SHE DIDN'T HAD A MOM TO RUN TO
1972 Words
Liana dropped one of her AirPods.
The other stayed in her ear. Music low. Just loud enough to drown the world, not loud enough to drown her thoughts.
Under it, the sewing machine hummed. Steady. Tired.
“Ehh Jessica, my mom gave me money to get that material we talked about yesterday,” Ella said. Her eyes were bright. Excited.
“Ohh, that’s nice. Your own good,” Hope called from the corner, threading her needle with her tongue sticking out a little.
“How much is the material? My dad said I should ask,” Hope added, not looking up.
“3 thousand for a yard. We need 4 yards for that style, so it’s 12,000,” Jessica replied.
“Your mummy gave you the money instantly?” Hope asked, eyebrows up like she couldn’t believe it.
“Yh na. I told her when I came home, so she gave me this morning.”
“Umm, if I need anything I have to tell my daddy like 3 to 4 days before,” Hope said, picking beads with her needle. “And he’ll still ask me 10 questions.”
Jessica laughed. “Yh , same here. If I tell my parents, ehh, they will first complain and complain, but still give me.”
The whole shop burst into laughter.
“African parents,” Ella said, shaking her head like it was a disease and a blessing.
The door jingled. A woman walked in with a little girl, maybe 7. Holding wrapper and lace.
“Good afternoon o. I wan sew birthday dress for my pikin,” the woman said.
Madam wasn’t around.
Liana stood up immediately. Wiped her hands on her apron.
“Yes ma, wetin you want make we do for her?” Her voice was soft. Professional.
She measured the girl.
“Turn small. Raise your hand. You wan make we put small stones for here?”
The girl giggled and nodded.
When they left, the woman pressed 2,000 into Liana’s hand.
“Thank you, my daughter. You get gentle hand.”
Liana smiled and put it in her purse. 4,200 became 6,200.
But it still wasn’t 12,000.
And the girl’s laughter reminded her of a house that used to be loud.
“What about you, Liana? When are you buying your own? Madam said she wants to see our material before Monday — that’s 5 days from now o,” Hope asked, leaning over the table.
Liana pulled out her AirPod and smiled. Small. Steady. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for questions.
“Yh, I’ll get mine soon.”
“Before my parents give me money, ehh, I had to work and help at home. If not, it’s ‘till further notice’ for me,” Hope added.
“But I love my mom. She’s the one that will persuade my dad. Anytime I need money, I tell her first, then she’ll show me how to ask him.”
Ella bent down like she was sharing a secret that could get them all in trouble.
“Ahhh!” Hope jumped up, acting out her mother’s face. Mouth tight. Eyes narrow.
“How much your daddy give you, Hope? Give me 5k, I’ll pay you tomorrow if Mama Kate pays me the money she’s oweing.”
“Na lie ooo, nor fall for that lie,” Jessica and Ella shouted in Pidgin, laughing till their eyes watered.
“That’s how all African mothers behave,” Jessica said, wiping her eyes.
The shop was light.
Burna Boy played low from someone’s speaker. Needles clicked. Laughter bounced off the walls.
Fabric everywhere — ankara, chiffon, lace in bright colors. The place felt full. Alive. Like a small party.
Liana was quiet.
Not because she didn’t want to join.
But because she had nothing to add.
Her heart felt heavy.
She remembered little or nothing about her mother.
Monday was in 5 days. She needed 12,000 for fabric.
She had 6,200 in her purse now. The rest she’d make.
No mom to run to.
No “let me show you how to ask dad.”
She put her AirPod back in. Turned the music up one notch.
The sewing machine hummed under it.
Jessica was still laughing, telling another story about her mom buying her lace at midnight.
_The shop was full of mothers, and she was full of missing._
_Monday was coming, and she was counting coins in silence._
_Laughter lived here. But her chapter had no pages for it._
She didn’t cry.
She just kept sewing.
---
_FLASHBACK_
Liana grew up with both parents, siblings, and their pet dog.
They slept together. Prayed together. Ate together. Fought and made up.
Her parents argued. Loud.
About how her mom handled the children.
About food.
About why she didn’t pick the children from school when her dad had an appointment.
But they always settled.
Her dad would bring home ice cream and cake. Her mom would shout, then laugh. Then they’d eat together on the floor.
Liana thought all houses were like that. Noise, then peace.
She remembered one Saturday. She was 10.
“Come, make I plait you,” her dad said, sitting behind her with a comb.
Two hours later, she had two crooked cornrows pointing different directions.
They looked in the mirror and burst out laughing.
“Abeg, next time we go salon,” she said.
“Next time I go try better,” he said, but he never did.
That night he bought ice cream and they ate it on the floor watching cartoons.
Noise, then peace.
Then one day when she was 9, the quarrel didn’t settle.
Her mom packed one bag.
“I want to explore life more.”
She said it like she was going to the market.
She didn’t take Liana.
She didn’t say goodbye.
She just left.
Hours grew to weeks. Weeks grew to months. Months grew to years.
Six years passed. Her mom didn’t come back.
It was like she was never there. No call. No letter. Like she disappeared from the face of the earth.
Her dad took any car that came to repair at his shop.
Now he had rent to pay, 5 school fees, fuel, groceries, and a house he was building.
But he still made time.
On Sundays after church: rice and chicken. Movies. Jokes.
Evening rides in the black Camry, telling stories about places he’d been.
At 12 she learned to cook rice and stew without burning it.
She learned to wash and iron uniforms.
She didn’t want her dad, already tired, to do what they could do.
Other girls had moms cook for them.
Liana’s food flask had food made with love by her dad.
He didn’t want them to feel distant. But she still felt the difference.
At school during open day, teacher would ask: _“Where is your mother?”_
Liana would say: _“She’s busy.”_
The house was too quiet without her mom’s voice.
Liana would press her face into her pillow and wish the noise would come back.
But her dad was there.
And he tried.
He became her dad and mom.
He learned to plait her hair badly — two crooked cornrows they pretended to love.
He learned to ask, _“Do you still have pads?”_ then looked away fast.
He learned to say _“No boy will talk to you until you finish school”_ with a straight face.
With him, life made sense again.
She ate 3 square meals. She had education. Clothes that fit. Clean. Pressed.
She didn’t feel her mother’s absence anymore.
Because her dad filled the space.
She thought the worst was over.
Then another six years passed. She was 15. SS3.
Her dad died.
He got sick. Just like that.
Morning he was arguing about plates.
Night he was gone.
That pain was different.
When her mom left, Liana wished she would come back.
When her dad died, Liana wished _she_ was dreaming.
She pinched her arm in the mortuary.
_“Wake up, Liana. This is not real.”_
But her voice didn’t echo. The room was cold.
She had no one to laugh with.
No one to yell _“Go and read your book.”_
She had to tell herself.
She stopped being a girl.
She became a plan: school fees, JAMB, transport, food.
Standing in front of tomatoes: _If I buy 1000 naira tomatoes, we’ll eat 2 days. But I need transport tomorrow._
No one to call “Mom” to.
When she was sick, she boiled herself water.
When she got her period, she figured it out alone.
That’s why she goes quiet when Ella says _“My mom gave me money this morning.”_
Because Liana doesn’t have a “mom story.”
She has a “before” and “after.”
_Before: her dad’s Toyota. After: bus fare and her own two feet._
_Before: someone asking “You've eat?” After: her asking herself._
_Before: she waited for her dad to do it. After: she had to do it because her dad wasn’t with her anymore._
She doesn’t hate her mom.
She doesn’t even remember her face well enough to hate her.
She just feels left out. Like everyone got a chapter she didn’t.
After he died “the house didn’t get quiet, it got absent.”
So she pulls her AirPods back in. Turns music up one notch. Sews.
Monday is in 5 days. 12,000 for material. 6,200 in her purse.
She’ll find the rest. She always does.
_She wishes she was dreaming. But the sewing machine is real. The 5 days are real. The money is real._
---
Liana got home after a long day. Feet aching. Shoulders heavy.
Quiet bath. No Zara talks. No laughter. Just water and thoughts.
She sat on the edge of her bed. Phone on her lap. Crossbody bag open.
6,200 naira in her hand. Notes. Folded.
She counted them again. And again.
As if numbers could change if she stared long enough.
Monday was 5 sleeps away.
Funny how time moved fast when you’re broke.
_Money don’t cry. But it makes you want to._
Her phone lit up.
_Leo: You’ve been quiet today… You’ve gotten the material?_
Simple. Thoughtful. No pressure.
He just… noticed.
Her chest tightened.
She typed. Deleted. Typed again.
_“Yh I’ll manage”_ — too proud.
_“Not yet, madam want to see it on Monday”_ — too honest.
_“Busy with work, I’ll figure it out”_ — too obvious.
She exhaled. Put the phone down. Picked it up.
_Liana: Still sorting it out. 5 days will be enough._
Sent.
Before her fingers could betray her.
3 dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
_Leo: 5 days is enough if you’re not doing this alone._
_Leo: You want me to send a contact of someone? He buys vintage button-down shirts at good quality, fair price._
Liana read it twice.
Her first thought: _What if he thinks I’m using him?_
Second thought: _What if I mess this up and lose even this?_
Third thought: _What if this is the way?_
No money offer. No pity. No “poor you.”
Just a contact. A way.
The air in her room felt warmer.
Not because he offered help.
Because he didn’t make her feel small for needing it.
_Leo: You’ve eaten yet?_
A small, secret smile pulled at her lips.
She replied. Then arranged the money again.
6,200. Four sleeps left.
She opened the contact. Thumb hovering.
_What if he isn’t interested?_
She tapped send.
_Liana: Good evening sir. I’m Liana and I sell good quality, affordable vintage tops if you’re interested?_
Back to Leo’s chat.
- Writer
