Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away

by Christie Watson

  “Fifth child,” said Grandma. “Quick.”

  As I was closing the bag, the woman started moaning and a thick head of curls appeared at her opening. Grandma moved Nimi to a kneeling position. “Go with gravity,” she said to Nimi, or me, in Izon. She grabbed my hands and washed them quickly with the soap, scrubbing beneath my nails, between my fingers. Then she placed my hands between Nimi’s legs. The baby was so warm. A tiny pulse coming from the top of the baby’s head fluttered on my finger. The hair was softer than anything I had ever felt. The head pressed against my hand. “Ready?” asked Grandma.

  I nodded while I watched Nimi’s face grow, tiny red lines appearing in the whites of her eyes. It looked as if she was going to explode, like her blood would burst out of her body. Everything seemed to be coming out of her, except the baby. I could not tell by Grandma’s reaction if it was normal; her face was calm. Around the baby’s head, Nimi was becoming more and more swollen and spongy, until it was hard to tell where one ended and one began.

  “Now, as the baby comes out, feel the neck,” said Grandma. “Check no cord is wrapped around, then tug and the baby will fall into your hands. Support the baby’s head and put it on the mummy tummy.”

  I did not have time to protest. I did not have time to say, “We promised Mama I would just watch,” or ask, “What is a cord?” I felt a rush of soft weight fall into my hands. A slippery, sticky, impossibly warm baby. I held the baby’s head and supported the neck, as if I had been doing it forever. Nimi lay down as I slipped the baby onto her stomach and watched them see each other for the first time.

  The next morning Mama called us into the bedroom. “I have good news,” she said. She had been at work all night.

  It must have been at a different bar, as she had told us the Highlife Bar closed at midnight.

  I looked at her face. It was shiny. She was looking at Ezikiel.

  “There’s some money for school fees. And medications. We don’t need to wait for payday next week. We have no money worries right now.”

  My hands dropped to my sides. My ears opened wide. No money worries. School fees! What about my training? What about Grandma?

  Ezikiel was jumping into the air. “Thank you, Mama.” He hugged her and lifted her from the ground. She laughed. Ezikiel was taller than Mama.

  Mama laughed and laughed. “It’s been a real challenge, but I know how important it is to you.”

  “Thank you, Mama, thank you!” Ezikiel moved to her side and hugged her.

  Mama stopped laughing when she noticed me with my hand over my mouth. I could not move. I tried to drop my hand and smile widely and say, “Thank you, Mama, thank you, Mama,” but all I could think of was not being able to be Grandma’s apprentice anymore.

  “This is what I have raised?” Mama said. “This ungrateful daughter? Do you understand how hard I have worked, am working, to get you a good education? Do you realize how lucky you are?”

  I thought of the toilets at school. I thought of the teachers. Of no more Grandma teaching me. I tried again to thank Mama, but I could not even drop my hand from my mouth. Ezikiel frowned and flicked his head slightly at Mama. But it was no good. I felt the idea of becoming an assistant birth attendant lift away from my body into the air and travel out of the room. I felt like I was just a girl once more.

  It was Alhaji who saved me. We had all finished eating on the veranda. It was nearly time for Grandma’s stories. Ezikiel had smiled all afternoon. Even when we had fried fish, and he had more pounded yam dipped in palm oil, he smiled as though it was the tastiest thing he had ever eaten. Mama too had smiled the whole day. She hummed to herself. I had not heard her hum since Father had left.

  “I have catching up to do,” Ezikiel said, “so I’m afraid I have to miss the story tonight. It is important that I have read as much as possible before returning to school tomorrow.”

  Mama smiled over his head. “You are such a good boy,” she said. “You make me very proud.” She did not look at me, but I could feel her words travel past Ezikiel’s ears and into mine, as though she had fired them from a gun.

  I looked at Grandma, who was smiling. Why was she smiling? Did she not know that Mama was returning me to school?

  Alhaji leant forward in his chair. “Ezikiel will be a fine doctor. If I had not been a Petroleum Engineer I would have definitely gone into studying pharmaceuticals. But now I am an expert, and I would not have to study hard at all.” Alhaji laughed.

  He stopped laughing and looked at Mama. “There are some professions,” he said, slowly and loudly, “that you can teach yourself. Then there is no need for school.”

  “I did not like going to school,” said Celestine. “I had to walk for two hours to get there, and we had to carry our own table and chairs.” She started laughing. “Some days I stopped on the way to have a rest and woke up at the end of the day. I must have fallen asleep.” Everyone laughed. I imagined Celestine asleep on the roadside sitting at her school desk, with the cars driving past wondering what she was selling.

  “Take Grandma,” said Alhaji. “Never needed school. And she is the best birth attendant in Nigeria.”

  Grandma smiled.

  Suddenly Mama sat up. She flicked her head from Alhaji to me to Grandma.

  “That is why,” continued Alhaji, “there is no need for Blessing to attend school.”

  There was silence. We all turned to face Mama. She had her teeth held so tightly that her cheeks had puffed out. “She’s going to school,” said Mama.

  “I have decided,” continued Alhaji. “Blessing is better having a profession like Grandma. Then she will be able to contribute and support herself. School will not help her learn like Grandma can. And Grandma needs an assistant. It would be foolish to offer the job to an outsider.”

  Mama did not speak. She bit her lip. “I gave you the money for fees,” she said finally. “I gave you the money to pay their school fees.”

  Alhaji sat back in his chair. “I have paid Ezikiel’s fees. He needs school. The boy should go. And the other money”—he smiled at Mama—“we need for food and essentials. And Blessing can work with Grandma. My word is final.”

  I felt my heart lift in my chest and my head dance. Assistant birth attendant! Me! No more school! I looked at Grandma, who had sparkling eyes. I made my own eyes sparkle too. I was about to smile and thank Alhaji, but then I looked at Mama.

  Mama’s face filled with tears. “But there will be more money. I told you, money won’t be a problem now.”

  I wondered why money would no longer be a problem. What had suddenly happened to make us rich? Grandma was still being paid in fish, and Celestine had not had a funeral for weeks. Mama said she worked for tips, but surely she was not paid enough tips to cover school fees?

  “My word is final,” said Alhaji, cutting the air in front of him.

  “I worked so hard for that money,” Mama said. “I wanted Blessing to have an education.”

  Alhaji stood up. “My word is final.”

  THIRTEEN

  The mangrove swamp was full of mosquitoes. Ezikiel and I laughed as we slapped them from each other’s arms. Ezikiel laughed louder. He had been so happy since returning to school. We were looking at a butterfly and trying to count how many colors it had when a loud humming filled the air.

  “What is that?” I asked. I looked through the trees at the river. The water swirled. Ezikiel pulled me close to him. He held me tightly.

  A boat traveled past us. It was full of boys carrying rifles.

  A gunboat!

  I held my breath. I could feel my heart rising to my neck.

  Ezikiel held me even tighter, pressing my arm against his chest until my arm did not feel like mine anymore. It was only when I opened my eyes that I realized I had closed them.

  The boys in the boat carried the guns away from their bodies, in their bare, thin arms, as though they were afraid of them. I looked at the guns. My fingertips felt cold. The boys’ eyes were red. Some of them were wearing
nothing on their top half but string vests. They were laughing as they drank from bottles and smoked sticks; the smell was even stronger than the stale smell of the river. They wore necklaces. I could feel something pressing down at the back of my head as I looked at their necklaces. The necklaces were not like the necklaces made from yellow gold that the men on Allen Avenue wore.

  The necklaces were made from bullets.

  I could feel Ezikiel’s wheeze on my arm, even though my arm did not feel like mine.

  One of the boys was taller than the rest, and skinnier than Ezikiel. He wore large sunglasses. His cheek was scarred in the same way as Grandma’s. He smiled widely, showing a golden tooth at the side of his mouth. “Make this slow boat go faster. We need to complete our mission.”

  They all laughed. The boy at the back by the engine pulled a piece of rope and the boat chugged and then sped up suddenly. The water at the sides of the boat rose and parted and came to the top of the bank where my and Ezikiel’s feet stood still.

  I was glad for the thickness of the trees. I felt invisible. Still, I clung to Ezikiel. I wished the butterfly would fly away. It was bright enough to draw attention to us. My skin was so hot that Ezikiel’s breath felt cold on my neck. He slowly moved his hand over, pushed his fingers through mine and gripped. Both our hands were sweating. I held on tightly to Ezikiel’s fingers until even my own fingers were numb and I couldn’t tell which hand was my own. The boat moved away quickly. We watched it disappear. I could hear the voice of the tall, skinny boy with the golden tooth shouting instructions at the other boys in the boat: Pass that palm wine. Give me your mobile phone. Hold your rifle carefully. Ezikiel moved my hand up to his chest and pressed. His heart was trying to escape.

  We slipped through the mangroves and palms, underneath the twisted branches and into daylight, and ran toward home, still holding hands. I did not dare look back.

  “You were right. It’s not safe! Did you see that? They had guns, rifles. Did you see the guns?” My voice was scratchy.

  “How could I miss the guns?” Ezikiel was breathless. “They had so many, how could I miss them? One boy had two guns. Two, and I say guns but really they were rifles, AK-47s, imagine firing one of those, wow!” Ezikiel’s words were excited, but his hand held my hand so tightly I could feel the bones inside.

  I slowed down to let him breathe. “Where were they going? I thought they would see us. The butterfly …”

  “They were patrolling the water,” said Ezikiel. “I bet they were on their way to bunker some oil. I told Mama about it but she didn’t believe me—well, you’ve seen it. I told her. What butterfly?”

  “How many of them were there? Are they our age? They looked our age.”

  “At least ten in that boat.” Ezikiel’s breathing became more normal. His hand let go.

  “What if they had seen us?” I asked. “Were they soldiers? They might have taken us. Or shot at us!”

  Ezikiel shook his head too quickly. “No,” he said. “They wouldn’t have taken us. They are Ijaw. They were only boys. Wow! I can’t believe we’ve seen a gunboat.”

  We did not discuss whom we would tell about the gunboat, but when we arrived home we both fell silent. It was the first time we had not run to Mama to tell her that something happened. Ezikiel moved away from me as soon as we were near the house. But I could still hear his wheeze.

  “Do you want your inhaler?” I whispered.

  “I’m fine,” he said, but his eyes flew around his face.

  I felt my heart move sideways.

  Ezikiel became more breathless later that afternoon. His chest sounded bubbly like a pan of boiling water. I could hear him over the sound of my scrubbing the cassava.

  “Shall I fetch your inhaler?”

  “No.” He shook his head and bent forward, resting his hands on the top of his thighs. “It’s running out. Emergencies only.”

  “You can get another from the clinic. Mama said she has the money now.”

  I spoke loudly, but I could still hear the rasping sound of his breath. I also felt breathless, as if asthma was contagious. When he stood up I noticed his nostrils flaring every time he took air in. His inhaler was running out. I felt panic rise in my body, right up to my shoulders. I dropped the cassava, moved the bucket of water out of the way.

  “No money,” he said, waving his hand at the house. “We need it for school. I don’t want to risk it, in case they spend my school fees.”

  “There will be money for medicine, silly. Mama told us we do not need to worry about it. She must have had a pay increase. She must be getting a salary now as well as tips—Alhaji even has money to bribe an electrician to reconnect us. He is going to climb the pole this afternoon. I told you, Mama has money.”

  I smiled at the thought of the fan and the radio and cold minerals. Even if NEPA did not provide electricity for days and days, at least if we were reconnected then we had a chance of electricity on some days.

  “What if they use my school fees for medicine? What if they use my school fees for the electrician?” Ezikiel’s wheezing increased until his chest bubbled and hissed and whistled. As I ran to Alhaji’s room to fetch the inhaler, I pictured Ezikiel’s lungs getting smaller and smaller and smaller. I pushed the thought from my mind. Must not panic. Must not panic, I thought. But I felt so alone. Where was Grandma?

  The inhaler was on the bedside table next to a small blood pressure machine and an electric box that measured sugar levels if you pricked a finger and let blood drip onto the end. I shook the inhaler. It felt too light. Ezikiel was silly. He should have told Mama the medicine was running out. She was going to kill him.

  When I ran back, Ezikiel was slumped forward, and his ribs were poking through his T-shirt. He took four puffs, shaking the inhaler before each puff. I matched my breathing to his. It took much longer to breathe out than in, the time left after breathing out was so short only a sharp breath of air could go in. I began to feel dizzy just by trying to copy Ezikiel. Where was everyone? Where was Mama? I looked around the compound for Boneboy, but he was nowhere to be seen. I sat down on the floor next to Ezikiel in case he fell. The breaths became more even. First, in … oooouuuttt. Then in … oouutt. Then back to regular in … out. Slowly, slowly, his breathing was normal again.

  “It’s run out now,” he said, when his lips were night once more. He shook the inhaler at my ear.

  I wasn’t sure what I was listening out for, but Ezikiel should know. He’d had asthma all his life. He was an expert.

  We found Grandma and Mama by the table; Mama was drinking water straight from a cup, without letting the cup top touch her lips. Grandma was wearing clip-on diamond-effect earrings. She had her ear facing Mama’s mouth, but a large frown crossed her forehead.

  “Ezikiel’s inhaler has run out.”

  Mama stopped talking and looked at Ezikiel. He nodded.

  “Why leave it till now?” she snapped. “You must have known it was running out.”

  Ezikiel shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mama. I used it up playing football. I was running too fast. I was worried we wouldn’t have money for school fees …”

  “So now you have no injection and no inhaler! This is ridiculous. Are you stupid?” Mama looked at me when she said “stupid.” I looked at the ground. “I really don’t need this right now. You’re not little children anymore! I told you we’re fine for money! I told you we don’t need to worry now! Nearly adults and can’t even tell me when your inhaler is running out. You need to start taking responsibility for your own lives.” She held up her hands in front of her body. “Look, I have to go to work. Take this.”

  She took five American dollars from underneath Alhaji’s breakfast plate and gave it to Grandma. “Take him to the clinic so they can replace it quickly. Get his anaphylaxis injection at the same time.”

  I looked at the American dollars. Who had given Mama American dollars?

  Mama ran toward the gate, where an okada was letting a neighbor down on the other side. She beck
oned him to wait and turned her head back to me, Grandma, and Ezikiel. Grandma was chanting “an-a-phy-lax-is, an-a-phy-lax-is” over and over.

  “Don’t let it run out again,” Mama said, as she climbed on, her legs sticking out toward us. Where had Mama found the money for an okada? “For God’s sake, I really don’t need this right now.”

  At Radio Street Clinic, the staff were quick getting Ezikiel’s inhaler and injection. We had to wait only a few minutes in the reception area, which had plastic chairs and magazines set out on small tables. Ezikiel was disappointed when Grandma called us to the door. He had just picked up a copy of The Lancet and was flicking through the pages. He found a page about asthma.

  “Come quick please,” said Grandma. She held up the brown bag full of inhalers that the nurse at the reception had given her. “I need to get back to prepare dinner.”

  As we left, he looked back a number of times.

  Grandma rubbed his shoulder. “You will make a good doctor.”

  Ezikiel smiled, then looked away quickly.

  We walked home along the dusty road, passing people dressed in ripped-up clothes with their palms stretched out, into which Grandma dropped some leftover naira. Blanket markets lined the other side of the road, selling plantain, oranges, yams, wristwatches, eggs, sunglasses, bush meat, Eva Water. Bright flowers grew from the burned-out cars, engines, and carriages that littered the roadside. They smelled as though they were still on fire. We walked past a stall that had a sign balanced on the table:

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