The Morning After.
You should read the first instalment, February’s Promise
Death opens a door,
She whispers that she has come to pay a visit.
She is checking to see if the sadness in your eyes fits like new skin.
You tell her that she has come to the wrong house.
Maybe try the next street.
She says loudly that she has come to stay.
That the salt in your tears tastes like home.
— The Advice of the Earthbound.
My throat is hoarse when I wake. It is not from crying for the loss of my father. It is a gift from the images that plague me when the sun goes to sleep.
The dream starts the same way every time. Black and white meld into each other and I’m on a stairwell that looks like the one that connects daddy’s room to the parlour. I’m running towards my name, a sound I hear coming from down the stairs.
I shout ‘Yes!’, trying my best not to trip. The steps seem never-ending and for every time I answer in the affirmative to my name, the voice grows fainter. I’m screaming ‘Wait for me! Wait for me!’ It is on this sound that I wake up with a start.
I open my eyes to see Onyeka looking into my face, she whispers while pushing on my shoulders, I almost do not hear it. ‘What happened? Her palms slip into mine and she holds it. She says, ‘You’re scaring me, Nkem’. I tell her that I am sorry. She doesn’t let go of my hand.
The dream reminds me of something that happens to me on occasion. I am alone in my room and I think I hear my name being called. The voice sounds familiar and so I respond with a loud ‘Yes!’ but no one acknowledges my response. I go to my mother’s room and ask her, ‘Mummy did you call me?’ She asks if I heard my name, and when I nod, she pulls me to her side and calls my name. ‘Nkemjika!’, a booming sound that I have no choice but to respond to. When I answer, she says ‘I have called you back home’. I never ask her what she means.
As Onyeka held my hand, I wondered if I should find my mother and ask her to call me back to her.
Friday.
Because sleep does not come when we most wish for it, I did not sleep the night before but I dreamt the black and white pictures many times over. I do not remember looking for Onyeka and Kamsi after I saw my mother on Thursday. In my memories, the only other time I saw them before we went to bed was when we were gathered to eat the food that Auntie Somto cooked.
The trip from plate to mouth, so mechanical, I do not remember what the food was or what it tasted like. I think it was yam, white, hard, very different from the way my mother prepared it. On a rainy afternoon, much later in life, Kamsi will tell me that he remembers that day very differently.
Auntie Betty came to check if Onyeka and I were awake long after I woke from the dream for the last time. She said that we have to prepare for school. It is what our mother would want. She probably added the last part because she thought I would make a fuss about the decision. I do not make a fuss. I’d rather be anywhere else.
A new principal was transferred to our school when I was in JSS2. A tall man with eyes that still looked disapprovingly at everyone even when he smiled. He was particularly famous for always saying ‘We are building leaders here! Not buffoons.’ during every assembly. Approximately two terms after he was appointed, we were gathered in the school hall and informed that he had passed.
The room gasped and some people started crying. Senior Joy made a sound that reminded me of the screeching of a bat that died on our electricity pole one Saturday evening. They had to escort her out of the hall. I felt more confused than sad. I kept thinking ‘How did he die?
Mr Furo went on to say that the school choir was to sing at his funeral, to pay our respects. I was a member of the choral group and we practised the hymn for three days, every day after school.
Mr Furo was determined to make sure we delivered an orchestra-worthy melody. He had a problem with every note we sang and kept shouting at us to let our emotions show in our voices. Soon enough, some members of the 12-man ensemble cried as they belted out the tune. I was not entirely sure that that was what he meant but it seemed to work for him.
As we sang ‘God be with you till we meet again’ to the crowd, I was certain that this whole endeavour had very little to do with paying respects. Ayobami joked on the bus as we were on our way home, he said he came for the puff puff. Why did we go?
Everything feels different the morning after you learn that your father is dead. You lose the familiar place you call home because others will invite themselves in to partake of your pain in the name of paying respects. They will tell you of the sadness that plagues them because of this thing that has happened. You will wake to the sound of your house already alive with sounds you will become accustomed to in no time — wailing cries that shake the walls and remind you that someone is never coming home.
A few people were seated in the parlour when I made my way downstairs. I recognize some of the faces but I do not know the woman with bloodshot eyes, sitting still with her hands folded at her stomach. I hear someone say to another, ‘Nke ahụ bụ nwa ya nwanyị nke mbụ’. Nobody looks me in the eye but they speak to me, ‘Ndo nwa m’, they say as I pass by them.
I walk to the woman and touch her shoulder, she flinches and looks me directly in the eye as if trying to remember who I was. She says ‘Nkem-’ and her voice breaks, She cradles her head in her hands and I say ‘Mummy, we are going to school.’ She looks at me with watery eyes and nods.
I walk away, out of the house. I see Ebenezer at the gate, he asks me if I want him to escort me to school. I refuse. I am staring at the road I have walked to school for about five years. The air is too heavy to breathe in.
Everything feels different the morning after you learn that your father is dead.
Death stains everyone involved. You carry that smear everywhere you go. The class goes quiet when you walk in, people are unsure about how to act. They’ll tell you sorry a lot and refuse to smile around you.
Modupe walked up to me to ask if I watched last night’s episode of Super story and before I could respond, Elijah barked at her, ‘Didn’t you hear what happened last night?’. She looked at him, confused. It is clear that she had not heard the news.
During short-break, Tade came to sit beside me in my class. He asks why I came to school. ‘If I were you, I would stay away from this place.’ I watched the little moles by the corner of his left eye as he spoke. I am thinking about why I never noticed them before. Will it grow back if I pinch it off? I tell him that I have been nominated for the prefects’ position. The interview will happen after classes in the staffroom. He asks if I am still interested and I do not know how to respond. I tell him I will try my best to get through it. He says he is sorry. I don’t say anything.
By noon, everyone in school had heard the news of daddy’s death and I had long lost the yearn for escape that propelled me to come to school. The nurse tells me sorry as I hurry past the sickbay, towards the bathroom, I ignore her. How many thankyous can one say in a day?
I kept running possible questions from the panel through my mind. Why do you want to be a prefect? What qualities do you have that will make you a good prefect? If you saw a group of students loitering, what would you do? I ignored the question burning behind my eyes — Do I want to be a prefect?
I was the fifth person to be called into the staffroom. Each candidate came out of the room with a different account of what happened inside. Bolaji said Mr Anthony was one with the hardest questions but he felt confident. For Ada, Mrs Ewache was the meanest because she said her skirt was above her knee and demanded that she pull it down. Anita said Ms Paebi asked her the toughest question — ‘If you had to punish your classmate during assembly, how would you go about it?’. Everybody wanted to know how Anita answered but she wouldn’t tell.
Standing in the room, I was not prepared for the first question I was asked by the panel. ‘How are you?, Nkem. We are so sorry’. I looked at my feet and tried to answer but the only sound I could produce were incoherent words that broke on a sob. Through teary eyes, I saw Ms Christy come over to hug me. I never got to interview for the position.
I only ever cried two times after daddy died. That Friday evening in the staffroom was one of them.
Letter edited by Dami Akanni, ‘Where is the story?’
Translations
Nke ahụ bụ nwa ya nwanyị nke mbụ: This is his first daughter
Ndo nwa m: Sorry my child
JSS2: Second-year class of junior secondary education in Nigeria
Puff-Puff: A deep fried sweet dough popular in many West African countries
