Dating : HER WISHES

Beginning of a new decade, it was, beginning of the greatest year of uncertainties. Her list for the new year resolutions this time around was promising and full of hopes. It had glimpses of successes as she could picture herself having the best of her life. Why won’t she? It’s the beginning of a new year, and she would be taking huge steps towards my life. With all that, you could imagine her disappointment when the pandemic came knocking heavily on everyone’s door. ‘Blacks are immune!’ came the shouts from fellow folks. ‘A particular country clubbed ebola!’ came another. In that case, she had nothing to fear. Then the rippling effect started crawling in. Since Africans are immune, there is no need to panic or panic-buy toilet papers. After all, water seems to be much more effective. The airport was wide open and so their country welcomed myriads of travellers from all walks of life; hence, her country recorded its first case. Well, the infected person wasn’t from their country, why panic? Then another and another and another… The whole world was forced to be on a long vacation. This time around, in their homes or wherever they call it. They were all experiencing a war quite different from their usual ones. We had one, the Spanish flu, but she wasn’t born then, so she had no idea how it turned out. And so, she stayed calm. With the flash of light, she made a list of all the activities she had abandoned a long time ago. No, she didn’t abandon them; she simply had no time. she needed to be very very busy, so she won’t feel sorry for herself. The previous year had been quite rough for her. The year her mother died and she couldn’t stop blaming herself. She thought, ‘Why is this happening now? It’s been a couple of years since I had such a great plan for my life. But here we are, some external forces at work again, stopping me from achieving my plan. I wanted to be my happy self again. These days, I’m hardly happy.” “Ever been stuck in a situation you don’t want, but needed? I was, for as long as I was alive. And then my spirits decided to be functional again, so I decided to leave..” All these happened in her head. Ever since her mother died, she had taken solace in speaking to herself and to whoever cared to hear. These thoughts alone kept giving me some adrenaline rush. She had written what she wanted down, where she was going and her plans there. Everything, however, got deflated with the pandemic in the world. Who could have thought the world would succumb to the rippling verdict of the pandemic? With the present situation, she was thrown into the deep end.

While she was engrossed in planning for the pandemic holiday in her room, she heard a loud knock. It was her father-part of the reasons she wanted to leave. ‘Make a plate of eba for me,’ he said with a clear urgency in his voice. She dragged herself out of the bed, murmuring. ‘If only everything had worked out, I wouldn’t be here making some stupid eba.’ ‘When you are done with that, please, wash these clothes,’ he added pointing to the pile of clothes dumped right next to the kitchen door. Shocked, she asked, ‘Are my washing all these?’ Yes, you are. Too much?’ She said nothing and prepared to make the meal of eba. She prayed it gets lumpy. It won’t because Ladi, her childhood friend once told her that even if she wanted it to get lumpy, it would be difficult because she is so good and extraordinary when it comes to cooking. She quickly placed the plate of eba with egusi soup on the table and went off to wash the clothes. Her mother clamoured for a washing machine, but he wouldn’t allow her. He enjoyed watching her go through the suffering when he can easily buy one. After all, she is an African woman. Just then, she heard her name. Her father requested her to pass him the remote control which was lying just a few feet away from him. He could have picked it himself, why call me? She thought. She did as she was told and went ahead with the laundry. Having finished in no time, she continued with her planning.

She would start with writing since she wanted to move to a new place to study how to write. She had better start with it. She would write about 300 words per day. But then, this awesome decision comes with its downside. The Writing wasn’t new to her. She loved writing and the thought of it alone fulfilled her. But she was scared. She felt sorry for herself and criticised her write-ups even before they get to others. She had written over 50 pieces ranging from poetry to short stories, but they all landed in the dustbin. ‘I need to do something about this self-criticism,’ she thought. Well, she isn’t a bastard. How could one overcome the greatest criticism which displays itself in her eyes every day? She’s never done anything good before ever since she announced that she hated the course (one chosen by her father) she read in the university. He said it’s her fault. If she had done well in her secondary school result, a better course would have been picked. And so, the cycle of blame and constant criticism didn’t stop. She finally made up her mind to never stop writing and to make writing her haven, something to keep her going in the subsequent life’s crisis. At that moment, she decided to write about her mother.

‘We just have to be calm and patient with him. Every household in our neighbourhood has its problem, this is ours and we have to embrace it.’ ‘Why do we have to do that?’ She asked her mother. ‘He has done nothing but to bring problems to us. The last time, he owed a woman he had been cheating with and she had the gut to beat you up for it. It’s not just fair.’ The conversation had been going on for over two hours and no resolution has been achieved. Her mother had always been meek and resilient, qualities she wanted to emulate so bad, but the flaws they bring are what she wants nothing to do with. Her father had never considered her mother’s feelings for once in his behaviour. She alone took the huge responsibility of the house. And as a reward, she was consistently beaten, so she became unrecognizable. She thought It’s the right thing to do since their society feels a woman should endure, especially for the sake of her children. She was indeed an African Woman. Well, her daughter wanted her to get out of the dungeon she was in. If she’s not happy, isn’t it best to opt-out? She tried everything to persuade her to leave her marriage, but she wouldn’t budge. ‘You are nothing but Satan trying to destroy my marriage. Everything I did was for you.’ She would yell. ‘But I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t ask to be born-at least not into this family.’ She would reply. And so the disrespect continued. Her father would bring different women home just to spite her. Some days, it would be one of the divorcees at his place of work and at other times, the one that sells fish at the popular market or the women leader of the broom icon political party. Whenever he brought them, she would cook and clean the room used for their disgusting acts. This went on for years until she thought it was the right moment to revolt. The revolution was met with a slap. As if that wasn’t enough, she was bathed in hot water-one meant for eba. Her daughter was away on this tragic day. Maybe if not, she would have guarded her and protected her as she had always done with word of mouth. When she saw the crowd, she quickened her steps. ‘That woman poured hot water on your mother’s head,’ said one of the gossips, pointing to a tall woman with folded arms. Her skin looks faded as black spots were boldly imprinted on her now tenderized skin as a result of years of bleaching. ‘This is what my father sacrificed my mother for.’ She thought. She was told her mother had been rushed to the hospital.

The journey to Saint Mary’s hospital seemed longer than it used to. The visit would be her 35th visit to the hospital in seven months — the reason which would be the complications arising from the fight with her father. Maybe she could have done more, maybe she could have informed her mother’s siblings whom she knew are ‘no-nonsense’ women. They would have forced her out of her father’s place. And who knows? She would have been at the university by now, studying a new course. ‘Are you not alighting here?’ The driver asked, more like yelling. ‘So sorry,’ She said, handing over the squeezed fifty naira note to the driver. She stepped out of the rickety 1982 Toyota Camry car and quickly wiped her teary face. She didn’t realise she had been sobbing all through the journey. She already knew the ward her mother was. So, she walked briskly and there, her mother was lying on a bed-one which had now come to be her favourite in the hospital. Her head was wrapped tightly. She burst into tears. It was quite different from her mother’s usual complications- light bruises, broken arms or fingers. This time around, she could see the blood gradually soaking the white bandage. If she survives this, she’s not going back to the marriage. While she was crying, Doctor Blake came in. She took her to the relief room. It’s a room in the hospital where grieved individuals go to yell and let out their frustration. It’s soundproof, so you don’t have to worry about disturbing others. She yelled till her voice was gone, kicked items and rolled on the floor. Then, she walked out, wiping the blood from her bruised elbow. If her mother made it, she would get out of the marriage. But she didn’t. She later knew her mother was hit in the head with a pestle after getting bathed with hot water and that had caused internal bleeding which resulted in head swelling. Her eyes were wide-opened, but she couldn’t move nor say anything. She knew there was no way out, but she prayed for her to live. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. It was Doctor Blake. She didn’t have to say anything, the message was relayed. Her mother didn’t make it. She died alone and sad. She died with no peace and she died from the hot hands of death. She died with no impact. She died to save her daughter or so she thought. She died with no help.

The door was suddenly flung open. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ Her father yelled, bringing her back to the present moment. The yelling and shouting had become part of her life, so she wasn’t surprised. ‘No, I didn’t.’ she said while trying to wrap her naked body. ‘It’s about to rain, go and pack my clothes.’ While she was doing the packing, she continued thinking. Her mother died gullibly. She knew what to do but didn’t and deceived herself all through thinking she was doing it for her daughter. ‘Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?’ She asked rhetorically. She died and nothing was done. No one was arrested, no charges were pressed. She died like a helpless and hopeless pauper. She died like a nobody. ‘Why am I still here?’ ‘Why am I still living with my mother’s oppressor?’ ‘Why am I… She suddenly dropped the clothes she was holding and ran without looking back. She ran for her life…