey shout, 'abeg, abeg!' but nobody send am. Na wahala.

Dem scatter everywhere—tear box, open cupboard, everywhere just scatter. Even Mama’s enamel bowl for fufu, dem use am pack herbs. Dem remove doors and windows throway for ground. Bed break, table spoil, all the herbs wey my papa cherish, dem march am for ground, his medical books, dem tear am, anything wey dem fit carry, dem carry.

You go think say na riot. The whole parlour smell of dust, roots, and sweat. Some people dey argue who go take wetin. Some dey pocket small bottle, others dey drag papers. All the things wey my papa dey protect like gold, dem destroy am finish, as if e no mean anything. Na so dem show gratitude for Naija sometimes—when wahala enter body.

E never even reach seven days.

Na just ordinary week—body never cold finish, but people don forget respect. For Yoruba land, dem dey talk say 'seventh day na sacred,' but who go listen when hunger and sickness dey pursue person?

This thing called face get as e be. If you no need am, you throway; if you need am, you pick am back.

Na true word be that. For Naija, pride dey disappear when wahala come. If you too dey look face, dem fit carry you do mumu. I look the crowd—some just dey form humility because medicine finish.

"My people! If he no gree give us the prescription, we no go commot! We go die here! Make we see who go care!"

E talk am loud, sit down for ground, cross leg. Some women adjust head tie, men drag stool enter mourning hall. The way dem settle down, you go think say dem get invitation card.

The group leader just siddon for middle of the mourning hall. The rest follow am, all of dem sit down for ground, block half of the walkway.

Space no dey again—people pack like sardine. Some dey fan self with program, others dey stretch leg reach another person lap. The smell of sweat, dust, and hot tears just full everywhere. Some women even remove slippers, cross leg, dey fan self with obituary program. Even old man wey get walking stick drop am, say na here he go die if dem no get answer.