Chapter 1: Woman Wey Bone Dey Soft

Grandma always used to say my mother get the fate of a woman wey bone dey soft—person wey just born to suffer, so her pain go dey bring better luck for everybody around her.

Sometimes, she go talk am with one heavy sigh, like say she dey pity my mama. Other times, she go hiss, spit for ground, her eyes sharp like razor, then throw the words out like bitter kola: "Na so some women be. Dem just carry wahala for body. E fit bring blessing for people wey dey use dem anyhow." In our side for Enugu, all those old women go gather under mango tree dey yarn. When moon bright, Grandma go light her kerosene lamp, repeat the story again and again—like if she talk am reach, e go turn truth, or maybe serve as warning for me.

The day my papa, wey don drunk, break bottle for Mom’s head, na the very next day dem dash am five hundred thousand naira for cards.

That night, everywhere for compound tight. The moonlight shine for kitchen floor, make everywhere cold, like mortuary. My mama press wrapper for her bleeding head, eyes don waka inside, silent. Next evening, Dad stagger come house, pocket full, teeth open like person wey win lotto. Neighbours hear the noise, gather come dey hail am as if e do better thing. Nobody mention the blood wey dey for kitchen floor.

After Grandma pinch Mom sotay bruise full her body, na so the old man wey dey next compound begin chase Grandma like say she be hot cake.

Old man Okoye, wey never even look Grandma before, start to dey come drop palm wine, roasted corn, even buy her red Ankara wrapper. "Mama Chinedu, you dey shine o!" e go talk. Grandma go laugh, voice sharp, but her chest dey rise, as if she win lotto. Other women begin jealous. Dem dey whisper, "She must don do something o!"

On the night before my big sister’s WAEC exam, temptation hold her. She use sewing needle dey prick Mom all night. Mom cry, her pain become the price wey my sister—wey only manage polytechnic level before—take get admission for the best federal university.

That night, sleep no come my side. Generator don die since, darkness full everywhere, na only the sound of my mother’s cry and my sister’s heavy breathing I dey hear from the next room. Morning reach, my sister sit for window, eyes dey shine like say all her wahala don wash comot. She write her exam, return with smile. The heavy hand wey dey press her before now rest for Mom back.

For our house, every time dem abuse Mom, reward go land for person wey do am.

E come turn like secret ritual nobody gree call name. Aunties wey visit go look Mom injury, glance the full sack of rice and fresh yam for kitchen, then nod. Even pastor wife crack joke, "This your wife get strong head, but see as blessing dey follow una family." Nobody laugh, but everybody understand.

Nobody treat Mom as human being. Dem go always talk say na because she be woman wey bone dey soft—born to chop beating.

E come be like her pain na currency, exchange am for good fortune. Grandma friends go shake head like say dem dey pity, but when na just us, dem go talk, "God make some women so, na their cross be that."

Na only me go blow breeze for Mom wound, rub Robb for her back—the smell of Robb strong for room, mix with sweat and tears—and pray make sickness and wahala leave her.

Sometimes, I go sneak enter her room with small warm water and rag, dey dab her bruise. I go whisper, "Mummy, make e better for you soon," while she just dey still, eyes closed. I go rub Robb for her, even if she no dey thank me. I go hold her hand, say small prayer, hoping God go hear the one voice for that house wey no dey want anything from her. But for that house, prayer dey bounce like rubber ball.

Na only me know the truth: Mom no be woman wey bone dey soft. In fact, she no even be human at all.

Sometimes I go see am for her eye—she dey look nothing, eyes deep like river wey no get end. Quiet dey her body, old pass all of us. E dey make me fear, but also make me hope say one day, she go rise, waka comot from all this pain.

Every time dem beat her, small small, na their own life dey drain.

I see as years waka, Grandma hair white like gari, Dad hand dey shake, even when e try hide am. With every blow, every insult, something dey peel from their soul, dey leave dem small, dey hollow.

All the so-called good luck na just bait—Mom own way to dey draw their life force.

Maybe na why her eye always dey far, like person wey dey watch dem from where dem no fit reach. The luck no dey last—every blessing get shadow, silent tax only me dey notice.