Creative Work
To Benin and Back
I'm standing on the red earth inside the walls of my father's compound. Things have changed. The paint on the wall is peeling and the palm nut tree in the front yard is so withered it's almost a bush. The gates are rusting and the garage is in a dilapidated state. There are no cars parked in it. The gardens are uncared for with patchy, dry tufts of grass. Scrawny white chickens run around, pecking at the earth.
The front door opens and three strangers come out. They are my sisters and brother. I smile, expecting them to greet me as their senior. They don't move from the steps. They're older now and look at me with reserve or maybe even disdain. The years have been hard on them. It's written on all their faces. The door opens once more and behind them comes their Mama. Her wrapper is dirty, pulled tight across her large bosom and under her arms. Her feet are dry, pushed into old, ripped slippers. They're the ones I bought for her ten years ago. She takes one look at me and begins to scream. She wails and pulls at her grey, matted hair. The children don't move. Their eyes are accusing me.
There are words coming out of her mouth that I don't understand. A mixture of Itsikiri, Pidgen and English. I don't need to understand. The expression on her face says it all. She hates me. She fears me. Her voice rises, the children turn from me.
‘No Mama, no. Stop. Come now. Come.'
Sophia's weary voice tries to stabilise her Mama. To ground her into the here and now. But it doesn't penetrate the wails that circle in the air. Nor does it still the hands that are pulling at the wrapper, as though trying to shred the material.
Papa hurries round the corner. He stands and watches his wife, strain shows on his face. He doesn't seem to see me and begins cussing the children.
‘Are you useless? You know wetin u dey do? Or you want mek I beat you first?'
The children jump into action. Sophia pushes her Mama roughly towards the door. Yemi tries to hold onto the hands that have begun to rip at the fleshy stomach that has become exposed. Bola runs through the compound gates and disappears from sight. I stand here. My heart pumping hard. A chill surrounds me despite the heat that makes sweat run down my spine and between my breasts.
Still Papa hasn't looked at me. Hasn't seen me. Instead his eyes turn to the tenants who have slipped from their doors. The women stand together; all have the same tight expression. The men look at Papa with something akin to pity. Only their children seem to notice me. Small, brown bodies spotted with red dust. Dirty shorts or knickers their only covering, leaving firm, round baby bellies exposed, hernias protruding where belly buttons should have been. There must be eight or nine toddlers, all staring with solemn faces. No interest in anything except the stranger who stands in the middle of the front yard.
Muffled wails reach my ears. I haven't moved since getting out of the car that brought me. I stare at Papa willing him to acknowledge me.
‘Papa?'
My voice sounds different to me. Unsure. I don't know if I've said the word out loud.
‘Papa, it's me.'
Now attention is focussed on me. The tenants appear to hold a collective breath waiting for the next turn of events. Papa walks around the side of the house. Away from me. He doesn't even glance in my direction. I don't know what to do.
A woman tenant walks towards me, a smile on her face,
‘Welcome, daughter, welcome. D o ?'
She dips a curtsey and my mouth smiles. After all these years I still don't know how to respond to this simple greeting. Uh huh, fine thank you, d o ? Other tenants come forward, smiling, patting, d o -ing . The toddlers pick up on the excitement of the moment and begin to push each other, tripping and laughing. I want to get away from them all. I want to follow Papa. I glance towards the corner of the house waiting for him to reappear. I know he won't. I turn to my driver.
‘I need a hotel. Can you take me to a good one please? One with security?'
‘Yes sistah, Airport Road , a very good hotel, come.'
I'm not his sister. But I don't say anything. I get into the car and we turn slowly in the compound. He shouts at the children who are still running around and laughing.
‘You want to die? Move now. Hey mothers get your picken now. Are you too stupid? Heh, you don't deserve the picken you have if you can't look after them. Move them now.'
He continues his tirade throughout the short journey. I try not to listen, stay silent when I know he wants a response. He doesn't take the hint. Outside, on the highway, the car traders are pushing their wares. Gala bars, water, Fanta. No thoughts of safety as they run in between vehicles. We inch forward slowly. Faces come and press up against the window, eyes trying to make contact with mine. I look down at my hands until we enter the hotel gates. I leave the car, struggle with my suitcase and pay him. He's still talking at me. I turn away.
From the outside the hotel looks fine. Not particularly good, but fine. The walls are painted white and there's a glass porch leading to the reception. Potted palms line the short walkway. I pull my case inside. A handwritten sign taped to the wall offers air conditioning. I hope they have a generator that works. The girl on reception is sullen. I request a room and she passes me a card displaying the rates. I ask to see a single room with a shower.
The room we enter is adequate. There's a large bed that takes up most of the space. At the foot of the bed a dark wood cabinet houses the wardrobe, a small TV and a mini fridge, which is shown to me with pride. The bathroom is clean and has its own water heater over the bath with a shower attached. The shower curtain hanging from the rusting ceiling pole is thick plastic that may once have been white but is now cream with brown water stains along the bottom. I return to reception and pay for one night. Back in my room I lie down on the bed and close my eyes.
The sun has moved across the sky when I wake and its beam through the dirty window now rests across my feet. It takes me a while to get my bearings and realise where I am. I reach for my mobile, search for Papa's number and press send. I know it will cost me but I haven't bought a local sim card yet. His phone rings, breaks up and cuts off. I try again.
‘He-llo. He-llo.'
Always in double. Papa answers like this every time.
‘Papa? It's me. How are you?'
‘ Elizabeth . Is it you? How are you, my dear?'
‘I'm fine papa. You? How are you?'
‘Are you fine? Are you well?'
‘Papa, I'm here. I'm in Nigeria .'
‘How is London ? Is it cold?'
‘Manchester Papa, you know I live in Manchester .'
Extract from short story, 2006
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