It was the first time that Chika lied to her mother and the rain was gentle on the zinc roof above their Surulere shop.
This was Tuesday evening. The kind that perfumes Lagos with a scent of roasted corn and traffic fumes and wet sand.
“Have they given you your salary?” “Was it a boy in the womb or was it not?” Mama asked as she was placing Peak milk tins on the shelf.
Chika took her office shoes off, and tried to smile. “Not yet.”
The liar came in stealthily and sat down between them.
Her mother slowly nodded her head. “Hmm. This country.”
Chika looked away.
In reality, it was even worse.
Three weeks ago she had invested nearly all her savings in an online business her colleague promised would “change her life” Femi. Crypto trading. Fast profits. Easy money. He had sent her screenshots of withdrawals, and smiling faces with dollar bills.
You are too careful, Chika!" he had joked at lunchtime. “If you keep on like this, you'll be boarding danfo at the age of forty.”
She didn't like the fact that he was correct.
She was only twenty-eight, and still was living with her mother and younger brother. Rent was rising. The cost of food was horrid. She would get on buses with tired people with a lot of people, who smell of sweat and frustration, every morning.
So she invested.
But the platform was gone in just four days.
Just like that.
No calls. No website. No money.
Ninety-five thousands, five hundred thousand naira lost.
Nearly 4 Years Of Economy.
Ever since then, sleep has been troublesome. At work she was engaged in typographical errors in reports. She didn't laugh at jokes anymore. Food was dry in her mouth as well.
But that wasn't the worst part, losing the money was.
It was her mother who talked about plans with hope.
One night while I was having garri and soup, Mama said, “We can now start to get our ceiling fixed before the rainy season gets serious. “Then, perhaps next year we'll consider opening another store.”
Chika was about to burst into tears in her bowl.
Since the money that Mama mentioned didn't exist anymore.
Each night it was as if there was a heavy bag of cement on her chest.
One Saturday afternoon, she was sitting outside the compound when her younger brother called out to her, Seyi.
“You've changed" he said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Chika made some sort of effort to make a joke. “Small stress.”
Seyi rested his back against the wall next to hers. “Has someone stolen your heart?”
She almost smiled.
“Well, “I wish it was that easy.”
He waited and she wouldn't say a word.
She was able to sleep that night no more. She continued to look at the ceiling fan which was whirling slowly above her bed.
Lastly, approximately 2 a.m., she went to her banking application.
Balance: ₦11,420.
Her throat tightened.
She covered her face and started to cry silently.
Not small tears.
The deep one that affects the shoulders.
The next morning it was Sunday. Mama insisted that they go to church together.
Chika attended the worship service and heard nothing. People danced. The choir sang out loud. But her mind was still stuck in numbers and in regrets, and someone called out “Hallelujah.”
When people were coming out of the service, their pastor walked up to her and greeted her.
Pastor Daniel Okorie beamed with a friendly smile. “Chika, you're very tired, are you?”
“I’m okay, sir.”
“No, you, you're holding something.”
Those words did break her right off the bat.
However, she still managed to smile. “Just work stress.”
The pastor nodded. "If you are able to, come and see me tomorrow evening."
She wasn't intending to go.
But on Monday, after work, she was sitting in his little office behind the auditorium of the church. The room was rather musty, with a slight air freshener odor.
She didn't say anything for a few minutes.
All the other guys were waiting, but not Pastor Daniel.
Then at once the words flowed out.
Everything.
The investment. The lies. The fear. The shame.
“I destroyed our future,” she whispered at the end. “My mother trusted me.”
The room was in silence.
She expected disappointment.
But the pastor softly asked, “Have you told her?”
Quickly, Chika shook her head. “She’ll be hurt.”
“Yes.”
“She’ll cry.”
“Maybe.”
“She may not have faith in me again.”
Pastor Daniel folded his hands. “Is this something that you are carrying on your own that is helping?”
This question remained unanswered.
Chika noticed that her fingers were trembling.
She knew how exhausted she was for the first time in weeks.
The pastor sighed quietly. “Loss doesn't kill anyone, it's silence that kills.”
Her eyes were filled once more.
When she arrived home that night NEPA had taken light. Mama was sitting outside with neighbours, fanning herself.
“Chika, before it's too late, you need to eat the rice.”
But Chika did not move from where he was standing by the gate.
“Mama…”
The older woman looked up at once when she heard something about her voice.
After twenty minutes they were sitting by themselves in the dark sitting room, between them being lit only by the light of rechargeable lamps.
And Chika confessed.
Every single thing.
First, Mama remained silent.
There was a hush that was oppressive.
Gradually her mother leaned back and pressed her hands to her face.
“Aiih, Chika…”
Her voice was disheartened.
“Apologies,” Chika stuttered time and again. “Ohhhh, sorry, mama.”
Her mother gazed at her for a good long time.
“During my father's life when he was deceased, I lost money as well,” she said quietly, “I thought my life was finished then.”
Chika squinted her eyes, stunned.
“Well, it wasn't the money that killed me,” Mama continued, “it was the shamefulness.”
Chika cried again as the tears rolled down her face.
“Well, I was frightened,” she said.
“I know.”
Mama stretched out to her, and took her hand.
There was little else going on in the room, apart from the generators outside roaring in the street.
Finally her mother said, "We'll start again."
Not angrily. Not dramatically.
Just simply.
For some reason, those three words helped Chika to release something from his chest.
For the first time in many weeks she took a full breath.
Traffic went outside, yelling into the night at Lagos.
The burden had finally begun to depart from the little room.
