by Abi Daré
Abu keeps nodding as I am talking, and when I finish, he sigh and say, “May Allah be with her.”
“Amen,” I say. “I just keep feeling that maybe she was in trouble, and that maybe what happened to her will happen to me. I feel close to her. She was from Agan village, which is not far from my own village. But now, I think she is okay. She was just running away to marry and I was worrying myself for nothing.”
“Adunni,” Abu say, then look over his shoulder to where the house is so far away. “I want to show you something. Something I saw inside the car . . . after Rebecca was missing.”
“What? What did you see?”
“Not now,” he say, looking over his shoulder again. “The thing is inside my room. I will bring it to you when Big Daddy is maybe sleeping at night, or when he is not in the house, ko?” His face look so serious, eyes so wide with fear, that I feel my heart starting to beat.
“Okay,” I say. “When you come, knock the door three times, I will know it is you. I don’t like to open my room door at night for anybody.”
“Eh,” he say, nodding, “I will knock it three times and wait for you outside your room.”
“Till then,” I say as my phone make a vibrate in my chest. I climb out of the car, walk a little away from Abu and hide behind one of the flowerpots, before I pull out my phone.
Another text message from Ms. Tia:
About to board a flight back to Lagos. See you tomorrow afternoon for bath.
Your madam is okay for you to come with me to the “market.” No need to reply. xx
I smile a little, wonder what “xx” mean, before I put the phone back in my brassiere and run inside to begin my afternoon housework.
CHAPTER 44
Fact: The Yoruba ethnic group considers twins to be a powerful, supernatural blessing, believed to usher in great wealth and protection for the families they are born in.
Hey,” Ms. Tia say when I meet her in the compound on Monday afternoon.
She is sitting under the coconut tree, and when she sees me, she push herself up and dust the sand from her buttocks. “My days, look at you! You are awfully thin. Has it really been nearly four months since I last saw you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Since before Christmas.”
She gives me a quick embrace. “I flew into Lagos a few times between Christmas and now, but only to check in at the office. I would have stopped by to see you, but I couldn’t. Did you get my text messages?”
“Yes,” I say. “How is your mama? Is she feeling fine now? Are you and her trying to be more close?”
I pull the padlock of our gate, open it, and we go outside on the street, begin to walk to her house. The black smooth road is a stretch in front of us, looking like it is full of oil under the heat of the sun, the top of it like thin waves of water.
She nods. “She had a chest infection and we nearly lost her, but she somehow managed to pull through. Things are a lot better between us . . . thanks for asking. Did you have a nice Christmas and new year? How’s your Big Madam? Have the beatings stopped? You’ve lost a lot more weight.”
She is always asking if the beatings have stopped, but my answer has never changed itself. “Just yesterday, after church, she poured water on my head,” I say. “Somebody used the downstair toilet and didn’t press the flush well. There was shit inside. She says it is me that do the shit. She beat me, saying I am a devil-child, and a big, fat liar. She doesn’t ever give me food to make me fat, so why is she calling me fat? She made me put my hand into the toilet, pick up the shit one by one, and carry it to our own toilet.”
Ms. Tia makes a face like she wants to vomit. “That’s just . . .” She shakes her head and doesn’t say anything again until we reach her gate, where one car is parked in the front of it.
Ms. Tia slow her walking. “That’s my mother-in-law’s car,” she says, her voice low. “I told her you are coming with me. Ken talked her into letting you come. I can’t even believe I agreed to do this, but who knows? Maybe the bath would work, make all this . . . the stress from her, from everyone, make it all stop.” She shake her head, then talk low, to only herself. “I’ve been off the Pill since late last year. We’ve been doing the right things, but nothing yet. It’s bloody frustrating.”
The Pill is Tablet. Tablet is Medicine. Like the one Khadija made for me in Morufu’s house to stop me from getting pregnant. If Ms. Tia is no more taking the medicine for stopping baby, and they been trying for months now, why is the baby not coming?
I put my hand on Ms. Tia’s shoulder and tell her it will be fine, just like she is always telling me.
She gives me a wet smile and pulls my hand. “Come on, let’s do this.”
* * *
Ms. Tia’s mother-in-law is a thin woman with a nose like a teapot.
She looks just like Dr. Ken with no mustache to the jaw, and with a short black wig on her head. She is wearing a costly-looking red lace dress with stones on it, and when I greet her, she just sniffs up something in her teapot nose.
Ms. Tia climbs into the car, sits beside the woman, and me, I sit in front with the driver.
“Moscow,” the doctor mama say, talking to the driver. “We are going to the Miracle Center in Ikeja. The one by the Shoprite roundabout. Remember it?”
Moscow, a man with head that looks like it is full of dry cement, too heavy for his neck, says yes, he can remember the place, and begins to drive. He put on the radio, and I sit there, feeling cold from the air-con and hearing the radio woman talking like she is from the America about new Buhari president and how Nigeria will be better because of it.
Ms. Tia and the doctor mama, they don’t talk in the back. The only noise inside the car is from the America-talking woman in the radio. She is speaking so fast, the only word I am hearing from all she’s been saying in one hour of driving is “Obama.”
The go-slow is the worst I ever seen in my life. Outside, the other cars in the road are pressing horn like mad people, the drivers cursing. After about three hours, the driver turns into one gate, stops the car, and puts off the engine.
The doctor mama say to Ms. Tia, “We are here. Here is a scarf for you to cover your head with. This is a holy ground. You could give this newspaper to that one in front. She also needs to cover her hair. Why you’d bring a stranger, your neighbor’s housemaid, along to something so sacred, so personal, is completely beyond me. I cannot understand it at all.”
“She has to come with me,” Ms. Tia says. “That is what we agreed. If she cannot come with us, I will leave. She can have the scarf; I’ll use the newspaper.”
“And go in looking like what? A destitute? Tia, please, behave yourself.” The woman is talking like she is just tired of Ms. Tia and her many troubles.
“I invited her,” Ms. Tia says. “It is unfair for her to use a newspaper to cover her hair when she didn’t ask to come here.”
“You will not go in there with a newspaper on your head,” the doctor mama say.
“No, I won’t,” Ms. Tia say, folding her hands across her chest and pushing out her top lip like a vexed, small child. “I am not moving an inch from here unless Adunni wears the scarf.”
The doctor mama whispers something in Yoruba. I know Ms. Tia is not understanding it, but the woman just asked if Ms. Tia is having brain problem, where the doctor find this kind of crazy Port Harcourt woman from the Abroad to marry.
I don’t want them to be fighting because of me, so I face the back seat. “I can take the newspaper,” I say. “I can even wear it like a dress if you want. Where is it?”
I give Ms. Tia a look, begging with my eyes for her to give me the paper.
Ms. Tia nods, picks up the newspaper from the seat, and gives me. I wrap the thing around my head, fold it here and there. It tears many times, but last, last, it resembles one kind mash-up cap.
“See? It looks very good,” I say
, giving them a wide smile with all my teeth.
The doctor mama hiss, open the car door, and climb out. “Meet me inside,” she say, slamming the door and walking away.
Me and Ms. Tia, we look at each other and burst into laughter.
* * *
The prophet of this Miracle Center is one short man with bowlegs like two letter Cs facing each other. It make him look like he is bouncing around instead of walking.
He has a sleeping eye, so even when he is awake, you will want to tap him to wake up. He is wearing a long red dress with a white belt around his stomach. A white cap with a slanting purple cross sits on his head, a small gold bell in his hand. When me and Ms. Tia enter the church, he bounces up, rings the bell, gran, gran, says to us, “Welcome to the zone. Sit down.”
The place is having about thirty wood benches, just like my classroom in Ikati. The doctor mama is sitting on the end of one bench, so me and Ms. Tia, we slide to that same bench. At the front of the church, behind the wooden altar with long brown cross in the middle of it, is a picture of one man. I think it is Jesus, but this Jesus looks hungry, with vex face too. He look a bit like Katie in the London too, with long brown hair.
Why is Jesus looking like somebody in the Abroad? Maybe Jesus is from the Abroad?
There is a sharp smell in the air, and my nose follows it to the three green mosquito coils on the floor, bringing out gray, waving smoke. There are red candles on the floor too, I count fifteen of it around the leg of the altar.
“Alafia,” the prophet says.
“He says peace to you,” I whisper to Ms. Tia. “‘Alafia’ means ‘peace’ in Yoruba.”
Ms. Tia says “Alafia” back to the prophet.
Me, I greet the man good afternoon.
“Alafia,” he says to me, and rings the bell one time.
The doctor mama, she begins to talk to prophet in smooth Yoruba. She says Ms. Tia marry her son and was not having a baby in over one whole year since the marriage. That she is tired of praying and shouting for a baby, and she thinks maybe Ms. Tia has one evil spirit that is swallowing the baby. That Ms. Tia bring the spirit when she was coming and the evil spirit needs chasing off to go back to the Abroad. She cut her eye to me when she says this because she knows I am understanding her.
Me, I keep my eyes on the prophet’s feet. He doesn’t have shoes on. Toenails look burned.
“So, you brought her for the powerful bath,” the prophet says in English. “This is the land of solution, amen? The land of miracle. Twenty-four-hour miracle.” He coughs. “Did she bring cloth to change into? Because she will throw away the cloth she came here with. She has come with a garment of sorrow and barrenness; she will return with a garment of twins. Amen?”
“Just one baby,” I whisper.
“Twins,” the doctor mama says, eyeing me. “Amen. Two boys.”
“I have a pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt in the boot,” Ms. Tia say.
“Good,” the prophet says. “Young woman, kneel here so I can pray for you first.”
Ms. Tia slides off the bench and kneels. Me and the doctor mama too, both of us we kneel. The prophet bounce to his feet, begins to go around Ms. Tia. He will go around one time, ring bell one time, his dress spreading up around him like the wings of an eagle. He will go around her two times, ring the bell two times. He does this like seven times, until he begins to look like he daze. I keep hearing the bell inside my head for like two minutes after he stopped ringing it.
When he begins to jump, up and down, clapping his two hands, saying, “Eli . . . jah . . . baby . . .” The doctor mama nods her head yes, yes, yes, and says: “Baby boys, baby boys.”
Ms. Tia peeps open one eye, looking like she is wanting to laugh, then close it back.
We stay like that on our knees, until the prophet man finish his bouncing and he says it is now time for the baby-making baff.
CHAPTER 45
Fact: Some of the richest pastors in the world live in Nigeria, with net worths reaching up to $150 million.
The prophet is bouncing in front of us, taking us through a path of red sand.
Green plants, full of thorns, with branches shaped like a hand with broken fingers, are sitting in clay flowerpots on each side of the path. Where the path ends, one woman, wearing the same dress as the prophet, meets us with a smile that looks like it is upside down. She reminds me of a housefly, this woman, with her lean body and arms which is full of hairs where her dark skin is showing, wide eyeballs that stretch a little to the side of her head, and the long, thin purple cloth around her body like slim wings. She is wearing the same cap as the prophet too, but her own looks like it is swelling. I peep a red wig under the cap, looking like something a car climbed over and crushed plenty times.
She kneels in front of the man. “Alafia.”
The man nods his head, puts his hand on her cap. “Peace to you too, Mother-in-Jerusalem.”
He turns to us. “This is Mother-in-Jerusalem Tinu,” he says. “She is the head of our female birth-makers. She is a powerful woman in the baby-making miracle ministry. You can call her Mother Tinu, she won’t mind. She will take our sister here with her to the river. Men are not allowed, so I will wait behind.”
Ms. Tia makes a noise like something pinched her. “Right now? Can we not, like, do this later? I just need time to think. To gather my thoughts.”
“Have you gone around her seven times with the bell?” Mother Tinu asks the prophet. “Because once that has happened, the bath must follow. No going back.” She smiles. “It will be quick.”
“Can Adunni still come with me?” Ms. Tia asks.
“Foolishness,” the doctor mama says. “Utter foolishness.”
“Adunni, you can come with us,” the Mother Tinu says. “You must keep your eyes closed throughout the ceremony. This is not a film cinema.”
“Yes, ma,” I say.
“Go,” the prophet say. “After the bath, meet me in the church to collect the special cream you will use to rub your body.”
“Cream too?” Ms. Tia says. “Well, how about a suite at the Ritz-Carlton and a limo ride back home? You said this was just a bath.”
“We can discuss this later,” the doctor mama says, talking with her teeth grinding together. “For now, please, just comply.”
“Follow me,” Mother Tinu says.
We follow her behind, turn left into another path. The red sand is wet under my feet, cold, with rocks pushing into my shoe.
We walk until we see a hole formed with brown rocks with a round opening for people to enter. There are voices in the air, plenty women singing afar off, a moaning song of no words, a song of sorrows.
Ms. Tia is holding my hand tight, her nails pinching my skin, nearly drawing blood.
“What the hell?” she whispers into my ears.
“This is not the hell,” I whisper back. “This is holy ground.” I like Ms. Tia, but sometimes, she can like to ask questions that don’t make sense.
“Those women are in the spirit, preparing for you,” the Mother Tinu says. “Beyond this cave lies the sacred river where your bath will take place. Did you bring clothes to change into?”
“I already told the man I had clothes in the car,” Ms. Tia says.
“I believe you have paid?” Mother Tinu slides her eyes from Ms. Tia to the doctor mama. “Because we have a strict policy here. No pay, no bath.”
“Pay?” Ms. Tia says. “We have to pay for this?”
“I have handled it,” the doctor mama says with a stiff voice.
“In that case, let us go,” Mother Tinu says. “When we finish the bath, Adunni, you will run to the car and bring the clothes.
“This way,” she says to Ms. Tia. “You need to bend your head to come in. It is full of rocks inside; we don’t want you to bang your head. You have come to seek solution, not headaches.” She lau
ghs by herself.
We bend our necks, walking like old people into the cave place. It is a small space, so we line up ourselves: Mother Tinu in front, me behind her, Ms. Tia behind me, and the doctor mama last. It is dark too, the ceiling low, with rocks deep into the roof of it. I bang my head on some rocks, bend myself lower, almost crawling, until we come out on the other side. Now we are facing a riverbed with tree branches hanging low as if worshipping the muddy floor in front of the river. The river is dark green, the water curling like a tongue around the gray rocks on the edge, licking the golden-brown leaves between the rocks. The place takes me back, back, to where I was watching the sky, the gray covering the orange as the sun hide itself and gave way to rain, to a time when Khadija was warring with God for her soul. It is dark here too, as if the rains are coming, only this time it is the leaves that have become a blanket over the sky.
There are four women kneeling in front of the river. They tie a white cloth around their chest, white scarf on their head, a string of cowry beads around their neck. They sway here and there on their knees as if the wind is rocking them, as if the dipping tree branches are whispering a soft, sad song into their ears.
“Ooo,” they keep saying, “ooo.”
“I don’t like this,” Ms. Tia whispers, gripping my hand even more now. “I don’t like this one bit.”
“I don’t like it too,” I say.
“Can we delay this for a bit?” she is still whispering into my ear, still pinching my flesh.
“Silence!” Mother Tinu shouts from our front, and Ms. Tia jumps.
“No whispering around the baby-makers,” Mother Tinu says. “Wait there. Don’t move one step further. I will get the holy cloth and holy brooms.”
As Mother Tinu is walking away, Ms. Tia says, “Brooms? What for?”
I never heard of anybody ever using brooms in Ikati to wash theirself. I know of sponge, and black soap. But not broom, and not in a church. The talk of broom is making me feel discomfort. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe we will sweep the floor first?”
