Something felt odd. I could feel it immediately when I walked into the compound that evening. It was too odd. It's too odd to be where I usually come home to.
On the clotheslines was Mama Chinedu's clothes still hanging on the clothesline. It had been there since yesterday night and this morning while I was leaving for work. I felt she intentionally left it there to dry again since the morning dew had touched it. But this time I came back to it wet and still on the clothesline. It must have been beaten by the heavy rain that fell earlier. That was so unlike her.
To worsen it all, there was no sound of pounding or pots clattering from Mama Chinedu’s kitchen. As it was exactly the time she made dinner. In fact, there were no cheerful welcome greetings for me from her floating in the air as I walked in. Her bright voice would've called out to me from her kitchen window. But today, the windows were shut. The curtains are drawn.
I knocked gently on her door and called out, “Mama Chinedu! Mama!”
But there was no answer.
I shrugged my shoulders and peeped through the window. It felt like no one was home. Not even Chinedu, or at least a light build, was in sight. Everywhere was dark.
I felt it was strange at first, but then again, she was human, and her life didn't revolve in the kitchen alone.
I brushed off the thought of something being wrong and walked to my apartment. I needed to get the Lagos smell and sweat off my body with a clean, hot bath. I made myself believe that Mama Chinedu had gone out. Or resting and didn’t want to be disturbed.
But when the clock passed 8 p.m. and still, no sound came from her apartment, I felt a pinch in my chest to check up on her again. I went to my kitchen window again and peeped into her kitchen window.
No light still. And no movement.
That was when I knew something was not right. I quickly grabbed my phone and called her line. It rang severally but no answer. I tried calling her husband but remembered he was out of town. I didn't have any phone number of any of her other kids and Chinedu was too small to own a phone. I didn't know who to reach out to.
I was getting worried. Pacing up and down my apartment. Different thoughts crossed my mind but I tried to be positive. After several attempts to reach her on the phone. I slipped my legs into my flip-flops, crossed over my balcony to Mama Chinedu's apartment, and knocked on her door again. Gently at first. Then harder and harder.
I gave up and was about to go back to my apartment when I felt a pinch within me to try Mama Chinedu's number while at her door. It rang again. This time I could hear her phone ring from inside.
“Mama Chinedu? It’s me, Zerah.” I yelled.
A long pause. But no reply.
I tried the door and it was open. By this time more crazy thoughts filled my mind. I couldn't fight them again. I could hear my breath rising.
With enough courage, I pushed the door open and stepped foot into her apartment. "I'm coming in!" I yelled as if I was seeking permission before entering. And also a chance for her to adjust herself if she wasn't in a decent position.
But yet no reply. I switched on my phone touch and walked gently into her kitchen. Now I could hear silent sobs in one corner of the kitchen. I reached for the light bulb and switched it on. What I saw stopped me in my tracks.
There, in the extreme corner of Mama Chinedu's kitchen, was Mama Chinedu cuddled up like a baby on the floor, crying over old photographs. Some in frames, some loose and fading scattered on the floor around her. One was a picture of a young woman in a graduation gown. And another, was a picture of the same young woman still in a pretty yellow dress, laughing heartily with Mama Chinedu.
That was when it hit me. They were pictures of Chisom. Mama Chinedu's late daughter.
“Ma'am…” I called softly, sitting close to her and cuddling her close.
She didn't look at me but I could see that her eyes were red from crying and far away, lost in the past. Her bright wrapper was loosely tied around her. The scarf on her head had slid sideways. She looked smaller in the frame, somehow.
For a long while, neither of us spoke. We just lay down there as I rocked her gently. Listening to the sound of the old wall clock ticking in her kitchen and her silent sobs. Honestly, I didn't know the exact word to begin with. But I surely felt her pain. It was louder than words.
Suddenly, she jolted to her feet. Looked at me with so much pain and spoke in a low and heavy voice.
“It's been four years, Zerah. Four years since I lost my Chisom.” she cried.
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My words failed to come. It was heartbreaking seeing Mama Chinedu, the strong woman I've always known in a vulnerable state. I was bad at consoling the broken.
“I should have booked a flight. But she insisted on seeing the countryside.” Mama Chinedu continued, her fingers tracing a photo. “She said, ‘Mama, don’t worry. I will call you when I get there.’ But the call never came. They said... accident on the highway” Her voice cracked. The tears flowed, freely. Her shoulders began to shake. I reached out and held her hand. It was cold from lying on the floor.
I had heard the story before. But hearing it again now, with her sitting like this, felt different.
"It's okay. Ma'am. I'm sure she's in a better place." I finally said something.
“This. Here." She pointed to the house. "Is a better place. I pretend to be strong but I'm tired of pretending, Zerah." She wiped her nose with the back of her wrapper. Trust me it was something I've never seen before. To me, and to everyone, she was a rock. Always laughing, always giving.
But today, she was just a mother, broken and in grief. A mother whose pain filled the room. I could feel my own tears rising. I quickly wiped it off and gently pulled her into a hug. Then she held onto me tightly, crying. I never knew how much pain she was hoarding inside.
"Chinedu doesn't need to see you this way Ma'am," I said.
She smiled. "I know. I sent him to his uncle's place for the weekend. I can't let my boy see me this way. I know."
I grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. "It's fine ma'am. You don't always have to be strong."
I squeezed her hand tighter. “It’s okay, Mama. You don’t always have to be strong.”
And for a few more minutes, we sat like that.
After a while, I didn't hear her cries anymore. I could hear her snore, silently and peacefully.
I smiled through my tears. And made a promise to be that daughter she wished she had. I made sure she was fat asleep. Then I put her head down quietly. I helped her pack the old photos carefully into a box and went into her room to grab a duvet. I drew back the curtains in her kitchen to let the moonlight in.
Then, I slept close to her on the floor that night.
Can pigs fly? I honestly don't know. But seeing Mama Chinedu in such vulnerability that night, it sure felt like they could.
