I remember one December when the family went to our paternal village to spend Christmas with my grandparents.
This was very long ago, when I was like around 7 years old.
It was just my mom, her children and the second wife who went to the village to spend Christmas. The other wives and their children either stayed at home or maybe went to their maternal villages.
I think it was only my mom and my second wife who frequently visited my dad's parents.
We all loved the village, especially because of my grandma. She pampered us so much. She never let us do anything, even the little house chores like sweeping and washing plates she didn't let us. She would wake up so early in the morning when everyone was still asleep and clean the entire house.
My mom would always tell her, “Mama, you don't know you are old? You are not supposed to do all these things. It's these children that are supposed to be doing them for you instead.”
And my grandma would reply to her, “my waist hasn't bent yet, I am not complaining.”
"You are spoiling these children too much,”
"Yes, let me spoil them. When you have your own grandchildren, you can do whatever you want, so leave my own for me.”
My mom would just laugh. Even sometimes when my mom tells her to leave it so my mom can do the work, she would never agree. It's only recently that old age weighed heavily on her, and she reduced all her activities.
So that time, there wasn't any borehole in the compound, so water was fetched from the outside tap in a compound just opposite ours. My grandma never let us fetch water; instead, there were two children—a grown boy who looked like a teenager, and I guess his sister, who looked almost my age.
They used to call my grandmother grandma like they were their child. She used to pay them to fetch the water when we weren't around and when we were. After they fetched water, she would then give them whatever food was available in the house. Sometimes she just gave them food stuffs like garri, plantain, and let them pluck fruit from the orange tree in our compound.
The boy used one huge gallon to fetch while the girl used one of the paint buckets to assist her brother.
One day, they were fetching water, and my brother and I were outside. My mother came from nowhere and just started insulting us, “That girl would be your mate, but you people cannot do anything. Lazy children, ordinary washing of plates is a problem for you people…”
“Mummy, what did we do now? We are not lazy, is it ordinary water we can't fetch?" My brother started feeling bad.
“Go and fetch, let me see," my mom laughed at us. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“In fact," my brother stood up and went to carry a gallon the same size as the boy's, and I followed him. I carried the second paint bucket.
When they came back for the second-to-last round, we followed them to the compound to fetch water.
The boy filled his gallon and mounted it on his shoulder, and looked so agile carrying it. My brother fetched his and, although it was a square gallon and much smaller than the boy's rectangular gallon, the girl immediately helped him put it on his shoulder. His posture and face changed immediately as the gallon almost took him to the ground. The girl helped him balance it before he went on, walking sideways to wherever the gallon pulled him.
The girl fetched her bucket and filled it to the brim.
She helped me put my bucket, and when it reached half, she looked at me and asked, “Can you carry this one?"
"Yes, let it be full?” I replied with confidence. I thought I was bigger than the girl and should be able to carry what she can.
My bucket was filled, so she helped me lift it to my head.
"Is it okay?” She asked, still holding the bucket on my head.
“Yes,”
Immediately, she removed her hand. I felt the total weight on my neck. It was as if my head was being pulled back and my neck was about to snap. It was then that I confirmed it was not as easy as it looked.
"Jesus!” I shouted as I let go of the bucket.
The bucket fell backwards and cracked as it hit the ground. Water splashed everywhere.
The girl controlled herself, but I could tell she wanted to laugh. Shame wanted to kill me at that moment.
When I reached the house with the broken bucket and my clothes were damp, my mom started laughing at me, “Every time, indomie, now you have turned into indomie.”
She did everything but scold me for the bucket; she knew it was partly her fault, and she was going to be in trouble if my grandma found out, so we all kept it on the low.
