Chapter 4: The Ashes of Children

Now, I no fit remove cloth for people front again.

That shame, I lock am inside my chest. My eye never forget. My skin dey mark the memory.

After twelve years with am, I born twelve children, but only two sons—five or six years old—still dey alive.

Every festival, I dey pray for those two. Sometimes I dey dream say all my children dey dance round me for New Yam festival, but morning go break, na only two dey hold my wrapper.

Today, dem dey here too.

Their eyes dey follow me, but heart no dey my side. I fit feel am.

No, I no fit.

Even though dem no dey call me mama.

Servants dey look me, dey pity. But pity no dey fill stomach or heart.

The chief dey always tell them say their mama dey another place, say she go soon come back.

Even their voices change when dem talk of 'real mama.'

Now, dem dey see Morayo, wey go soon enter chief house, as their real mama.

The way dem dey run after her shadow, my heart dey pepper me. But I no talk.

As I refuse,

the first son rush me: "Bad woman! Sister Bitayo talk say you dey waste my papa money every day—one drop of your hair oil na one gold, you dey grind pearls wey worth plenty money for your belle. You don thief my mama things too!"

Bitayo, the cook daughter, sabi carry story reach market. I see how she dey teach my son to hate my presence. But which mouth I get to fight am?

I move back.

I hold my pouch tight. My back dey wall. Small sweat dey my face, but I hold strong.

But the second son dey behind me.

He hit my waist: "Bad woman, nanny say you use juju hold my papa, make my mama no happy. Now you wan thief my mama things—return am!"

The pain for my waist remind me say this one na my own pikin. Even so, his anger sharp like new razor. My eye wet, but I no let tears fall for ground. I wan talk, but words hook for my throat.

My heart just dey pain me.

The ache pass ordinary. As I hear their voices, my breast dey heavy, like when milk dey block.

Na these children I suffer to keep alive.

My belly, my nights, all the pain. I fight death for them. Now, na insult I collect.

Na me born them, hide for compound, dey struggle for my life.

Rain soak me, sun burn me. But every cough, every fever, na me dey run up and down.

Nanny just dey laugh me.

Her laughter cold, na the type wey dey bite. She use one hand cover mouth, but her eyes dey shine like cat.

"See am, you dey fear? Hold the box like say na your life. We need to check am well."

Even chief eye come change small.

His patience dey thin like old wrapper. His tone no sweet again.

"Shey you hide something inside?" Him voice cold. "Since I say make you choose anything, even if na oba gift or gold, I no go change mouth. But if you dey greedy, I no go forgive. This your behaviour fit spoil my name as chief."

That last line get weight. For Yoruba house, reputation pass gold. I dey hear the warning.

As he talk, he reach hand grab am.

His hand strong. The box heavy, but his grip dey stronger. My fingers slip. The box fall for ground, fine Aso Oke pouch scatter everywhere. My heart jump. I rush kneel, gather them like say I dey pick my own life.

The pouches roll, some open small, their content like dust for morning light.

Nanny happy: "So you really hide something! See, she pack ten bags."

Her joy na like pikin wey win sweet for raffle. She no know say she dey near sorrow.

She open am, but no understand: "Why ashes dey inside?"

She pour small for hand, sniff, frown. Ashes no be ordinary thing for Yoruba house—na memory, na pain. She drop am sharp sharp.

As she talk, chief face change.

His skin pale, mouth stiff. He turn away, but I see his hand dey shake.

He don already know wetin dey inside.

For old Yoruba house, some things no need talk. I see am for his eyes—remorse, even if he no fit show am.

Ten Aso Oke pouch, each one get the ash of my ten children wey die young.

Every pouch na story. Every child na memory I lock with cloth and prayer.

I bow head, tears dey drop for floor.

My knees weak, but I no go fall. My tears dey wash my toes. I dey count the losses again.

Chief Femi sigh small.

Na small sound, but I hear pain inside. Him voice low, no strength.

He wave hand, no check again.

His pride no gree him look me. Even so, his eyes red.

"E don do, go. I know say you no wan leave, but me and Morayo love dey strong, I owe her too much. I must pay am back."

The way he talk, you go know say love and guilt dey fight inside him. But for this house, na only the living get voice.

"I don find better house for you. Na Bitayo uncle for Morayo family, he no get plenty children, and you sabi born. If you give am pikin, for my sake, dem go make you senior wife."

He dey try play kingmaker, but I no be pawn again. Still, I bow, carry my pain follow me.