Dr. Davidson urged us to write about an embarrassing moment with a parent. I followed that prompt, and came up with what might be my piece for workshop.
"Meeting Mom"
Dad told me she would arrive today. She is my mother. That’s what he said. Why is she not like the other mother? Why have I never seen my mommy till now? Why did she leave me?
Dad is smiling, fixing, cleaning, like a butler eagerly awaiting his master. He always talks about them - the others, my siblings, and his older children. Unlike him, I don’t pace back and forth. I hide behind the old red couch in the left corner of the living room, staring at the TV. I crawl into the space between the back of the chair and the window in with my knees pressing into my chest, and my hands tucked underneath my thighs.
Hunched over, in the crevice, I pray: “Father God, please forgive me for being afraid to meet my mother, I mean, my mommy.”
She is a wicked woman! Absolutely dreadful, worse than the characters from the late night movies, the ones after the NTA news, that daddy never lets me watch. She killed many people in a short two hours. All I could think was: “I hope she dies.” A slow death, not like in Tom and Jerry, but a real, prolonged death. I wish she could go to that hell place Pastor Monday and my Bible school teacher warn us about. I hate her even though daddy says I should love everyone like Jesus. How can I love her when she has ruined so many lives? I no be Jesus oh!
The only images I have of my mom are from a movie she never auditioned for, and doesn’t get royalty checks for. The woman I do know, my mother’s surrogate, is also referred to as Mama IK, because her first son was named IK, like my dad’s oldest son with my mom. So I filled the empty space in my skull, the one where other kids put happy memories of mommy, with the images of the fictional Mama IK, a witch.
Thoughts raced through my mind, quicker than Okada bikes on New Benin’s dirt road, with no traffic lights to stop them. I cradled myself there, in the makeshift womb behind the couch.
She walked in with two small figures huddled behind her, almost as scared I was for this awkward family reunion.
“Where is my baby?” she asked, glancing at my father with mistrust, or fear.
“He’s over there hiding” he said, pointing over to the shabby red couch, with mistrust and pity, for me, in his tone and pupils.
“Is he scared of me?”
“Yes, but what do you expect after more than six years?”
She, we, could hear the condescending indict in his voice. I thought she would snap back; maybe reach out and rip out his tongue like Mama IK did on television.
“Why is he afraid of me?” she asked looking at my dad, not expecting sympathy from him. “Didn’t you tell him who I am?”
“Yes, Iyen, I did! But, he thinks you are crazy lady from the movies. Ugh… what’s her name? Mama IK.”
“Osayame,” my dad called out, “come here. Your mommy is here with your brother and sister, Osas and IK. Remember them? Come on, don’t be shy.” His suggestion that I not “be shy” did nothing to stop the lining from peeling in my tummy, and the big drumbeats in my noggin that needed Panadol. Bur, he knew that. Why do old people say things they know are useless? Do they hope that this time will God will perform a miracle, maybe crack open another can of Red Sea? Maybe if they hold their arms akimbo a little longer. They think God is testing them like he did job.
Saying “brother and sister” was unnecessary, because I already knew them. Ikpomnwosa was the boy clinging to his, my, mother’s dress. He is my older brother, five years my senior. I could tell that he was much more attractive than me. His head was square-shaped, not like my oblong bean, but refined like daddy’s. His complexion was light, like mother’s. Definitely not fair, like Tani, but lighter than mine. And of course, he was taller. Staring at him made the drum beat in my medulla slow down a tad. Peering at his face reminded me that IK in the movies was not the same one here, and that his mother was not a witch come to hurt me and daddy.
As I dropped my gaze from my brother my eyes moved to the girl still bunched at mother’s left side. While turning my neck, I caught a glance of my mother’s calves, built like that of an athlete from those Roman sculptures. She wore leather shoes with silver buckles, like the black pair I wear to school.
The girl, Osarumwense, or Ethel, as she would later have me call her, clung, tighter than her brother, to the blue skirt suit dress mother wore. She was older than me by two or three years. She looked like my father, or mother, it was hard to tell since they are still standing by the front door with the broken light bulb.
Nevertheless, I knew she was beautiful, and that I loved her. Her skin was similar to my own; dark ivory, not charcoal, but a tone that reflected the light perfectly, and clung to each ray. Her hair was braided with pigtails at the end, and pink hair clips on each tail. She wore a white dress with blue and red flowers, or dots, painted on in no particular order – none that I could see, even though I’m good at puzzle games.
After surveying the children, I finally got the courage to rise from my hiding spot, leave the womb, and look at my mommy. I could see now why they clung to her.
She was well built, not one of those skinny types. She wasn’t very tall, but had a sturdy dignified posture. Her dress suit clung to her hips. It was must have been made for her, or altered by a tailor friend. Her face looked like mine, not happy, but not sad, just focused. She was focused on me.
Her eyes dug into my skin, checking every detail, like I always do when I get a toy back from my cousins. When I looked at her (not in the eyes, because daddy and granny say that’s disrespectful) I didn’t know if I loved her like I loved the girl, but I knew I didn’t hate her like Mama IK.
