My Stepmother’s Hands Killed My Mama / Chapter 2: Suffering Has a Voice
My Stepmother’s Hands Killed My Mama

My Stepmother’s Hands Killed My Mama

Author: Jane Oliver

Chapter 2: Suffering Has a Voice

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Our new house dey for eighth floor, no elevator. I climb up and down forty-five times before I finally carry the last load reach upstairs.

Sweat dey run my back like say I carry bag of cement enter Okada race. My slippers sef don nearly cut. For this house, na only my pain dey get voice. Every time I reach landing, na to look up and breathe like say I dey train for Lagos Marathon.

For the last step, my leg just fail me, I fall for the doorway. Body just weak. Na only God know how I take get up reach there. Na so my knees knock floor, dust just follow me waka. Person fit pity me if dem see as I look that time.

All this time, my stepmother dey inside, dey enjoy fan breeze. When she see me, she just grab my collar, land me one hot slap. The slap loud so tay e echo for stairwell. I feel am for bone. Even my ancestors for village go feel that one. If no be say God dey, I for don return slap, but as I dey here na suffer I dey collect.

She hiss, “Who you dey form tired for? You never do any serious work, na just drama you dey act? Your papa no dey house—no matter how you pretend, nobody go see you.”

Her voice sharp like new razor. I see say her eyes red. Her eye talk am—na she dey run this place. I just dey reason, wetin I do this woman sef?

For the other side, my stepsister, small girl wey wear flowery dress—fine from head reach toe—she see her mama slap me, she just dey laugh, come pour her whole cup of cold Fura da Nono for my head. “Big sister dey sweat, make we help am cool body.”

Na so the thing cold me reach bone, Fura scent choke everywhere, I wan vomit. My mind dey shout, "Which kain play be this?" The small witch dey do like say na play. For her mind, she dey show dem fit treat me anyhow.

After that one, she use leg scatter the milk for ground, splash everywhere.

The whole parlour just dey smell like Fulani market. My socks don soak. This girl no get single iota of pity. She dey show say for this house, na she and her mama get mouth.

She tell me, “House dirty o, big sister. Why you no use tongue lick am clean?”

My mind just weak. If to say na street, I for show her pepper. But for this house, na only my pain dey get voice. Shame and anger dey hold me, but na only God dey see my pain.

Her yeye and wicked attitude make her mama burst laugh. Na so both of dem dey rejoice, their laughter dey loud. E be like say dem win lottery for wickedness.

Then my stepmother grab my hair, push my head go ground. My scalp dey pain me, tears dey my eyes but I hold am. For Naija, dem go say make you no cry so enemy no go use your tears cook soup. But na so my face nearly kiss cement.

My mouth almost touch ground when—

I hear heavy footsteps jam for the door. The sound strong. If na village, people for don dey ask who waka like spirit. Na so everywhere quiet.

Mother and daughter face change sharp-sharp. Dem rush lift me up, both of them carry tissue kneel down begin clean floor. Dem act like say nothing dey happen before. Na only for Naija person go see wahala, but immediately oga appear, everybody go form saint. My stepsister even dey wipe her shoe, like say she no pour anything before.

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