Chapter 1: The Note That Broke My Heart

I found a note in my eight-year-old son's pocket. The paper dey rough for my hand, the handwriting sharp like blade. On it, someone had written: "Bring ten naira every day. If you bring even one naira less, I go beat you well."

The sharpness of those words bite me like pepper for my eyes. Who be this small pikin wey fit talk this kind strong thing, and how long my Ifedike don dey endure this wahala? For Naija, ten naira fit no too big, but the threat dey loud, e heavy for my chest. My first instinct na to ask myself, "Na play or wahala be this one?"

I snapped a picture and sent it to the teacher, but he just replied that it was children playing around.

The teacher reply make my body cold, as if say person pour ice water for my back. E shock me say matter wey carry threat na just "children playing around" for his eye. Na so we dey start, dey wave hand for serious matter until e go grow pass our power.

I grip my phone tight, knuckles white, dey wonder if na so dem dey treat every pikin matter for this school. I no argue.

Instead, I transferred ten naira to the parent of the boy who wrote the note in our class WhatsApp group: "We no dey keep cash for house, so I don pay the money for your pikin. If your son still need money, maybe you fit apply for group donation."

For the group, I drop am like hot yam—make everybody see say I no be pushover. My tone still dey polite but my message clear like daylight. For this kind situation, you gats show say you dey alert, you no dey fear anybody.

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The moment I saw that note, my hands start to shake.

As my hands dey shake, sweat begin gather for my forehead. My mind flash back go that time for boarding school when I dey use my pocket money settle bullies. My heart race. Na only God know wetin these children dey go through nowadays, and fear begin crawl for my belly. The sound of generator wey dey hum for compound just dey background, blending with my scattered thoughts.

Memories I thought I don forget rush back like flood, even my breath come dey taste bitter and salty.

My tongue dey heavy for mouth as old pain resurface. I remember my own mama, how she go look me with worry but no go fit talk am out. Na so this circle dey repeat for family if person no break am.

I opened the window, let fresh air blow me small, trying to calm down.

I smell akara and hear Mama Chinedu dey hail customer downstairs—life just dey go on as usual. The morning breeze carry small scent of frying akara from neighbor house, the type wey dey remind me say life still dey go on, no matter the wahala wey dey press person chest. I inhale deep, trying make the air carry some of my worry go.

My son dey inside study room. Every Saturday morning, he dey wake early to read his English book.

He always gentle like that, the kind pikin wey dey carry book sit down for corner, dey read quietly as if na him get sense pass everybody. Even my neighbor, Mama Ngozi, dey always praise am when she see am with textbook for hand.

I pack the note, quietly throw his dirty school uniform inside washing machine.

The washing machine hum dey join generator noise, both of them dey compete for who loud pass for compound. My fingers dey tremble as I dey sort him clothes, dey check for any other sign—tear, stain, another note—something wey fit tell me more. I press the uniform well, as if say I fit squeeze out the answer from the cloth.

By ten o’clock, my son come out from the study.

He wear green dinosaur pyjamas, dey jump and skip as he ask if he fit go amusement park for afternoon.

His energy no fit hide wetin dey under. The way he dey dance around, you go think say pikin no get wahala. For that moment, he just be ordinary small boy wey dey happy to enjoy weekend.

I look my son gently.

My eyes soft as I dey study am, searching for any hidden pain. For Naija, we dey quick notice when pikin dey different, but sometimes dem sabi hide their worry.

He no look any different from before.

But sometimes the real trouble dey inside body, e no dey show for face. My mind dey race, dey wonder if he dey pretend so I no go worry.

"If anything dey worry you for school, abeg tell me. No fear."

My voice gentle like when person dey pet small cat. I try make am easy for am to talk, no pressure, just open ear.

I grab the tail of his dinosaur pyjamas, stop am from somersault for sofa. "Mummy don too busy lately, I never pay enough attention to you. Abeg, forgive me."

I no wan make am feel say na interrogation. I just wan show love, let am know say even if I dey busy, my mind still dey with am. As I hold the pyjamas tail, I dey try balance between play and concern.

My son pause, look me with confusion.

He blink, as if dey wonder why Mummy dey talk different today. The room quiet small, only the distant sound of market radio dey float in.

I rub his head. "You get any wahala with your classmates for school? If yes, you solve am?"

I dey rub am like my mama dey rub me when thunder dey strike for night. Na that kind comfort wey dey reach inside bone, so e go know say e safe.

The small boy in front of me come dey restless.

He begin fidget, eyes dey dart up and down, toes dey press carpet like say e dey count invisible ants.

"Mummy..."

The tone weak, as if e dey test whether I fit truly hear am this time. I lean forward, patient.

He answer with low voice, "I no get any wahala with my classmates."

I sabi that kind quick denial—na the same way I dey lie give my mama when I dey fear cane. The denial dey sharp but e weak. I fit see say something dey behind the words, like curtain wey never open finish.

I praise his kindness, then ask, "Anybody dey bully you for school?"

I try put small smile for face, make the talk no too heavy. My heart dey hammer for chest, but my voice still dey calm.

My son freeze. He slowly waka come meet me, lower him head, no talk anything.

Na that kind silent wey dey loud, wey dey tell you say something big dey hide. My own mama dey call am "heavy silence." I hold my breath, wait for am.

Sometimes, silence dey talk pass words.

The space between us thick, I feel am like harmattan breeze. Even without talk, I sabi wetin dey worry am. My own eyes dey water small too.

When I see say e reach time, I bring out that squeezed note and show am. "You fit explain this to Mummy?"

I stretch the note gently, no shout, no vex. My tone soft, but the question heavy.

"I..."

His lips dey tremble, voice almost no wan come out. The air for room still, even my heart pause.

My son hesitate, struggle to talk.

He open mouth, close am, as if the words dey hard like dry garri wey no soak.

"Mummy wan hear the truth."

I rub my thumb for the back of his hand, steady and warm, as if I dey try melt the fear wey dey stiff for his fingers.

I hold his cold small hand, try pass him small warmth. "You remember when you mistakenly spoil Mummy laptop?"

His eyes widen a little, the memory still fresh. I dey remind am say everybody dey make mistake.

He nod.

He nod slow, like pikin wey dey remember test wey he forget to read for.

That day na the day before his seventh birthday. As he dey arrange his desk, he mistakenly pour hot water. The water flow reach my laptop, and before he fit rush pick am, the screen don black and e never on again.

That memory still pain me but the important thing be say he come confess immediately, no hide mouth. The honesty matter pass the loss.

"That time, you dey worry say e go affect my work, you cry, you panic, but you still tell me immediately. Then we go repair shop together for Aba Road, and technician fix am sharp sharp, abi?"

The Aba Road technician even joke say, "Na pikin hand dey quick spoil, but na mama love dey quick repair." The way the technician for Aba Road collect the laptop, shake head, then open everything right in front of us. Ifedike still dey sniff, but when he see the screen come on again, na so him face bright. That day teach us lesson about trust.

I talk to am softly. "So, sometimes the thing wey you think say hard to solve, or you think say if you tell Mummy e go vex me, e no too bad like that. As long as you tell me quick, we go solve am together."

For Naija, we dey believe say problem shared na half solved. I let am know say my own anger no dey pass the love wey I get for am.

My son look up, him eyes don full with tears.

The tears roll down like fresh rain for mango leaf. My chest squeeze as I see am, wishing I fit take the pain for am.

"Mummy, I dey fear."

The fear inside him voice cut me deep. E get as fear dey turn even the strongest pikin to jelly.

Him voice dey shake as he begin talk, one by one, everything wey happen.

He begin confess, words stumbling as if na heavy stone dem dey fall from his chest. I dey nod, I dey listen, no interruption.

Na as I suspect am.

The confession match my suspicion, and for that moment, I feel both relief and fresh anger. At least truth don come out.

I pull am for my lap, rub him back the way my mama dey do when rain dey beat us for inside hut. My son dey shy small, no too get friends for school, and his second term result just normal. Maybe because he quiet and no too stand out, some people for class just see am as person dem fit bully.

I dey remember when I still dey school, how quiet pikin dey always suffer pass. For our side, na the loud and sharp mouth dey survive. My Ifedike na gentle soul.

"Apart from say dem dey collect money from you, dem do any other thing?"

I dey ask softly, my hand still dey round am, ready for any answer.

My son hesitate. "Yes, dem dey call me mumu."

The insult sting reach my ear, and I remember say name-calling dey hurt pass slap sometimes.

"Mummy..."

Big tears start to fall from his eyes. "The boy wey dey lead dem na the second best for class. Teacher dey always tell us make we learn from am, say na good example. If good example talk something, everybody go believe am, abi?"

As I hear am, my chest tight. For this country, we dey always use result take judge pikin character, but sometimes the worst behavior dey hide for best student.