Chapter 3: Even Heroine Dey Disappear

That foster aunty, Aisha, dem bring her back. Rain dey beat outside, everywhere dey wet, thunder dey sound like drum. My heart dey shake.

Rain dey pour outside, she soak finish. She wear Papa shirt with shorts, long legs just dey for air as Papa carry her enter. Her feet dey muddy, hair dey drip, she look helpless.

She talk with pity, “Aunty, abeg. Na because Brother no want make I go, na why I still dey here. I promise, once I better, I go go.” Her words dey soft, like say she dey beg spirit.

Her words dey make sense. E dey sweet for ear, but e dey bite for heart.

But my chest just dey tight. I dey feel pain for my small chest, like something dey press me.

I wan talk, but words no come. My mouth dey heavy, like say e glue.

That night, I sleep, na Mama tears wake me as she soak my face with cry. Her tears dey hot, dey fall for my forehead, I dey feel every drop.

I no move, just dey listen to her soft cry: Her sob dey low, like person wey dey pray quietly, no want make neighbor hear.

“I talk say I no want make she stay? If na me talk am, I for admit, but I no talk am, why you go put words for my mouth? Why you think say I no fit bear am? Musa, na so you see me?” Her pain dey deep, every word dey shake her body.

I wan talk, “No be so.” I dey wish I fit just shout, hug her, tell her say she dey try.

But as I open mouth, na like say the story collect my voice—like person wey chop pepper, but tongue no gree move. Nothing come out. I dey struggle, but my voice no gree follow me.

Na after the urge to comfort Mama waka, that puppet feeling begin disappear. My body dey light small, but the pain still dey.

E happen again and again. Every time wahala show, my voice go disappear.

I realize say I no fit do anything to change the story. The frustration dey build for my mind, like small fire wey dem no quench.

We all dey inside the wahala like people inside whirlpool. No escape. Everybody just dey turn dey go, no direction.

One drop of water wey wan run from whirlpool, e too optimistic. For this kind life, hope be like joke.

But na my Mama be that. My gentle, kind Mama. Her gentleness dey shine for her face, her voice dey soft, she no dey ever vex pass her power.

She pure, she good. Everybody wey sabi her go talk say she get better heart.

She dey read me story, clean my wound with iodine, wake early make me breakfast, drag herself at night to tuck me in, rush me chemist if I sick. She go pray for me, whisper soft blessings, dey tell me, "God dey with you, my pikin."

She too good. I dey look her, dey wonder why life dey treat her like this.

She no deserve all this wahala. The pain wey she dey pass fit make lion cry.

Me, this small drop of water, I really wan know how e go be if I swim against the current. My mind dey strong, I dey ready to try—even if na small fight I fit give.