CARELESS MOTHER

*CARELESS MOTHER* CHAPTER ONE Where Is Mama?* I am seven years old, but my hands already know how to do what grown-up hands do. I know how to light kerosene stove without burning my wrapper. I know how to lock our one room door with small stool so area boys no go enter. I know how to soak garri with cold water when there is no firewood, and I know how to lie to my teacher. "Aunty, my mama sick, that is why my uniform dirty," I would say. It was not true. My uniform was dirty because there was no soap. And my mama was not sick. My mama was fine. Too fine. We live in one room. One room that smells of my mama's strong perfume in the morning and stale soup at night. My name is Efe. Small Efe. My mama's name is Mama Efe too — big Efe. She is not a wicked woman. That is the painful part. If she was wicked, I could hate her well. But sometimes Mama would buy me buns and say "My fine baby" and kiss my head. Then she would forget me for three days. Mama was nineteen when she born me. She never lets me forget it. "Na you spoil my figure," she shouts when angry. "I for dey Lagos now dey do modelling. Na you I carry for back." I will just keep quiet. I learned silence makes her less angry. *That Thursday.* It rained. Our compound floor was full of mud. I came back from primary two, my white socks now brown, my plastic school bag torn. "Mama, they say make we bring 200 naira tomorrow for lesson," I whispered. Mama was not listening. She was bending in front of our cracked mirror, drawing her eyebrows. New gown dey for bed — short, red, shining. The kind women wear to club. "Mama..." "Ah! Efe, no dey disturb me! Don't you see I am going out? Tell your teacher your mama no get money. Or tell them Grandma will bring it." Grandma lives far in village. Grandma no get money too. I sat on the floor and removed my socks. My stomach was making noise. I never chop since yesterday lunch — one small portion of rice wey Mama Nkechi give me. Mama sprayed perfume. Whole room choked. "Uncle Jide dey wait. He get money, Efe. If I follow am well, he go buy you new bag. So pray for me." She was about to go. I held her wrapper. My voice small. "Mama, no go tonight. My body dey hot. I dey fear for night." Mama touched my forehead for one second. Just one second. "You no hot. You dey do like small pikin. Lock door. Don't open for anybody." She removed my hand from her wrapper like she was removing dirt. Door slammed. 7:32pm. I locked it. I dragged small stool put for back of door. NEPA took light for 8pm. Darkness swallowed the room. Only yellow light from street pole entered through window. My body was really hot now. Fever. My throat dry. I tried to boil water but my hands were shaking too much. Kettle fell. Hot water poured on my left foot. "AHH! MAMA!" I screamed. No mama. I crawled to the mat. I used my school uniform to cover myself because wrapper was wet with mud. I cried, but I made no sound. I learned that if I cry loud, neighbors go come gossip, and Mama go beat me tomorrow for disgracing her. By 10pm, fever was shaking me like wind dey shake leaf. Outside, children in other rooms were laughing with their parents. I could hear Mama Nkechi telling her own children, "Come and eat." I hugged my knees and whispered to the dark. "Mama... where are you?" For 1:47am, door banged. Loud. Drunk. Mama came in with a man. Loud music from man's phone. Smell of beer and smoke. "My room... na here," Mama slurred. The man saw me for floor. "Omo, na your pikin be this? Why she dey floor? She no well o." Mama glanced at me once. Once. "She dey sleep. Leave am. She dey pretend." My eyes were open. Burning. Tears don dry for my cheeks. My foot don get small blister from hot water. The man still dey look. "You for carry am go hospital..." Mama laughed, too loud. "You come to enjoy or to teach me mother work? I be mother since I be 19, I know wetin I dey do." The man kept quiet. I closed my eyes. I no sleep. I was listening to my own mother laughing in same room where I was burning with fever. That night I understood: my mother was not too young. My mother was just careless. Careless with my heart. Morning came. The man don go. Mama dey sleep for bed, makeup smudged, mouth open, snoring. I could not stand. My foot swollen. I crawled to door, opened am. Mama Nkechi saw me and shouted. "Jesus! Efe! Your body like fire!" Mama Nkechi carried me. For small chemist, the man gave me paracetamol and said, "This child get high fever." When we came back, Mama don wake, searching for her other heel. "Mama Nkechi, why you carry my pikin comot without telling me?" she shouted, tying her wrapper. Mama Nkechi, a woman wey no dey insult people, looked at Mama from head to toe and said the words wey go become name of this story. "Efe mother, you are a careless mother. You are beautiful but careless. This child will die one day and you will still be looking for your earring." Mama no cry. She hissed. "Abeg no teach me how to train my pikin. Na my pikin." But me, lying on Mama Nkechi wrapper, with wet towel on my head, I was not listening anymore. I was staring at ceiling, thinking small thought wey no seven-year-old suppose think: _Maybe if I die, Mama will finally stay at home.