Even with her semi-skilled education or almost to equivalence of nothing, my mother was never that educated like my neighbor’s mother, the girl that I shared the same class with and a wooden bench in a desolated government school. What I know for sure is that, she was, and still is a smart woman. Before she enrolled into motherhood and started raising us single-handed, she managed to train herself on how to sew in a nearby vocational school. After she perfected it, she started commercializing the required items; which later bled her more money to enroll for a clerical course. On top of this list, too earned her a good PR to work in a big white man’s office.
Her duties, first, were to work as a tea vendor to the boss and some “VIP” clients and later promoted to the reception where she did secretarial work.
After five years or so, she got another well paying job with a Jalaba tycoon (the supposed to be our loving father), at the request of her white boss on a better paycheck. Mother, though she loved (and still loves) money like any other human being, was not okay with the idea work with him. But she had no choice. What she wanted was to secure some financial securities. Of course, not just the business of giving and taking but a secure job that will cater for her needs and that of her ageing grandmother abandoned by her other well of kids. After all, she was being tormented in her residency and the only thing that could eradicates that was money, plenty of money to make sure that she compensates the lost valuables. Sharing of knickers was a common practice in her residency; shoes were never worn for more than a month without going missing and, it was a taboo to keep money in the house. The safest place she and other girls could keep their money was their braces. It doesn’t matter which currency it was or which denomination.
“Eunice, I know you’re great friend to Mr. Abdullah, right?” he asks with his German accent that she always struggle to get.
“Yes,” she replied holding bunch of files unto her chest.
After all, it’s the money and oxygen that makes man livelong. “I want to work with him,” she said as she makes eases to her desk.
“I know that the two of you are in love, too. But should you feel irritated by the working environment, please do not shoulder it; my office is always open for you. I will welcome you back like a prodigal son.” He said. And of course, my mother was and still not the woman whose the word called regret has ever existed in her living dictionary.
Eunice, my own mother, went to work with Abdullah. It took a few years for things to taking a point of no return. My mother, after all, wasn’t going to be neither the first wife nor the last wife of Mr. Abdullah. On top of that, she [mother] was forced to abandon everything she had: her Christian name as Eunice and her religion (the mighty Christianity). She complied for a few years, too, taking the name of Fatma Gori. When my little brother, Young and I were born, she gave us her Bari name and later parlay with them even after she separated unceremoniously with the Jalaba monster. My younger brother took the name Anthony and then I was name after her former white German boss, Benjamin.
In school, I wasn’t the brightest kid in my form Three-West Class, but my academic tempo didn’t drop by any sheer unreasonable graph. I was busy focusing on my poetry and it’s earning me a little fame in school and in the neighboring schools around my academic jurisdictions. One day, I walked into our living room holding my biology paper with inscriptions on top-left with a B+. It was something to call for celebration because this is the best I have ever got in my entire academic career. I was expecting pleasing words and, maybe, receive countless accolades because this is what she always does to us when we do well in school.
As I walked in - to our compound, I saw a car. By the way, he walked out of lives when we were just shoots. We barely knew him and our mother have refused to show us his pictures by all cost. “But mother,” retorts my brother, one evening, “we don’t want to know him so that he could come back to our lives. We just want to know who the devil is,” he complained.
“One day I will collapse in this house if you two don’t stop asking these stupid questions.” She roared and then walked away. We were left with nothing to do than to through our hands in the air as a sign of defeat.
Two days before, I overheard this man and my mother arguing as I enter the house. “But they’re also my kids? Why are you denying me the chance to let them know me?” and then I walked in and they all pretended like nothing has happened when they heard my footsteps tapping. I pretended like I heard nothing and then go up to my little brother’s room whom I found playing a brick game.
At first, I thought this man was a client to my mother because for so long, nearly two years, my brother and I have been seeing so many expensive cars parked in from our gate. It’s never news to any of us because our mother was an insurance dealer and a real estate broker. When she is not in her small office, in down town, clients come up to her and park big cars beyond our small dreams.
At first as I enters, I though I would find my mother holding a cup of Jenzebil (my native coffee) and the Holly Bible in front of her on her favorite corner of the dinning table. I was wrong. I was wrong that this was never that moment I would finds a broad smile on her face until months later. The smile. Her tight hugs. The uncountable love that she got for all of us. All gone. All gone in the hands of a jitter that thought lynching her cold blooded was the best solution to solve the problems of not being part of our small and happy family.
Abdullah did not know when I walked into the house. I opened the door. “Huh! You have come?” he said while standing up. I saw the blood running on her mouth as she lay down helplessly in front of him. She was saying something but I couldn’t hear them. “Benny help me! Benny Help me, my child.” This is all I could hear.
I looked at the man like it was the first time to come face to face with him and then I started screaming as I sizes her in my arm. Young, my brother, enters and then saw me crying right before her. Abdullah said she was going to call the ambulance and then never came back. Young rushed to call the ambulance and then we took her to the hospital. She was taken to an emergency room and then stayed there for a couple of days. Abdullah came by but none of us notice or even gave him the attention. Our mother, after she had told us everything, finally told us that, he was our supposed to be our biological father. But as we all know, blood is no longer thicker than water, is it?
Two months later, after transferring her from hospital to hospital, she was discharged and we were advised to let her stay in the wheel chair for eight more months or so. Meaning, she would not do heavy tasks like cleaning or cooking for sometimes. Which was okay with us. It didn’t shakes us a bit. After all, this is what we have been doing during her schedules. As long as she was alive, we didn’t care.
As we walk her to the car, we saw Abdullah, who came by to have a word with her. My mother looked at him for nearly two minutes and then hissed: “boys, let’s go.” I gave him a demeaning look, too, and then didn’t say a word. We thanked the doctor for the extra care she gave us and for making sure that my mother had everything she wanted.
When we reached home, we sat her on her favorite couch and then made her, her favorite Jenzebil tea. I walked past the same spot that I first held her in my arms as I called on Young to come and help. Then, I saw the biology paper that I have ever passed in my entire life. I smile and then picked it. I showed it to her.
“Wow! You did well. You know you can be a good doctor in the future and treats people like the lady who just saved my life.” When I heard this, I was fill with joy. We hugged and then ran to the respective tasks she just allocates to us.
Happy International Day
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