Chapter 1: When Blood Turns Bitter

After my daughter secure admission to University of Ibadan, she just open mouth, talk say from today, me and her no get mama and pikin again.

The way she talk am, e be like make my heart stop for chest. I just stand for middle of people wey dey look me like market thief. My ears dey ring, like generator wey no wan off. She stand there, no shame, no fear, just dey carry face like say she be Lagos big girl. Even her papa no talk, just hold silence for corner, eye dey judge like village chief.

"I get my real mama. Na you scatter my papa and mama marriage."

Her voice cut me like razor, sharp for my ear. The guests wey dey the party just dey look, some dey shift face, some dey whisper. For Naija family wahala, people fit act blind but their ear dey sharp. My own blood... point finger for me. My leg dey shake, but I no fit fall. Na shame dey burn my skin, but pride dey hold my head up. I just dey wonder how I reach here.

Dem chase me comot from her graduation party. I waka for road, confused, before one car jam me throway.

As I dey waka that road, my leg weak. I dey ask myself, 'Ngozi, na like this your own go end?' My wrapper sef nearly fall from waist as I stagger. The sun just dey beat my head, mind no even dey road. Before I know, gbege! One Toyota hit me. Na so body fly, people shout.

As I dey die, I hear her tell her papa coldly:

"No save am. If she die, our family go collect big compensation."

The cold for her voice chill my bone pass the pain of the car. Even for that edge of life, her words dey hammer my heart. People dey run up and down, but that sentence just dey ring for my ear.

When I open my eyes again, na the year my daughter finish her Junior WAEC I return to.

As breeze enter, I open eye, na old calendar I see for wall, the one wey get political aspirant face. Everywhere dey familiar, but small small, I realise say time don turn back. My hand dey shake, cold sweat dey my back, as I remember the pain wey kill me before. My body dey tremble, but I know say this one na second chance.

That moment, relatives and friends dey congratulate me. My daughter, Amara, just enter top secondary school, and na why I dey do celebration party for her today.

The whole compound dey bubble. Yoruba and Igbo music dey fight for speaker, children dey run about with chin-chin for hand. The aroma of jollof rice, fried chicken and plantain mix with perfume of aunties. You go hear balloon dey burst, plastic chair dey rattle. My neighbours, both old women and young girls, dey hail me with smile, some dey tap my back: "Ngozi, God bless you, you try for this girl o!" My body dey swell, but for inside, fear dey hide.

As people dey chop jollof and puff-puff, everybody dey gist, dey laugh, dey praise Amara, sometimes still dey hail me say I raise her well.

Some aunties wey no like better thing dey side-eye me, but I ignore them. My co-wife dey for one corner, dey whisper with her friend, but I no send. Even the local pastor pass, drop prayer, say make Amara future bright pass morning sun.

Amara wear the new princess gown wey I buy for her. Her mouth bend, she look me one kind from corner eye.

Na imported lace I sew for her, borrow money sef buy the shoe. The bead for her hair dey shine, but instead of smile, na frown I see. As she dey chop, she just dey use fork poke the rice, eye dey roll like she dey measure my worth.

She mutter for under:

"You no get anything for yourself, na me you dey use shine. If I stop to dey read, make we see wetin you go get to show people."

Her voice low, but the bitterness dey loud. Na only me hear am, but the words cut deep. I look her, my chest just dey tight, but I still dey force smile for people.

"No worry, next time I go purposely carry last. Make we see how papa go take face your wahala then."

That threat reach my bone. My hand wey dey serve puff-puff begin shake small, but I hold am. My ears dey hot as if kerosene lamp dey burn inside.

Her words still dey ring for my ear, make me dey lost.

I dey try package face, but my heart dey bleed. I dey wonder if na same girl wey I nurse when she get malaria last year dey talk like this.

As I dey look Amara face wey dey proud, my mind just carry me go that time car jam me for my last life.

I blink, sweat dey my face, even AC no fit cool my body. I remember the blood, the fear, and her cold face. E pain me reach bone, but nobody fit see am for my face that day. Like feather for Harmattan breeze—nobody dey see my pain.

Serious anger just rise for my heart.

Anger wey be like pepper for my throat. I wan talk, but I swallow am, no be today I go disgrace myself for Okafor compound.

My husband younger sister, Aunty Ronke, wey dey sit near me, notice say I dey absent-minded, she come talk:

She adjust her gele, voice low but sharp: "Ngozi, you dey okay? You just dey look ground since. Abi jollof no sweet you?" Her own wahala, na to find where matter dey hot.

"Sister-in-law, secondary school no be beans o. You no fit slack for Amara study at all. Our Okafor family don give you better pikin wey fit enter Ibadan or Nsukka. For these three years, you gats follow Amara as her reading partner."

Her mouth sharp as usual. She dey use her eyes measure me, dey wait my reaction. Na so so condition dem dey put for my neck, like say I get two heads.

Before I fit talk, Amara don reply her aunty, vexed:

The way she fling her words, even mosquito for that place freeze. "Face your own. I no want make she dey follow me read. I wan dey stay for hostel. Who wan dey see her face everyday?"

Her aunty look her hard, come scold:

Aunty Ronke eye dey red, her voice loud pass generator: "Amara, you dey craze? You dey talk to me like that? If na village, I for give you hot slap now! You go chop hostel beans tire, no be your mama stew you go see there o. You better respect yourself."

As I clear my head, I look the two of them dey argue, just laugh inside me.

I wan shout, but I just dey observe. For this life, na small small wahala dey grow big fire. I dey wonder if all my effort na waste.

"She no be my mama. Na side-chick wey scatter another person marriage. My mama na Mrs. Zainab, no be her."

Amara strong her neck, shout correct her aunty.

The insult land for my face like slap. I look round, everybody quiet. You fit hear pin drop. My hand dey shake, but I swallow my spit, hold my chest, dey pray for mind make I no cry.

Everybody for the party hall turn look my side, their eyes get different meaning—some dey pity me, some dey mock, some just dey look.

Even the DJ reduce volume, people dey whisper, some dey side-eye me. Na so party cold small. Only the little children still dey dance, no know say big drama dey happen.

But nobody talk make dem correct Amara, the city’s number one student.

Nobody wan offend Okafor family or Mrs. Zainab. The way this life be, everybody dey fear person wey get power or connection. For Naija, na so e be.

Aunty Ronke eyes just dey shine, like say she dey wait for drama.

I sabi say she and Mrs. Zainab na tight friends.

If dem get small chance, dem go run gist carry my matter reach every corner for WhatsApp group. My mind dey warn me, make I no looseguard.

But I know say tomorrow wahala never even start. For this house, peace dey hide like rat.