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I GREW UP having these mixed feelings whenever I set my eyes on that portrait hanging on the far end of the wall in our living room, just close to the door that leads outside to our goats’ pen. They were feelings of disquietude and unexplainable attraction to the portrait. Mama calls it, ‘Indigo,’ and it was not long before I knew why.

As a young boy, whenever I stepped my feet inside our living room, my eyes darted up the wall, though instinctively(who knows?), landing on the Portrait of Indigo and getting glued there, as if some spell had been cast on me to indulge in that solo ritual.

One thing that baffled my infancy was the fact that the beautiful-but-sad-looking woman on the portrait looked at me even when I changed directions. Her eyes were just following my every step, frowning at my uneasiness. I didn’t and still do not understand this photo mystery or, should I say, photo magic.

Then, I noticed one thing that aroused my curiosity: Mama always avoided looking at the portrait!

When I was still tender, to answer my persistent, repetitive and boring questions on why Indigo always looked at me, Mama always said, merely pointing at the portrait and not looking at it, ‘‘Is it Indigo? She loves you, Nduka, my son.’’

As an adult, at nineteen years now, just a fortnight ago, when I asked Mama why she always avoids looking at that portrait, tears trailed down her ageing face.

I was perplexed. What could be making my mother cry? Was there anything she and Papa(before he died) had hidden from me all those years? Was there anything I needed to know?

Mama, then, dropped the bombshell: ‘‘Nduka, my son, Indigo was your mother.’’

My heart sank deep into its icy region and remained there: frozen! Speechless!

‘‘I am your grandmother, Indigo’s mother. Papa was your grandfather. I always avoid looking at that portrait because that sad look on your mother’s face was the same sad look she wore when she died.

‘‘Your mother died while giving birth to you. So, whenever I accidentally look at that portrait, it awakens renewed sorrow in me. Such a beautiful angel my daughter was, but she died with a heavy heart. And I and your Papa were the cause.’’

Mama paused, and tactically refused to look at my direction. Of course, I was looking at her in curiosity. Guilt is an executioner of the soul.

‘‘We did not allow your mother to marry your father, who was an artist. We thought that artists were wretched, and we didn’t want our daughter to marry a wretched man. Your mother loved your father so much that after our refusal, she changed: her countenance was melancholic, and she always talked to herself. We consulted medicine men, but their answers were the same: ‘Adanne(for that’s your mother’s real name) is suffering from forlornness. Allow her to marry the man she loves!’

‘‘We were stubborn. Our daughter mustn’t marry a wretched artist! We didn’t know that your mother had become pregnant. We were heartbroken. We became more heartbroken when she died while giving birth to you.’’

She cleared her throat, looked at me and continued: ‘‘Your mother was known as Indigo because she loved hibiscus flowers and colourful clothes. She adopted the name herself. At school, she was the best student academically, but her pre-marital pregnancy and her untimely death destroyed her future.’’

Mama looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘‘But you are the future I have now. You’re my hope. Your grandfather and I made a costly mistake by rejecting that good man, that promising, young man. It was your father who did that portrait.’’

I turned and glanced at the artwork, marvelling at its serenity, for the first time in my life. Maybe it was because I now know the truth.

‘‘It was your father’s gift to your mother one Vale— Vale—’’

I knew she wanted to say ‘Valentine Day,’ but she couldn’t remember the name, perhaps due to her disinterestedness in the event or her naivety in all it stands for.

‘‘Now, this portrait, the very gift from the man we rejected, is what keeps the memory of my daughter alive, for she didn’t take any photo during her lifetime, and even if she took any, we couldn’t find it.’’

‘‘What about my father?’’ I was looking at Mama. ‘‘Where is he?’’

Mama bent down her head, looking vacantly at the floor. ‘‘He’s dead, too. He died when he heard that your mother had died. He was really heartbroken.’’

My world seemed to have stopped momentarily. Overwhelming ennui and shock held me like a spell and refused to let go.

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