Chapter 3: Mama’s Last Hope

When my mother died, she was happy, even relieved. She hold my hand, press am to her cold cheek. Blood come out from her mouth corner, but her eyes dey shine with gentle joy—like pikin wey do something great dey wait for praise. So lovely, so pitiful.

I still remember how her fingers, thin as broomstick, press inside my palm. The smell of camphor and bitter leaf for the air, the way her lips dey tremble but still dey smile for me. For that moment, she fine pass masquerade queen.

“My Ijeoma, when you grow, you no go be stepping stone for your papa and brother future.”

She talk am like prayer, voice weak but steady. The old women for the room look away, pretend say dem no hear. Even the candle flame bow small small as if e dey respect.

“My Ijeoma go study, marry who she love, go live happy life.”

She try to touch my hair, but her hand drop for air. I wan beg her not to go, but my throat tight, words no gree come out.

That time, her eyes full of hope—for my future, smooth and bright.

Even now, if I close eye, I dey see that hope—sharp like new machete, soft like harmattan breeze. E follow me everywhere, even as I walk road wey she never dream.

But Mama, for woman life, which road dey smooth? Whether wife, second wife, servant, or maid, we all dey struggle survive, always dey attached to some man?

Ah, Mama, you talk am true. Every woman for this compound dey drag her own cross, her own shadow. As for happiness, sometimes e pass person like dry season wind—if you catch am, na God hand work. Most times, we just dey manage, dey push, dey survive. I touched my forehead to the mat, whispering, “God, carry my matter for head.”