Peace smells like lavender
"Stop... please stop, my head"
Those were the last intelligible words I heard from my mother that Sunday morning.
This kind of thing had become a routine at home. I was always prepared. My headphones were fully plugged in... occasionally taking one out slightly, just in case I had to be on rescue patrol.
That Sunday morning was no different from the others, just that Mom had prepared Egusi soup from freshly picked bitter leaves that had been planted years back, instead of the usual rice and stew we had every Sunday.
"Shalewa!, come and serve your father's food, we are running late for church". I ran out of my room, half-dressed in my favourite pink satin gown, my headtie still hanging on my neck. With the dexterity I had gained over time, I picked the tray in one hand and the washing basin in the other. As I headed swiftly for the dining room, I tripped!
My father rushed out of his room with a disdainful look on his face "You raised your replica, just as clumsy and stupid as you are", he said. I don't quite remember what my mother's response was, but the next action showed he did not like it.
"Daddy please, it's my fault", I said amidst sobs and loud cries as he pounced soulfully on my mother and pushed me whenever I tried to stop him. It took interference from well-meaning neighbours to stop my father from inflicting brutal injuries on mom that day.
My mother and I had taken a quiet stroll to a nearby pharmacy that evening to get off-the-counter medications for the pain. I could see her eyes get teary. What I saw in my mom's eyes that day weren't just tears; I saw regret, deep anguish and a loud cry for help, that was the longest I had stared into her eyes and I wanted to help her, I wanted to save her, save her from this monster…
"Oko mi, forgive him please".
She leaned back when she saw how my eyes opened with rage as I stared at her in disbelief. She wanted me to forgive a man who thought his display of panache in hitting his wife and daughter qualified him most as a man.
She could not read my mind, but my eyes and shaky lips said a thousand words in a split second. I was mad.
We got the drugs we needed and returned with no words or conversation exchanged.
My father was sitting at the dining table with his fist clasped as though ready for another punch. I was going to defend her this time, "I won't be a coward anymore" I thought, I directed my eyes to one of his work tools that sat on the dining table, ready to grab and make do with.
Much to my strange blend of dismay and relief, he released his fist on sighting us and knelt in front of my mother, crying and begging for forgiveness; this drama made my stomach churn. I had undoubtedly developed a strong resentment for this man I called 'Father'.
I quickly scrambled to my room as I did not want to witness a scenario where she takes his hand in acceptance yet again.
As I sat in my bed, memories from my childhood with my father flushed in; how I'd sit on his shoulders and he'd take me to the famous akara joint on our street while singing made-up songs to me but carved them wittily to rhyme with each other. I don't remember him raising his hand to my mother, probably not in my presence, but I did hear silent sobs from their room ever so often. Unfortunately, the few good memories from those days had been smudged by these incessant heart-wrenching moments.
The routine continued as he kept being a beast to us but mostly to my mum.
My mother's elder brother whom I didn't know all that much, had urged her to move out for months now, but she wouldn't budge.
"What will people say?" was always her response.
After many months of mummy's unyielding response to his proposal, I just reckoned she had chosen the path she wanted.
It was a cloudy day in July. That day lives rent-free in my head because, for me, it was a moment of epiphany.
We were just returning from a vigil program that lasted till seven in the morning.
We walked in groups from church, as mothers paired with their friends, talking about some derailing women at church. The fathers didn't talk much, asides from quoting some spiritual 'punchlines' the pastor had made.
I was a serious introvert, so I didn't walk with the children, instead I paired with the group of women, alongside my mum, clutching strongly to her purse. She always had this look of elegance and prowess at church, which she quickly lost whenever she was home.
We got home and began the routine Saturday chores, my father was still in bed. I was doing the dishes from the previous night, while my mother went to her room to get some of my father's dirty clothes for laundry.
I could hear them whispering for some minutes, but these whispers that could scarcely be heard quickly erupted into a loud argument, with most of it coming from my dad and being interrupted by yet too many "calm down" from my mom.
I just thought it was the usual fight until I saw my mum run out of the room frantically like an ox that had its tail on fire. My father had almost hit her with a wine glass.
Over the years of his violent episodes, he had never picked up an object. I think this one put my mum in a frenzy, as she was panting and standing behind me as though I could rescue her. He retreated and left home but didn't return home that day.
Mummy called me that day to her room, crying uncontrollably, she muttered "if I continue to stay here, your father will kill me".
I was elated that she had come to this realization, but I couldn't express this, of course, she was in tears.
She asked that I mentioned none of this to anyone. She knew I was a wise child and she trusted me to be mute.
The next few days were quiet at home, too quiet. I often snuck up on her making calls silently, once or twice. My father was hardly home anymore, he started coming home drunk, so drunk that he'd hit on I and my mother with a belt till he passed out.
"Shalewa, we are moving to Lagos to see your uncle and we will be staying a while".
These words sounded like music to my ears, I didn't want to know how long we were staying or how moving would affect anyone, I just wanted to leave. She could see me smile in sheer satisfaction.
"We leave tomorrow when your father is not home"
I did not sleep all night, I kept fantasising about life away from this constant juggle between terror and tension. I knew he would not take our leaving sitting down and that was why my mum chose to do it in his absence.
I packed a few of my clothes into the box and some of my mother's which she had given me a day before. I knew nothing could go wrong.
Morning came and we were at the park early, we locked the house and dropped the key with our nosy neighbour, who asked "Una dey travel?", my mother only told her we were going to give out the clothes in the box to someone, it was believable, since we packed only a box.
We arrived at my uncle's at two in the afternoon. I was so engulfed by the size of the house that I hadn't noticed when his wife and kids came to greet us. He hugged me and comforted me for all that I had to go through. His wife directed me to my room and my mother to hers. My mum had mentioned that her elder brother inherited the house from her father, so there were many rooms in it.
After eating and bathing, I took a walk around the compound slowly, while gazing up at the balcony and seeing my mom laugh heartily as she conversed with her brother.
I felt relieved and elated because It's been years since she laughed that hard.
Somehow, the thought of my father flashed through my mind and I fumed.
Upon realization of the change in my disposition, I took a long and deep breath in, "hmm".
We will talk about forgiveness another day, but for today, nothing smells better than peace!
Hmmmmm....wow😊
ReplyDeletePeace of mind is priceless!
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