Chapter 18: Bread and Names

The cloth soft, thick, even the colour dey remind me of home. He take his time, thread dey pass needle slow, but careful. The jacket be like hug wey I never feel before.

Before he wear am for me, he warm one bucket water, carefully wash me from head to toe.

His hand dey gentle, voice soft. He dey talk as he wash, 'No worry, pikin, God dey.' For my mind, I dey wonder when last person treat me with care. The water warm, pain dey fade small.

The water, from clear, turn to mud colour.

I dey shame, but he just laugh, shake head. He talk say suffering no dey shame anybody, na only heart matter. I dey wish say all people dey like him.

My hair too tangled, e no fit clean, so he sigh and cut some off.

He dey careful, as if he dey touch egg. The sound of scissors sharp, but the pain small. He tell me story of how his own pikin stubborn, hair too full, but later turn fine person.

I never clean or warm like that before.

The feeling strange, almost magical. Na for that moment I realize say even for place of war, kindness still fit grow like small flower for sand.

The jacket dey really warm.

Every night, I hug am tight, dey imagine say na mama dey hold me. For my mind, the warmth dey push back cold of past suffering.

When he split his white bread, the one cook give am secretly, into two for me, he smile and ask,

He go break bread, then push small kuli-kuli for my hand.

His eyes dey shine, voice low. He go break bread, give me biggest part, even as he dey hungry. For our side, bread na big food—sign of plenty.