Ma swore the day sister set foot outside the gates and into her new home in such an odd part of the ghettos where we lived, that she should never be called her mother again, and that the gods should curse anyone who did so with leprosy and after 7 days of torture, or death by lightening. I knew that she was serious. But I also knew that none of that would happen. So whenever I go to visit my sister in Sungela, I try to persuade her that Ma, our mother, wouldn’t hurt her. I still try to tell her that Papi is doing fine. Last week I even smuggled his birthday picture at four from late last year, to assure her that he is alive and well. She just stared at the picture deeply. And for a second I hoped it would juggle her memory. Then she burst into laughter and continued dancing. My heart grew heavy, but I tried not to cry in her presence.

********

“Ma! Ma! the Nkashi is look at me when I was come back home” Papi hurries to our mother, having barely removed his shoes.

“Eeh…is that my little sunshine?”

Only the sound of Papi make her glow with so much joy.

“Yes ma. Ma! The nkashi is look at me today” His tries to manage his fast drying breathe. “But I run away. I run fast from nkashi”

“Eh! You did!”, she cuddles him in her thick frame.

“Nkashi…?” I whisper loud enough for only Ma to hear. She quietly turns from Papi and looks at me, her eyes squinting with a slight suggestion of anger.

“Ma, I want food. I want moi-moi.”

Then she quickly turns back to answer her son. “Ah! my Papi want’s mummy to make him moi-moi. And mummy will do that. Go take off your clothes eh?” she continues in a jolly voice without glancing back at me.

Dinner was anything but quiet. Papi had a lot of stories to tell, as usual. Today, his teacher brought him out and presented him as the pupil of the week for the 3rd time this term.

“Ah! My Papi is a very brilliant boy”, ma said as she leaned over and blessed him with a peck on the forehead. She smiles so much so that it is as though her lips would tear through the sides and reach up to her ear lobes. At least Papi always has a way of making her feel a sense of achievement on the subject of motherhood, and of restoring youth and joy to her pseudo-morphed self. At only 39, she looks way past the years of a grand-parent. I often pity her. But I pity myself the most because I am often led to think I am the only normal person from this family. Pa is a run-away father, nomadic in matters of marital fidelity. Ma has faded in beauty and character due to a dead marriage and its consequences. Papi is under-aged and ignorant. And sister Nene is now an outcast. It is one thing to undergo a terrible fate, and another to be a spectator, unable to salvage anyone or anything from the mess. The latter being more terrible, was my portion in the sharing of roles. I feel I am normal because I have managed to suffer this incapacity and still remain psychologically sound.

While I try to focus on doing my assignment, I subconsciously recall my visit to Sungela today. I brighten up as the images of my cheerful sister flood my mind. How excited she was when she saw the wraps of ogi and bread that I bought for her. I knew she would like them, so I used my transport fare to get her the food. I couldn’t have been more satisfied, irrespective of the fact that I had to walk the whole way home.

Sister looked happier today compared to most other days. I tried talking her into coming back home, but she only stared back with a twist in her face, like I was spitting jargons. Then she jumped up and started to sing. She sings a lot. And she does it with fervor that is sourced from the depths of her heart, jumping suddenly and making gestures. I try not to be rude so I smile back and rock along to the chaotic melody, sometimes clapping just to encourage her. Whenever she notices my enthusiasm, on other days like this, she usually gathers more gusto into her performance. And since it is her only means of entertaining guests- of which I remain the only physical, and human one at the same time -she does it with such a rush of passion and excitement. Unlike most other nkashis, she doesn’t assault or scare people. She just minds her own business, singing and dancing and frisking around. I still don’t know how she sources for food. But I try to dismiss the idea of it being from the most ridiculous places.

The only thing I re-echoed back to myself as I walked back home were the words, “Papi is not dead. He didn’t die that day, He didn’t. Papi is not dead sister Nene, Papi is not dead….”

It was 4 years ago, on one cool Sunday evening when Pa came home late, drunk as usual....

Full story: https://akukom.com/sister-nene/

Source: www.akukom.com

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