Must be LOVE because it hurts

It all started in the village. Mama was a thorough Christian and a devout Catholic; she led the rosaries in the morning and was also the choir mistress. Mama‘s husband on the other hand, was a case to consider, he constantly belittled mama, and made so many accusations, ’’why would mama be starting the rosary in church? She must be having an affair with the catechists. Only you Prayer leader, music leader? Is God for only you alone? He often said. Whilst sipping from the stout green bottle beside him. The bottle contained Kaikai, a local alcoholic beverage brewed by fermenting palm wine and boiling over a fire, or so I thought. Everyone called it ‘hot drink’ so I assumed it’d burn a person when it was consumed.

Mama persevered; church as early as 5am and back home to prepare the children for school. Mama was the headmistress at the local primary school and discipline was her watchword.  She would braid her thick black afro hair in a bun and ride the motor cycle to the primary school.

After mama retired from active service, things weren’t always so smooth, she would prepare the child for school after morning mass and then head to the village farm ,where she cultivated cassava that would be later processed for Garri.

‘’Garri’’ is a staple food in most Nigerian homes, it goes with various soups and stews prepared with beef, goat meat or sea food.

Sometimes, there was no beef in the soup and they made do with the vegetables alone, seasoning was sparse and rarely used but no one complained. The dried fish subsidized.  Mama had six children, so she had to squeeze to make it work.

I didn’t understand that kind of love, where the woman carried all the weight, almost like a beast of burden.

Until one night during the rainy season, around 5 am,I awoke to the sound of loud voices crept out of my room and the first thing I saw was blood,a lot of blood,I looked round and I saw papa lying on a mat in the living room bleeding from a cut on his head while mama and her sons tried to stop the bleeding.

There were no emergency services in the village, it wasn’t morning yet and it wasn’t safe to leave the house so early.

The nearest hospital was about 30 kilometers away in the town.

So we all kept vigil there in the parlour, waiting for dawn, so Papa could be taken to hospital. Mama cried and cried, nobody could sleep, and I, the little girl in the corner felt it was my fault entirely, because Papa had only gone to pick ripe mangoes, felled by the wind in the night for me, when the evil neighbor cut his head with a machete.

We threw the mangoes away.