That weird but oddly sweet smell of rain filled the room. This time, I found it too pleasant to resist, maybe because it was mixed with the aroma of the palm oil stew cooking in the firewood stove outside.
It was just a day after Papa’s burial. The painted walls looked tired from wearing the same look. Or maybe they had been mourning too. I sat on the veranda, staring at the mango tree Papa planted the year I was born. That was what he told me. I will always remember the smirk on his face that day as he revealed
“This tree had seen everything. From your birthdays, to the quarrels and reconciliations with your brothers”.
But today, the tree stood still, as if it knew what was coming. As a family, we were all waiting for Chike, our eldest brother, to come out. It wasn’t long until Chike appeared from the house; he was still wearing his black kaftan.
He took a seat just beside me and cleared his throat, loud and heavy. Looking from one person to another, he spoke.
“As you all know, Papa is gone. And now that Papa’s gone,” he paused and gave the meanest look I’ve ever seen before, “we need to decide who takes over this house.”
I looked up. “Takes care, or takes over?”
He gave that look that elders use to remind you of your place in society.
“Ada, I’m the first son. When I talk, you listen,” he paused. “As tradition demands, it’s only right that I keep the house. You people have your own lives now. Go to your husband's houses.”
Amaka, my sister, who was sitting on a fallen branch of the tree, opened her mouth in surprise. “But brother Chike, there are over three buildings in this compound. You mean you’ll live here alone while we pretend like we don’t own a share here?”
But Chike didn’t budge. The more we argued, the harder his face became. Something in him wasn’t just stubborn. It was desperate.
We ended that night with so many regrettable words and enough unease. Just before I went to bed, I heard footsteps in Papa's room. I looked, and it was Chike. He couldn’t even wait till morning to take over Papa's room. I peeked long at him through the curtain. He stood by Papa’s drawer with a small lamp, his shoulders tense, his face with unexplainable worry. He kept rummaging through Papa's box, where old documents, papers of importance were kept. A box Papa never let anyone touch.
I watched as he pulled out a particular papa and froze for some seconds. Like he saw an old wound that was supposed to be hidden. I watched as his expression changed from worry to fear, then anger. He took a deep breath and dropped onto the bed. I quickly closed the curtain and retreated to my room.
The next morning, he acted normally. Too normal. Like he wasn’t worried about something last night in Papa's room. He just kept barking orders at my sister and me. He asked us to pack our bags and go back to the city. Back to our husband's house. When he spoke, I could tell how hard he was trying to hide his guilt. But in all this, I stood my ground. And with the help of my uncles, he didn’t succeed.
Three days later, the rain came again. Heavy, like it had intentions. The compound was flooded, and the roofs leaked, especially Papa's room that Chike had taken as his own. I remember how Papa had said several times he would fix it “next week.” Unfortunately, Chike wasn’t home that day.
Amaka and I rushed in with buckets. His clothes were soaked. His mattress was damp.
“Help me shift this,” I said, dragging his wooden box toward the wall. As it moved, something slipped out of a brown envelope, wet around the edges. I picked it up and stared at it . The writings were Papa's handwriting staring back at me. I could tell even in my sleep. My heart jumped.
In that piece of paper, Papa’s words were short and precise. Written the same way he spoke when he didn’t want room for argument.
“Nobody has a monopoly on this house. It belongs to all my children. No one is left out. Let peace remain here.”
My vision blurred. Not from the rain. From the betrayal. The betrayal by Chike. Now I knew why he was angry in the room the other day. Also, why he was so serious about us leaving the house for him the next day.
“Amaka,” I whispered to her as she was busy mopping the water in the room. She looked up, and I handed the letter to her to read. It wasn’t long before she gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth.
‘’Ah, Chike knew all this and still tried to send us out.’’
We didn’t confront him privately. No. We needed witnesses. Witnesses like our uncles and a few elders of the land.
It wasn’t long, and the rain stopped. Chike came back from work. We gathered our neighbors and witnesses. Everyone sat under the mango tree. I greeted them all before I stood up and stepped forward, holding the note in the air.
“Papa left something,” I said, loud enough for Chike to hear.
Chike froze. His shoulders stiffened. He sprang to his feet. I guess by now he knew it was the note that had Papa's instruction. “Ada,” he growled, “don’t start what you cannot finish.”
But I’d already opened the note and read it before the elders. Then I handed it over to them to read it for confirmation.
The compound went silent. Chike's face fell to the floor.
“Chike,” Uncle Ofor called, voice steady but filled with disappointment, “you know about this?”
Chike’s jaw tightened. “It’s fake.”
“Nah, it's not. I can easily recognize my brother, your Papa’s handwriting,” Uncle Ofor countered.
“He never wrote that!” Chike shouted. “These women are trying to cheat me! I’m the first—”
“Enough!” Uncle Ofor shuts him up. “You hid your father’s words. That is shameful. Why exactly? To get rid of your sisters?”
Chike’s face fell. Not softly. Like something broke inside him. He looked at the mango tree, then at us, and for a moment I thought he’d beg. Instead, he turned away and walked into Papa’s room. A minute later, he came out with a small bag and marched past us without looking back.
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That was the last time we saw Chike.
