Halima Aliyu

Broken

I cannot remember when we stopped touching each other.  It began when mother left with a gash on her head. And older sister could not wear mother’s shoes. Laughter ran away from our mouths and the smell of cocoa butter did not remind me of mother anymore. Prayer fed us. But our stomachs refused to be satisfied, and God never answered, or we didn’t know how to ask. Our bodies learnt new ways to say I love you until we forgot what it felt like to bury worries in the warmth of a hug.

Father said we are children of the devil. He wished we saw mother with his eyes. The wife who gave her husband no support and the proposed punishment awaiting her in hell. The mother who watched her children starve rather than share her wealth with the family. When father found pictures of mother under our pillows, the ones he thought he had burnt, he carved lines on our backs and exorcised us with emptiness in the kitchen. On one of those days, father pushed my head into the door of our room. I was dreaming instead of listening to him. And squatting for two hours had me resting my head on older brother’s shoulders. When my eyes cleared, the ringing in my ears continued.

I don’t remember the warm comfort of an embrace or a kind palm on my cheek, brushing my hair. I don’t remember puckered lips on my brow or at the edges of scraped knees. I cannot say what an opened palm, inviting, loving, listening, is like. I am lost and so are my siblings. Maybe that is why older sister now wore father’s shoes.

She mastered the art of slaps. In the wake of father’s absence, her words were to be obeyed like God’s commandments. She sent your head reeling when it didn’t happen. That was a warning. We all knew what followed, so we learnt to pay attention even to the sound of her footsteps, to interpret her face before she gave orders, and not to be victims of her art.

Older brother used to let me hold the wheel on his bicycle as he changed a punctured tube, his smile caressing my face in the afternoon sun. Our rides down the dusty lane behind the house were filled with breathless laughter as the wind whipped salty sweat from our eyes. Now, he liked to punch me in the gut. I never cried. It was a good thing he still wanted to play with me. Show me that you have power, he said. I fisted my hands and growled. He hit me, again and again until older sister called us for lunch.

***

Mother worked from morning until late in the night. I forgot everything. I wanted to ask her if the names father called her were true and why she stopped hugging me. But it was enough that she was home before I fell asleep. I curled on the sofa beside her to rest my head on her laps. Sometimes, she let me and other times, she pushed me away with a firm hand.

Mother wanted me to be strong. She knew all the things father said. He told her too, on nights when their voices leaked through the walls of their room. Huddled behind the door, we heard him throw the words in her face, and we dreaded the broken voice of mother’s weeping. I imagined his eyes got dark when she didn’t cry.

Before mother left, I had seen blood, on my knee when older brother took me riding on his bicycle and we crashed into a tree. It was red. Mother’s was dark. It turned the white towel pink, then to the colour of wine, and we had to get another towel. Mother did not cry out. She knocked on our neighbour’s door and they took her away.

We did not step out of the house. That day, I saw older brother cry, the tears were silent and when he saw me looking, he turned away. Older sister bit her lips and pulled me from the window, away from the machete in father’s hand, from the words shooting out from him. That night, sleep hid behind the clothes in our wardrobe. I called to it but it was mother’s voice saying, you should be asleep, there is school tomorrow.

The next time I saw her, I was in school and she brought biscuits. I remember because they were my favourite with the blue bunny on the wrapper and the salty taste in your mouth after you swallow. I asked when she would come back home and she smiled that smile that says even if I gave you an answer, you wouldn’t understand. I munched my biscuits and forgot the question until she turned to go. Then I cried and she bent down to pull my face between her breasts. I smelt the cocoa butter and smiled.

***

Father brought home the strange woman and said, do not call her Aunty; she is my new wife, her name is Amarya. We did. But it did not make her smile. She looked at us the way older sister stared at the toilet bowl when older brother forgot to flush. I wondered if her father beat her when she was little. I did not want to be like Amarya so whenever I went to brush my teeth, I climbed a stool and smiled at the mirror. I am not sad, I am not sad, I am not sad, I said ten times before climbing down.

She cooked all the things mother said we couldn’t have because we didn’t have the money. I imagined she had a big house full of cash so she could make mutton stew, shawarma with chicken filling, and the delicious drink she made with yoghurt. She diced apples, watermelons and bananas, cut them into perfect squares and soaked them in the yoghurt. She never gave us these things, but sometimes, father forgot a bite on his plate and I rushed to clear the table, then hid behind the kitchen door and licked the plates. Sometimes, older brother would push me off and take away my prize.

When Uncle R came to live with us, he brought with him his play-thing. He told me I could touch it if I let him touch me. When I refused, he gave me peanut crackers. I liked the sound the nuts made when I crushed them between my teeth. It made me feel powerful. I placed my finger on his play-thing and he said, yes, yes, touch it, hold it hard. I grabbed and pulled at it. Later, he touched me too. It was not nice so I closed my eyes and ate my crackers.

There is a dent in older brother’s head. It is not deep but it is dark and makes him look funny. Older sister says it is because of all the many buckets of water Amarya makes him fetch. She uses her hands and the metal handle leaves thin red marks on her palms. I think that is better than the blank space on older brother’s head where hair should be. Unlike older sister’s, his looked like it will never go away.

One day, little sister asked Amarya to give her the type of biscuit mother brought to school. At night, Amarya and father flung words at each other behind the door like mother and father did. I wanted to tell them that they didn’t have to worry, mother would bring some the next day, but no one listens to me.

Mother asked if I would like to come and stay with her. I told her, yes, but how about older sister, little sister and older brother? I also wanted to know if I could bring Uncle R’s play-thing. Her eyes grew like the light bulb in our room and she left school without giving me the biscuits in her bag.

We did not see mother for a long time. But one day, older sister said in a whisper, come, pick out your best clothes and put them on the bed. She wore her serious face so I did not ask what she wanted to do with them. After school, she made us walk faster than usual. My body itched, and my pinafore clung to me as warm sweat trailed down my back.

At the gate of our house, older sister said, hide, stay behind this fence and wait for me, I will come back soon. She went in and came out dragging the big Ghana-must-go bag. Older brother went to her and they both grunted the bag our way. We were about to take the bend at the end of the street when father’s car horn blared. I knew it was his because it was loud like that of a truck.

Older sister herded us into the bush. We hid behind a cashew tree. Little sister raised her hand to wave but older brother stopped her. Father slowed down, wound down his window, looked around, shook his head, and sped away.

We all joined in, dragging, pulling, and panting until we got to the main road and hailed.  The taxis wouldn’t stop. It was as if they knew father was coming back and they wanted him to find us. Older sister bit her lips. Older brother kept stretching his arms at all the vehicles coming down as if he was going to jump in front of them if they didn’t stop. Little sister fidgeted and whimpered. I just wanted to see mother again.

Older sister screamed. Older brother ran to us. We jumped into the slimy culvert and squatted. Father’s car passed overhead. For the first time, tears glistened in the eyes of older sister and her hands shook like she had fever. I wanted to hold them and tell her to be strong like mother always told me, but I was scared she would slap me.

By the time older sister let us poke our heads out, my calves had cramped. We got a taxi and loaded the bag. On the highway, older sister spread her arms and pulled us all in a hug. Again, there were tears in her eyes. But she was smiling.