The sleepless, p.2
The Sleepless, page 2
‘Raise the sacrifice now,’ he commanded, his voice loud, harsh. The squat woman pulled up the struggling child whose hiccups were almost beyond hysteria. The old man grabbed the child’s kinky hair, pulling his neck back.
‘Papa…’ the child tried to cry but his voice was now a whisper, barely audible. But his father heard it and this time, he turned to look. In that instant, the old man sliced the neck of the child with his machete.
And the cats around the yard began to howl, as the child’s blood gushed into the boiling pot, turning the contents red. The old man plunged his machete into the child’s body; once, twice, again and again, shouting incantations with each plunge. Soon, the child’s blood-deluged heart and tiny penis, joined the brew in the pot. A pungent smell filled the air, causing the tall man and the squat woman to choke. They coughed and sneezed as the old man continued chanting his incantations, rubbing the blood-stained amulet hanging round his neck. The father and the squat woman gathered close, waiting, watching the brewing potion bubbling inside the great cauldron with intense concentration.
When the potion was brewed, the old man scooped two calabash-full of the thick liquid and handed them to the man and the squat woman.
‘Drink,’ he commanded. ‘Drink up the blood of your future son.’
Chapter Two
She smelled him before she saw him. Papa! The pungent reek of tobacco, whiskey and stale sweat sent the terror thuds to her heart. The urge to escape, to hide, was overwhelming. Obelé looked around with wide-eyed panic, her breathing harsh and fast. The thick window curtain draping down to the carpeted floor billowed merrily, beckoning her with its flowery cheer. Obelé stared at it, her brows dipped. The curtain had proved a false ally in the past. Papa had dragged her from that hiding place to inflict merciless welts on her flesh with his evil Utali, birch. No, she wouldn’t take refuge behind the treacherous curtain this time. She still couldn’t figure out how Papa had known where to find her. She’d stood as still as a tree and held her breath, her eyes shut tight. But Papa had the second sight. Nothing was hidden from him.
The thought reminded Obelé that she had to find a safe hiding place - quickly - before Papa discovered her in his special Parlour. She wasn’t supposed to be in Papa’s special Parlour where he watched his TV, read his papers, smoked his pipe and laughed loudly with his friends. Even Mama was not allowed in that special room except to bring in refreshments for Papa and his friends. But Obelé had been desperate to read her book and there was no place in the house to do so without being disturbed by her three older sisters. Moreover, she hadn’t expected Papa to return from work that early. Now she was trapped… doomed.
Obelé heard her father’s heavy steps as he lugged his large frame towards the forbidden room. Her body quivered and her mouth dried up, making swallowing impossible. Hot tears pooled in her eyes. Her hands, small fingers gripping the big picture book, were hot and moist on the open pages. She shut her eyes tightly and listened out for Mother Voice; that hushed, loving voice hiding inside her head, lilting, like a happy mother’s voice, the secret voice that never let her down.
Run child! Hide behind the door! Quick! Mother Voice was loud this time, urgent, like the time it told her about the kitchen fire. She’d barely dragged her big sister, Sister Ada, out of the kitchen before the large kerosene stove exploded, turning the kitchen into an inferno of red, orange and black.
Obelé didn’t linger. As quick as a kite, she dived to her knees and began to crawl. Like a startled beetle, she scuttled towards the open door, squeezing her body behind its wooden panel just as Papa stumped his way into the room. His breathing was fast and laboured, like one that had danced the vigorous Adamma Masquerade dance from dusk to dawn. She heard the loud squeak of the sofa as he slumped into it. Soon he began to cough, a dry, hacking bark that brought a loud curse to his lips when it was over. Mama said it was the devil smoke in his pipe that was responsible for his harsh cough and bad smell. The whole house reeked of Papa’s smoke when he was around. But nobody, not even the vicar, could stop Papa from sucking his shiny pipe.
Obelé heard a rustling sound, followed by the strike of a match. The familiar vile smell of tobacco joined the suffocating smoke swirling round the living room, stealing her breath. She felt the sneeze build up in her nose. Hot tears clouded her vision as she strove to hold in the dangerous sneeze. Her hand pressed down hard on her nose, a bleak hopelessness flooding her heart.
Her sneeze coincided with the shrill voice of her big sister, Adaora or Sister Ada as she was respectfully called. At almost fifteen years of age, Sister Ada was the oldest sibling. She was Papa’s child from his first wife who had died giving birth to her. Mama had become Sister Ada’s mother afterwards because Sister Ada’s mother was sleeping in one of the graves at the back garden of the house.
Sister Ada’s voice swallowed Obelé’s muted sneeze, keeping her safe from both Papa’s sight and Utali birch.
‘Papa, come quickly,’ Sister Ada stood by the open doorway, her frantic gaze meeting Obelé’s terror-filled eyes through the gap in the door. ‘Someone’s dented your car. Come and see.’
Obelé heard Papa’s loud curse as he stumbled out of the Parlour towards his precious car. She felt the violent trembling of her body, the sudden weakness in her limbs as her picture book fell to the linoleum floor with a loud thud. The familiar drums pounded inside her skull, sending stabbing pains behind her eyes.
‘Quick, run,’ Sister Ada whispered to her, her voice harsh, urgent, just like the other voice inside Obelé’s head. ‘This child…you’ll be the death of me one of these days. How many times must I tell you not to come into this room, eh?’
Obelé dashed out from behind the door and flung herself into her big sister’s body. Sister Ada’s arms reached out to encircle her, holding her tightly, briefly, before pushing her away with a harshness that belied the tenderness in her eyes.
‘It’s alright, my little one… go now,’ Sister Ada wiped the tears on Obelé’s cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Run upstairs and keep away from Papa’s sight for the rest of the day, d’you hear? He’s in one of his bad moods and we don’t want the horrible Utali, do we?’ Obelé shook her head vigorously as she backed away from her big sister. Her action worsened her headache.
Obelé took to the stairs, two at a time, desperate to create as much distance as possible between her and Papa. She paused at the long corridor that led into the different bedrooms, debating where to hide, just in case Papa decided to look for her and give her another beating. The room she shared with the twins was out of the question. It was the first place Papa would search. Same as Sister Ada’s bedroom. Maybe Mama’s room. These days, Papa rarely went to Mama’s room.
Obelé padded towards the shut door at the end of the dark corridor. She wanted to switch on the florescent bulb to bring some light but knew that would alert someone to her presence. If only there were windows along the corridor to bring in some sunlight. She paused outside Mama’s bedroom and pressed her ears to the door. All was quiet. There was no sound of prayers to The Blessed Virgin coming from the room. Obelé turned the doorknob and entered Mama’s bedroom.
Sunlight streamed into the room through the drawn window curtains. Obelé’s eyes did a quick scan of Mama’s bedroom, searching for the safest place to squeeze in herself till Papa went away. Not behind the chair in front of Mama’s altar with the statues and framed photos of The Blessed Virgin, numerous rosaries, candles and various colourful missals. It was the first place Papa would go if he were in one of his rages against Mama’s Catholic things. Nothing at the altar was safe from Papa at those times, not even Mama’s special Rosary which she used to chase away Satan from their house at prayer times.
Only last week, Papa had pulled apart the Rosary with such fury that the holy beads rolled away into secret corners of the house, never again to be found. Then he had used his Utali on Mama till she howled louder than the Sunday pigs when their necks were sliced by the men’s knives at the market square. Papa said that Mama should have known better than to continue praying the bad Catholic prayers to The Blessed Virgin in his house. She knew that he went to St George’s Anglican Church by the market square.
Obelé had once heard Papa’s vicar scolding Mama, reminding her that she was a married woman who should follow her husband’s religion. Even though Mama obeyed Papa in everything as Obelé and her sisters did, she refused to give up the bad prayers to The Blessed Virgin. Whenever that topic came up, she repeated her usual mantra, “a Catholic I was born and a Catholic I will die”. At the rate Papa was beating her for saying the bad prayers, Obelé worried that Mama might yet make good her promise and die the Catholic death. Then she would go to Purgatory to suffer for her sin of disobeying Papa. Maybe The Blessed Virgin would fly down from the sky to carry Mama into heaven where she'll sing songs to God and The Blessed Virgin every day, forever and ever and ever and Papa will never whip her again. Lucky Mama.
Obelé finally settled herself in the tight space behind Mama’s Adu, a large, round basket containing Mama’s best clothes. She sat for several minutes, staring at the dyed strands of the dried palm fronds used in weaving Mama’s Adu. Her hand rubbed her temple, trying to massage away the painful thuds inside her head. The near run-in with Papa had brought back the pains. Her head felt as if someone was hitting it over and over again with heavy rocks. If only she were like her big sister and Papa loved her the way he loved Sister Ada.
Papa never took the birch to Sister Ada. Perhaps it was because she was the oldest of the four daughters. Or maybe because Papa had liked her mother more than he liked Mama because her mother was dead and sleeping in the grave and would never wake up again. Mama said Sister Ada looked just like Papa, tall, dark-skinned and strong. People said Obelé took after Mama, fair-skinned and small in size. Which was why she was stuck with the nick-name, Obelé, little.
Obelé wished she didn’t look like Mama. Then maybe Papa would love her more. It wasn’t even as if Mama liked her either. Mama only loved The Blessed Virgin…and Kene. But Kene had disappeared, vanished into nowhere one rainy day. And now, Mama had no-one to love. Mama had no son, only daughters.
Obelé used to ask Mama why Papa never hugged her like he hugged her sisters or shared his chicken stew with her as he did with the others; why he never called her name without anger or looked at her with kindness in his eyes. Mama said it was because Obelé didn’t come out as a boy at birth. Everyone expected Mama’s third birth after the twins to be the long-awaited son Papa desired, a real son, a normal and healthy son, unlike Kene. Poor Kene! If only people hadn’t made fun of Kene because of his bad speech and bad leg.
Obelé’s birth had been a disappointment and a curse. Since her birth six years gone, Mama had had two “Miss Garage” who killed the babies inside Mama’s stomach. Obelé wondered who Miss Garage was. She would beg her not to kill Mama’s babies anymore so that Mama would have a son to replace Kene and be happy and stop praying the bad Catholic prayers to The Blessed Virgin. Maybe, Papa would stop whipping Mama all the time.
ΨΨΨ
Sister Ada found her several minutes later, the picture book still clutched in her hands. Her tears had dried, leaving grey stains on her face.
‘Little one, there you are. I’ve been searching everywhere for you. When will you ever stop hiding, eh?’ Sister Ada’s voice was tender, like her smile. She sat on the floor next to Obelé and lifted her onto her laps. Her hand ruffled Obelé’s braided hair, playfully, gently, before rubbing the tear stains off her face with her thumb. ‘There, that’s better,’ she took the picture book from Obelé. ‘What are you reading this time our little bookworm, eh? Aahh! Hiawatha! Is it nice?’
Obelé nodded. ‘Do you know what a rainbow is, Sister Ada?’
‘Of course. It’s God’s covenant with Noah after the floods. God promised never to destroy the world with floods again. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Hiawatha’s mum said that the rainbow is where flowers go when they die. I wish I would go to a rainbow when I die.’
‘Tufia! Heaven forbid such evil!’ Sister Ada snapped her fingers over her head, casting away the devil. ‘What kind of talk is this for a child, eh? What business do you have with death at your age, eh? I keep saying you’re a little old woman come back in a child’s body. The kind of things you say, chei!’ Sister Ada shook her head, exasperated. ‘Everybody wants to go to heaven when they die, not to a silly rainbow. It’s all these books you read putting bad thoughts into your head. I swear, I’ve never known a child read as much as you do,’ Sister Ada stood up and pulled Obelé up. ‘Come now, let’s get you something to eat. No more books for you today.’ Obelé held back, fear clouding her eyes. ‘It’s okay, little one. He’s asleep now so you don’t need to worry. But please, promise me you’ll never go to his special Parlour for anything, ever. Promise in my name.’
‘I promise, Sister Ada,’ Obelé needed no prompting. After her recent escape, she was done with that horrid Parlour for good. She would find new places to read. It was a large compound after all. Perhaps, she might try Kene’s old room again. Maybe after all this time, it would be okay for her to use the abandoned room as she used to do before Kene disappeared
‘Come, I think we’re having Garri and Egusi soup for lunch today,’ Sister Ada smiled. ‘If you’re very good, I’ll let you have my piece of meat. How does that sound, eh?’
Obelé gave a wide smile. ‘Very good, Sister Ada. It sounds very, very, very good and I’ll be very, very, very good and will never, ever go into Papa’s horrible Parlour again.’
‘That’s my beautiful child!’ Sister Ada gave her a quick hug. ‘Come, we don’t want our soup to get cold now, eh?’
Chapter Three
Obelé paused outside Kene’s room, clutching her two picture books close to her pounding chest. The wooden green door was shut but she knew it was not locked. Locks were not needed. The room was its own sentinel. Nobody ever ventured in there, not since Kene’s sudden disappearance. Mama had banned everyone from entering the room, which was left as it was the day Kene disappeared. Only Mama, her rosary and her holy water bottle visited the room. On several occasions, Obelé had heard Mama’s hushed voice in Kene’s old room, raised in fervent prayers. Sometimes, Mama cried. At those times, Obelé wanted to cry too. Kene’s disappearance two months ago was a constant ache in her heart.
With just two years between them, Kene had been her closest sibling, the one she played with and spent the most time with. The twins had each other and Sister Ada was too old to play the games Obelé played with Kene. Obelé was the only one that understood Kene’s speech, the one people asked to translate his words. His disappearance had left a void which even Sister Ada couldn’t fill. There wasn’t even a grave for him at the gravesite behind the house, where her grandparents and Papa’s first wife slept. She would have visited his grave and shouted at him till he woke up. That was, if he were dead as some people were saying. But Kene wasn’t dead. He had just disappeared.
The ticking clock on the corridor wall chimed out the hour – 3 o’clock on a warm Saturday afternoon, her favourite time in the whole world. The house chores were done and lunch eaten. Papa was out at the Men’s Club drinking Heineken beer with the white men and the rich Africans; at least that’s what she’d heard from Mama’s conversations with Aunty Ify.
Best of all, it wasn’t the first Sunday of the month with its endless mass and Sunday school routine. Obelé hated Sundays, especially the first Sunday of the month. On that particular day, she had to attend early morning Mass at St Anthony’s Catholic Church with Mama and the rest of her siblings to receive the blessings of the new month at the special Mass. Later in the morning, she would attend St George’s Anglican Church with Papa and his sister, Aunty Charity, who watched over the children like a mean school teacher. After service, Papa would return home to flog Mama with his Utali, birch, for her stubborn refusal to worship at the Anglican Church, thereby disrespecting her husband.
As usual, the extended clan would gather to witness Mama’s monthly Sunday thrashing, some urging her to repent, others urging Papa to reconsider, no one stopping him from beating up Mama; no one except Sister Ada and Obelé. The twins would huddle together, crying. Sister Ada would try to take the Utali away from Papa while Obelé placed herself as a shield in front of Mama’s crouched body. Papa’s eyes would turn a bloody hue. His Utali would fly indiscriminately, flaying Obelé and Mama in equal doses before the tobacco cough got the better of him. Then he would retire to his special Parlour to await lunch, all the while threatening more retributions.
The rest of the afternoon would be spent in agonised sobbing, while Sister Ada rubbed palm oil on Obelé’s raised welts before doing the same for Mama. Afterwards, they would all troop downstairs to the kitchen to prepare Papa’s special Sunday dinner of kidney stew and rice on the kerosene stove, while the housemaids prepared the meal for the rest of the family on the open fire outside.
Obelé had learnt to change out of her cherished Sunday dress with the pink lace trimming before Papa’s First Sunday beatings commenced. She didn’t like the blood stains her welts left on the delicate faux silk material of her Sunday best. First Sundays were not good days for her, uh-uh. In fact, she didn’t like any Sunday at all. She wished everyday would be a Saturday afternoon, when she could read her storybooks in solace.
As the last chime of the clock died out, Obelé reached out and opened the door of Kene’s room. She stood outside, staring into the dusky stillness of the room. The steady ticking of the wall clock was the only sound in the house. 3 o’clock was Mama’s siesta time and outdoor playtime for the rest of the family, including the three housemaids, who were all the same age as Sister Ada. She would be okay in Kene’s room for a few hours of peaceful reading.
