The actual title for this is 'Nene is ill' (LOL, I got you ) and it was published first on http://www.escapedmydiary.com/2015/04/read-book-thursday-nene-is-ill.html

Enjoy!

Nene is like Dada and I. We never fall ill. When we do, all we need do is take some herbs, with tablets of paracetamol from the old bag Dada hangs in the kitchen. The bag has been hanging there for eternity, just above where we keep firewood. I grew up watching that bag get taller and taller, without knowing that every year on my birthday, Dada would hit a new nail on a higher spot on the wall and hang the bag on it, so I would not reach it and eat anything I find inside, as a child would do.

Nene is ill. She is lying on Dada’s mat close to the window which we only open when it gets too hot. That was the first suspicion I have as I enter the room: Nene is lying on Dada’s sacred mat. We call it ‘sacred’ because Dada said it was on that mat that he passed the night with Mama; and now that she is gone, it is on the same mat that he sees her in his dreams. He would kill anyone he catches lying there; even Mama’s spirit wouldn’t dare lie there if he was not with her. He only let us lie on his mat when we are sick.

Dada only cares when we were sick. Then, he would run around the bush behind our house, gathering leaves and roots; then, he would show up looking as dusty as the herbs he would hold in one hand, and a machete in the other. Then, he would head for the kitchen and light the stove with a pot on it, letting the leaves boil in water till the vapour tilted the lid, making water drip and almost quench the flame. Then, he would force you to drink while it is rather hot, so hot you might find black spots, like freckles, on your tongue the next morning if you looked in a mirror.
“Nene, are you well?” I ask her. I use the back of my palm to touch her neck. She is warm enough to boil Dada’s herbs.

“I don’t know, Bo,” She says, “Where is Dada?” Her voice is shaky, like it is when she pleads with Dada not to whip her with his belt. He does not care if her voice shakes or not anyways, because once the leather belt leaves his waist, it has to land on someone’s back and buttocks before it is pacified. My voice never shakes like that, when I beg him not to whip me. I don’t beg him really, because Dada shows no mercy when we make him angry.

“I don’t know where Dada is,” I say, “Have you taken medicine?”

“Dada went to bring some.”

I frown. “I hope it would not be bitter as the one I had the last time.”

Nene opens her eyes to look at me. They are yellow, and her black pupil against the yellow reminds me of a leopard’s black spots on its skin. She has no clothes on except for a wrapper knotted behind her neck. She closes her eyes again and appears to be in deep sleep.

“Should I fan you? Are you feeling hot?” I ask again. I am fanning her already, with old newspapers I collected from my friend who sells them. Nene does not reply. Perhaps she is enjoying the breeze I am making, I think.

Dada soon comes in. I hear his footsteps from afar. He limps on his right leg; I know it is him coming whenever I hear a step followed by a dragged foot. Another thing that makes me know Dada is always close is the jingle and jangle of his bunch of keys. Keys of different types and sizes, old, rusty and new, all in one bunch. Sometimes, even when I am far away from him, I fret each time I hear the sound from a bunch of keys. He seems to be everywhere, therefore.

He opens the curtain and pokes his head in first. He is quite tall.

“How is she?” He asks.

“Her body is hot,” I say in Ukwani.

“Is she sleeping?”

“I think,” I reply.

“Chai, Olisa, help us,” Dada says softly, as he does while he whispers to Olisa every morning. He would crouch beside the pear tree and pour large amounts of schnapps and sometimes, dry gin on its roots. He muttered prayers as he poured the libation. Whenever he prays, I peep from the room, and the only word I can read from his lips is ‘ekene’, ‘thanks’. I think he knows I peep whenever he prays in the morning, but he would never let Nene or I join him, because we are girls, and it is a taboo in these parts for a woman to commune with the ancestors.

“Bo, stay with her, ehn, let me boil this medicine now-now,” Dada says.

“Yes Dada.”

As he leaves the room, Nene opens her eyes and I give her a knowing look. She smiles broadly at me: my beautiful twin sister. The jovial one, the pretty one, the stubborn one and the only one I could call a sister, except Dada marries again.

We doubt he would ever marry again. Since our mother died as she birthed us on the same day the dictator Head of State died, he always told us he could never love again. It was funny, how everyone was happy the tyrant was dead, but his own happiness was cut short when the women who came to assist our mother give birth came outside and told him she didn’t make it.

“Get ready to drink bitter medicine,” I say to Nene. I saw the leaves Dada brought back, the really bitter one is among them.”

“If I cannot finish it, I hope you will help me to,” she croaks, “After all, you are my sister.”

“Ehn, but I’m not the sick one now.”

Silence. We hear Dada’s noise in the kitchen; a cacophony of pots and iron pails.

“Where did you sell today?” Nene asks.

“Abali Park, then I went into the market.”

“Ha, that means you sold everything now.”

“Ah, I sold everything even before I reached the Market. It was like everyone wanted to eat corn and pear today. I went there only to get newspapers from Sadiq.”

“Is that so? Is that newspaper boy now your yori-yori?” Nene asks, a mischievous smirk on her face.

“You’re sick and you’re talking about yori-yori. How are we even sure this fever is not a symptom of pregnancy,” I retort.

Nene laughs until she coughs violently and I have to thump her back severally before she stops.

“Stop making me laugh, Bo.”

Dada runs inside, with his kaftan billowing behind him. He must have heard her coughing. He looks at me, angry.

“I thought you said she was sleeping.”

Nene defends as usual. “I was, but I could not sleep. Then I started coughing.”

“Bo,” Dada scowls at me again, “Let your sister rest now.”

Nene has taken many a stroke of Dada’s belt because of my actions. She always defended me when I burnt the soup, or let it sour because I forgot to warm. Once, to save me from being caned, Nene had lied to the teachers in school that I broke my ankle and that was why I was late to school. I had played along for two days, until a girl in JS3 dragged my pen and bolted, and I chased her. When the teachers asked her, Nene said it was a miracle.

I laugh aloud as I remember the incident.

“This is exactly how people begin to run mad. Next thing, you will off your clothes,” says Nene.

I take a minute before I reply.

“Soon Dada will think I’m the one not minding myself. Any ways, I can’t wait to see you drink that bitter medicine.”

“I’m a strong girl, Bo. You know.”

“But I’ve seen you cry before, Nene,” I reply.

“Where?”

‘It’s when. When Ifeanyi said you should stop talking to him in class again.”

“So did I cry?”

“Yes, sweet sister. Your eyes became so red you skipped school for one term.”

“Liar,” Nene laughed.

“Don’t cough again oh.”

Soon Dada walks in with a big stainless cup in both hands. The steam rising from it, coupled with his kaftan makes me think of Nigerian ritual films. The room has gotten darker as well, but not dark enough to light the lantern. I shake Nene, “Your medicine is ready.”

She sits up and stretches her arms. Dada pulls a chair to himself near the mat with one hand and sits. “Don’t worry, it’s not bitter,” he quips.

Nene and I look at each other. We know what that means. It is not bitter, it is extra bitter. Nene frowns as she takes the cup from Dada. When we were younger, we would spill the content, but Dada grew wiser, so always had some more left in the pot. “Drink now,” I am sarcastic, “You are a strong girl, you know.”

“Will you stop that?” Dada chides. Nene and I titter.

She drinks it, finally- in two gulps. Her face contorts into a grimace as she swallows the final mouthful.

“Good girl,” Dada says, “You are growing up really fast. Now you are a strong girl!”

“I told you Nene is now strong, Dada,” I grin widely.

It is now dark and I make my way to the extreme of the room where we keep the lantern. Dada says I should not bother, because the room is rather hot. Soon he leaves the room. We know he is going to buy us oranges and roast meat. He does that when we are sick. Nene is quiet now, maybe asleep. Perhaps in the medicine there was also a leaf to help her sleep? I crouch towards her in the darkness to feel her temperature again.

“Stop touching me,” she says.

“If I beat you, you will sleep now-now.”

We laugh together. Nene stops just before she almost begins to cough again.

Silence.

Soon, she says again, “Bo?”

I answered.

“Just in case I don’t wake up tomorrow morning, please when you want to carry me for burial, don’t touch my rib-side. It tickles me sometimes and I might start laughing. I don’t want everyone running away at my funeral.”

“Okay, Nene.”

It was now I understand the joke. We laugh until we hear Dada’s limping gait outside. Suya for dinner! Maybe we should fall ill more often. Nene catches my eyes and smiles, she’s thinking what I’m thinking.

http://www.escapedmydiary.com/2015/04/read-book-thursday-nene-is-ill.html