THE BOY THAT DAYS CHANGED WITH

My name is Adekunle Sule. I became the man of the house the day my mother died. My father, Olusegun Sule, was still alive, but he was still in the parlor drinking when we buried her. It was a cold morning in Bariga. The kind of cold that comes after rain has washed the gutter and left the whole street smelling of damp earth and smoke. I remember that morning like it was tattooed inside my head. Anjolaoluwa Sule, my mother, sat down in front of our house veranda, cooking and singing. That was her way. Even when there was little in the pot, she would sing. Her wrapper was tied loosely, her face already tired even though the day had just started. She had been coughing for weeks, but she never told anyone how serious the sharp pain in her chest had become. Omowunmi Sule, my younger sister, who is 6 years old and in Primary 4, came out humming to her mother's song. Wunmi is small but she has the voice of an adult when she sings. She loves food more than anything, and she loves our mother more than food. "Ohhh mummy, the aroma of your stew brought me out of my room. I can see what the Lord is doing here," Wunmi said, dancing near the pot. My mother laughed. That laugh is the last one I can remember clearly. "My daughter Omowunmi, how are you?" Anjola replied. "Mummy, I'm fine. Today I'm up and hungry, but I'm coming. I want to go and call my brother," Wunmi said and ran towards my room. That brother is me. Adekunle Sule. I was inside my small room that morning, trying to arrange my books. I had not slept well. The night before, my father had come home late again, shouting and banging the door. I was 18 but I felt like 40 inside. I was tired of being the one who would beg my father to stop shouting. I was tired of being the one who would hold my mother when she cried quietly at night. Light fades out from the veranda to my room. Wunmi started knocking loudly on my door. "Dekunle, come and look for my clothes. Open the door for me." I opened the door angrily. "What is it? Why are you disturbing me this early morning? Wunmi, you never let person rest." Wunmi did something that shocked me that day. One second she was shouting back at me, the next second she started crying loudly, with big tears, so that mother would hear. She is a small drama queen. I looked at her face and I could not stay angry. I carried her on my shoulder and we went to her room. She laughed immediately. She won again. For a few minutes, the house was peaceful. My mother was singing, Wunmi was laughing, and I thought maybe today would be a good day. Then we heard him. Olusegun Sule, the father and husband, was inside the parlor listening to his "Osupa" Fuji song and drinking his glass of beer. It was 8am and he was already drinking. "Mo ma jaye ori mi Aremu," he spoke in Yoruba, his voice already slurred. "Where is this boy! Adekunle!!! Come out here and buy opa eyin from Iya Bilikis shop! Iya Dekunle, you too, where are you? Well, I'm hungry by the way." Let me tell you about my father. Olusegun Sule is in his late 30's. He has his Masters degree. He has all his certificates framed on the wall inside, covered with dust now. He was once the pride of his family in Ilesha. He was once a man who wore clean shirts to work and came back with bread for us. But something broke him. I don't know if it was losing his job three years ago, or if it was debt, or if it was shame. What I know is that the man who was my father left us long before my mother died. What remained was a man who drank from morning till night and looked for who to blame. The family of Mr. and Mrs. Sule. We have only two children, which are me, Adekunle Sule, and Omowunmi Sule. My mother gave everything for us. She did small petty trading, she borrowed, she begged, just to keep us in school. My father gave nothing. Back to that morning. "Mmm, Adekunle, come and give me food!" My father shouted from inside. My mother stood up slowly from the fire. Her hand was on her chest. I saw it, but I thought it was just her normal chest pain. "Good morning, Baba Dekunle! Please don't be annoyed, the food is not yet ready. I'm feeling a very sharp pain in my chest," my mother said softly. Baba Dekunle shouted, "What rubbish is this? Is it that you're just sitting there and looking at the pot? Can't you do something very fast? You're just so lazy. I don't even know why I married you in the first place. Where's the bastard child that you call Dekunle?" I heard the word bastard from inside my room and my blood boiled. My mother replied with a strength I had never heard before, "Please, I'm not going to watch you call my son a bastard, after all we have been through." "Emi eremu, I can never give birth to such thing," my father said. I could not take it again. My mother called me, "Adekunle!!!" I came out. "Yes, mummy." "Where have you been? Your father has been looking for you." I answered sluggishly, "I'm busy with Wunmi." I was looking directly at my father. Olusegun stood up from his chair, smelling of beer. "So it has become me talking or sending you on errand and you're asking 'WHY?'" And I answered, with all the anger of 18 years inside me, "Are you even worth answering?" Silence fell for one second in the whole compound. Then Olusegun slapped me. Hard. The sound echoed. I did not cry. I shouted back. The two of us started shouting. Wunmi started crying inside her room. My mother came between us. "Stop it! Both of you stop it! In front of this child!" When Olusegun wanted to hit me again, he swung his hand. I moved. His hand hit Anjola instead. My mother. She collapsed. It was not a slow collapse. She just fell like a bag of garri, right there beside the pot of stew she was cooking. The pot tipped a little, stew spilling on the veranda floor. The world stopped. Olusegun was still shouting, but his voice sounded far away. "See what you caused... you..." I was already on the floor, carrying my mother. "Mummy! Mummy! Anjola!" Her eyes were open but she was not blinking. Her hand was still on her chest. That sharp pain she complained about that morning was not ordinary pain. Wunmi came out and asked, "Brother Dekunle, what is wrong with mummy? Why is she sleeping on the floor?" I looked at my small sister and I lied for the first time to protect her. "She's sleeping, Wunmi. Go back to your room. Please go back." I carried Wunmi and locked her inside her room. Then I carried my mother on my back. I ran. I ran barefoot on the streets of Bariga to the small clinic at the junction. People were looking at me, but I did not stop. At the clinic, the nurse checked her and shook her head. "She is gone. Probably heart attack. The chest pain... you should have brought her earlier." Will she wake up? I kept asking the nurse, "Will she wake up?" What happened? Did I kill my mother with my hands? If I had not answered my father back, would he have hit her? Would she still be alive? I will not forgive myself and that monster of a father. That was the day I became the man of the house. I knew she was not coming back, but that night, I needed Wunmi to sleep. I told her mummy traveled to Ilesha. And I sat outside the veranda, beside the cold pot of stew, and cried like a child, even though I was now the man of the house.