Places become feelings and memories (I)

 

I should feel remorse for the disgrace I brought upon my mother and myself. Instead, my heart feels warm, grateful that I can keep this miracle.

“What's to be happy about?” Mum barked unexpectedly at me. My hands flew away from my belly, and I became aware of her intensely contemptible gaze at my three-month pregnancy. I’m her 19-year-old daughter.

MrAudu hurriedly swerved off the road, and Mother got down from the car, greatly annoyed. While mum worked off her anger outside, MrAudu watched me through the rearview mirror. His eyes held a kindness which made me distraught.

“Be good to Grandma,” He said casually and smiled. I could not return the smile. I would miss my unsuspecting course-mates at the University, but not as much as I would MrAudu.

Mother returned to the car a while later, and we continued our journey to Grandma's house. Grandma was outside a sturdy but unpainted house, waiting for us, and watched as MrAudu parked the car under the blooming fruit tree. I checked her expressionless face. She was supposed to be 75 but looked much younger and quite energetic enough to spank me if the need arose.

I watched my things get transferred to the front of the house. Never ready for what came next, I got out of the car onto the flower-covered sand without a fuss. I glided toward my Grandma, clad in a colourful Ankara. The other two watched the procession. I went down on my knees as though to say 'Please accept me.' Grandma instead hugged me tightly. Tears formed in my eyes, and I let them flow while inhaling the old-woman scent while more flower petals showered on us.

Grandma gently drew me up and wiped my eyes with the edge of her wrapper. It was not the most appropriate occasion, but everything screamed 'Welcome!' at me.

We entered the sitting room, and I became drawn to a picture of Grandma, late Grandpa, and my much younger mother hung on the wall. It reminded me of what my mother told me about my maternal grandfather. I was never to mention him because of his premature death in the Nigerian army.

At Grandma’s request, we all sat at a raffia mat to eat pounded yam and egusi soup. She wanted to relieve the moments her children lived in the house. I looked at our plates and found that my meat had additional premature chicken eggs. Grandma caught me looking around and smiled.

“How's the pounded yam?”

I smiled after swallowing one of the boiled miniature eggs. “I could eat it every day,” I replied honestly.