Chapter 10: Mama's Choice
1221 Words
Ada didn’t eat the chicken pie.
She left it on table 4B, next to Ifeanyi’s leather notebook. It was still warm when she walked out of the library. By the time she got to her hostel, it would be cold. Like everything else Okoro touched.
Her phone buzzed again. Not Samuel. Ifeanyi. She wasn’t ready to call him that yet.
Mama: Chima is home. Come to the shop now.
Ada’s blood went cold. Chima was supposed to be at Government Secondary School, Ngwa. If he was home by 5pm on a Wednesday, something was wrong.
She ran.
Mama’s stall was at the far end of Isi Gate market. Tomatoes, onions, dry fish, Maggi cubes. A blue tarpaulin for shade. A small stool where Dad used to sit and mark exam scripts after retirement.
The stool was still there. Empty.
Mama was there. Wrapper tied high on her chest. Face tired in that way only foodstuff sellers understood — tired from shouting at customers, from rain, from life.
And Chima was there. 14 years old. In his school uniform. Kneeling.
His left eye was swollen.
“What happened?” Ada’s voice shook.
Mama didn’t look up. She was counting ₦100 notes into a black nylon. Her hands were rough. Salt and pepper had eaten the fingerprints off them. “Ask your brother.”
Chima kept his head down. “I fought.”
“Who?”
“Senior Ebube. He said...” Chima swallowed. “He said Papa died because he was poor. That if Papa had money, he wouldn’t go to Okoro Mall that day.”
The world went quiet. Only the market noise “Buy my tomatoes o!”, okada horns, a preacher with a megaphone.
Ada knelt beside him. “So you hit him?”
“He first slap me.” Chima’s lip was busted. “I couldn’t... I couldn’t let him talk about Papa like that.”
Mama finally looked up. Her eyes were red, but dry. Mama didn’t cry. Not since the day they brought Dad home in a body bag from that mall. “They suspended him. One week. They said if I no pay ₦15,000 for damages by Monday, they will expel him.”
₦15,000.
Ada had ₦2,300 in her Access account. BIO 111 handout was ₦4,000. Gray’s Anatomy was ₦18,000 on loan from a senior.
And Desmond’s 150k had expired.
And Ifeanyi Okoro’s trust fund was unlimited.
“Mama,” Ada started. Her mouth was dry. “Someone offered to help.”
Mama went still. Like a goat that hears a dog. “Who?”
Ada couldn’t say it in the market. Not with customers passing. Not with Chima listening. “Can we... can we go home?”
Home was one room in Ngwa. Corrugated zinc. A mattress on the floor for Mama. A mat for Chima and Chidi. Ada’s corner had her books, her bucket, and Dad’s old radio.
Chidi was there when they got in. 12 years old. Washing his white socks in a basin. He looked up and grinned when he saw Ada. The grin died when he saw Chima’s face.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Chima muttered.
Mama bolted the door. Sat on the mattress. “Talk.”
So Ada did. She told her about Lisa. About Desmond. About the library. About Samuel.
About Ifeanyi Okoro.
The name landed in the room like a grenade.
Chidi stopped washing. Chima looked up, wincing.
Mama said nothing for a long time. Then: “Obinna Fidelis taught for 35 years. He marked WAEC. He wrote lesson notes by lantern. He died buying Choco Milo for his children in that useless mall.”
Her voice didn’t shake. It was worse than shaking. It was flat. Final.
“And now the son of the man who killed him wants to pay for your school?”
“Yes,” Ada whispered. “For me. For Chima. For Chidi. Mama... your arthritis drugs...”
“Don’t.” Mama raised a hand. “Don’t use my knees to sell your soul.”
Chima stood up. “But Mama, if we no pay, I go repeat JSS 3. I no fit”
“You will repeat!” Mama snapped. “You will repeat and you will be a man! Your father repeated Primary 6 because his own father died. He still became a teacher!”
Chidi started crying. Quiet. Into the basin.
Ada felt it then — the weight of 275. It got her into Medicine. But it didn’t get Chima out of suspension. It didn’t buy Chidi new socks. It didn’t fix Mama’s knees.
275 was useless without money.
And Ifeanyi had money. Okoro money.
“Mama,” Ada said. “What if... what if taking his money isn’t selling my soul? What if it’s making him pay? Dad died in their mall. Chima is home because we’re poor. Chidi is washing socks till his fingers bleed. If Ifeanyi pays... isn’t that justice?”
Mama looked at her. Really looked at her. For the first time since Dad died, Ada saw something break in her mother’s face.
“You want to know what your father said?” Mama’s voice was low. “The last morning. Before he went to that mall. He said, ‘Celina, if anything happens to me, don’t let my children bow for anyone. Even if they’re hungry. Especially if they’re hungry.’”
The radio in the corner was silent. Dad used to play Voice of Nigeria every morning.
Chima wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Papa didn’t know we’d be this hungry.”
That broke Mama. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it fast. Like it was shameful.
Ada reached into her bag. Pulled out her ABSU ID. _Obinna, Ada Fidelis. Dept of Medicine and Surgery. 100 Level.
She placed it on the mattress between them. Next to Mama’s black nylon of ₦100 notes.
“I scored 275, Mama. I beat cutoff by 25 marks. I’m here. But I can’t stay here if Chima gets expelled. I can’t stay if Chidi drops out. I can’t stay if you can’t walk to the market.”
She took a breath. “Ifeanyi said his father took Dad. He said the least he can do is make sure Dad’s daughter survives Medicine.”
The room was hot. Smelled like kerosene and Omo and poverty.
Mama picked up the ID. Turned it over in her hands. Traced Ada’s face with her thumb.
Then she said the one thing Ada never expected.
“Bring the boy here.”
Ada froze. “What?”
“If Ifeanyi Okoro wants to pay for his father’s sin,” Mama said, “then he will look me in the eye. In my house. On my mat. And tell me why I should take blood money for my children.”
She dropped the ID back on the mattress.
“Your father died on his feet, Ada. If we take this money, we take it standing up. Not begging. Not hiding. He will come here, and he will beg us.”
Chima and Chidi stared. Ada couldn’t breathe.
Mama wasn’t saying yes. She wasn’t saying no.
She was saying _bring me the son of the man who killed my husband.
- Writer
