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Sitting at the dinner table, I suddenly understood what home really meant to me. It was the eve of father's remembrance and as usual, mother had lit the candles on the dining table and the windows. The rooms were dark with the candlelight illuminating various corners and casting dreary shadows of people and objects. A cool evening breeze kept blowing in through the open windows and one could see the full moon from afar, looking like the painting of a talented artist. But the night was far from happy. My mother sat in the living room with my brother, speaking in hushed tones to those who came in and went out of the house. As I sat there watching, I reminisced. The table was set for dinner, but no one sat except me. Ever since father died, everything had changed. Home no longer felt like home. There were no more silly dances around the kitchen table, no more late night games, no unplanned trips nor the sound of spontaneous laughter. Everything was bare, gloomy, forced. Just then, the meaning of home came to me from the wind: home was not a place but a people, it said. I paused to listen for more but heard my name almost immediately.
“Angie!” It was my mother, calling from the living room.
My head bopped up. “Yes mummy,” I responded.
“Please get my reading glasses from the dressing table.’
Her voice sounded urgent. So I squinted in the dark to have a clear view and observed that three men were standing in the living room, wearing dark clothes.
“Hurry!” she snapped. I scurried out of my seat and went up the stairs to her room. When I returned with the glasses, I observed she was holding a piece of paper and the lights in the living room had been turned on.
“A search warrant?” She yelled. It was the first time I'd heard her voice for almost a week now. It's almost as if whenever it was close to my father's remembrance she became withdrawn. “Why?” She asked, her voice still raised.
“The investigation into your husband's death has been reopened Mrs. Williams,” the policeman in front of her began. “And an autopsy has been performed which _”
“An autopsy? Who authorized it?” My mom interrupted, looking more perplexed than before. “Who authorized my dead husband's_” she stopped, and bit down on her lower lip. She seemed to be holding back her tears at the mention of the words “dead husband”. My elder brother stepped in and took the paper from her.
“Hello officers, please who ordered the reopening of the investigation?” He asked in a calm voice. I edged closer and took my mother's hand. I could feel her shaking uncontrollably.
“Your uncle, Mr. Zeke Williams.”
“But how? And why?” he asked.
“Well, I'm sorry, Mrs Williams,” the officer said, looking at my mom. “That's something you'll have to discuss with your husband's brother. Right now, we have a search warrant to search this house for any incriminating evidence. Your husband's autopsy showed he was poisoned and strangled to death.” I could feel my mother's body cringe. As they moved in to search the house, she dropped to the floor silently, her chest heaving heavily as if she was about to convulse. I sat beside her, holding her and hoping she would be okay, while feeling completely lost myself. Poisoning? Strangling? It was as if all the wounds that had managed to heal in the past two years had been reopened afresh.
Shortly after, we heard them yell “Move!” from the staircase; I stood up immediately. “Officers, I'm innocent,” we heard someone pleading. It was my brother's voice. Alarmed, my mother stood up and rushed to the foot of the stairs. I followed her. “What is it officers? Why are you taking my son?” She questioned. He was handcuffed and coming down the stairs with the police officers behind him. She didn't get any answer. “Officers, I'm innocent; this must be a setup.” my brother argued. There was shock and terror written all over his face. “I didn't do it, mummy, I swear,” he said, looking at my mother. My mother ran and held him at the foot of the stairs, and shoved him behind her back. “You're not taking my son anywhere!” She cried, shaking her head vehemently as if ready to fight the officers. I moved closer and stood beside her shielding my brother too. “You’re not taking my brother anywhere,” I echoed.
The officer in charge held up a Ziploc bag filled with a white substance. “This was found in your son's room, and it looks like the exact poison that was found in your husband's body.
“Lie!” My mom exploded. “My son can never do that! This is a setup between you and that foolish brother-in-law of mine; I know it! It's been two years since my husband died and you're coming to do a search now? You can't take my son!” She was shouting at the top of her voice; I held onto her arm, blocking all access to my brother. “You can't take my brother,” I kept saying while tears trickled down my cheeks. But the policemen seemed to be hearing nothing, they pushed us aside and dragged him out into their van, and off they went, amidst all the shouting and yelling and pleading. It took another ten years before my brother walked free again.
That night, as I sat on the floor of my mother's room, holding her while she wailed and called out to her dead husband to save their son, the meaning of home came to me again. Home was not a place but a people. A people you went through life with; and life didn't always feel good. Right there and then, I swore to fight to the death if that was what it took to keep my home together.
