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...and Mama's voice filled our ears. She never ceased to share stories of her childhood with us- of how her younger brother would hide in the bush for days to avoid their father's beating,or of how the community primary school was eventually built and how several cabinet chiefs kicked against it saying the boys should rather be on the farm with their fathers while the girls in the kitchen with their mothers making the need for a village school worthless. Mama was a very beautiful woman. The comfort and joy we knew sitting at her feet can only be likened to what I felt whenever I sneaked out to be with Sunny under the udara tree behind his house as he occasionally fondled my breasts and whispered sweet nothings into my ears.In all the stories Mama told while either picking beans or peeling egusi, there was one she avoided the most. Our father. We knew because whenever Sochikamso talked about how much we loathed him, she only heaved a sigh saying "It's a long story".But we knew her to be an expert at long stories.

Papa's return at night took away all the joy we knew during the day. His return brought upon us a deafening silence so indescribable that we now spoke with our eyes rather than our mouths. He often came back home drunk and on the days he didn't, he came back with a face so stern, beating up all three of us, including my mother At the slightest provocation. We knew Papa to be a carpenter but almost all his work tools were at home and I often wondered what he did at his shed. My older brother Sochikamso once said he did nothing everyday but play ludo with his loud friends, stare at the waists of robust young girls who passed by his shed to the market and afterwards pay homage to Mama Nkechi's tombo joint where he drank himself to stupor every evening. We laughed, Mama laughed, and we knew he was right.

Please guys, feel free to drop your comments. I want to know what you feel about the first part you just read. Please also do well to visit my blog, amakaekezie..com, for more exciting stories, articles, etc. Thanks a bunch!

Cont'd.

Papa was a wicked man? Yes... No. Papa was a beast.

Nwanyimma! Nwanyimma!! We heard Papa barking rather than calling Mama's name. There was so much hatred in his voice and we knew very well what was to follow. Mama dashed out of the kitchen with so much fear in her eyes. Now, she didn't resemble the Mama we knew, the Mama who shielded us from our fears, or the Mama who gave our insecurities no place in our minds. Now, she looked so weak, so vulnerable, and fear suddenly brought upon her a paleness only I could see. Maybe my brother could see it too.

"Did Chizoba's father bring my money here today?" my father asked rather hastily and looked too impatient to wait for an answer.

"Yes he did. But i..." my mother replied but was cut short.

"Oh. So you wanted me ask you first eh. This woman. Have you also become a thief ??"

Without further ado, and with so much hate brewing in him, he pounced on mama. At first, she let out a shrill cry and was too weak to struggle. He squeezed her, he kicked her, he beat her. Papa's face had changed. He bore resemblance to some kind of alien monster and the muscles, the beads of sweat trickling down his neck and all the energy he exerted all spoke one language. HATE.

I screamed, I cried, and I tried to fight. But my brother stood there, by the door, looking very unperturbed. He kept staring at something only him could see. He was distant and nothing, not even mama's wailing, my screams, or the sounds of Papa's fists on her body, seemed to get to him. I began to detest him. But as though propelled by a strange force, he made a quick dash to the backyard where we kept old things we didn't want to dispose of and where Papa packed most of his work tools. He reappeared with a hammer in his right hand and paused for a second, his heart beating very fast against his rib cage. I knew that look on his face. Yes I did. He walked very calmly to where Papa was, took a firm position behind him with his legs slightly apart for balance and gave Papa a hard hit at the back of his head. I watched Papa fall to the ground as blood began to trickle out of his ears and nostrils.
Everything became still. The huge wall clock stopped ticking, and everything that kept us in the reality of all that had been happening came to a halt.
In years to come, I would ask Mama what happened that fateful day and she would say again like she's always said.

"It's a long story"...

Comments please oo

Wow.... I really love the concept and the simplicity of this story. It's a very simple work of art, but magnificent in the way you have put it. It is also a story of the usual incidents we see about domestic violence and the innate reaction of the mama's son.

I only think there's more need for the appropriate use of punctuations to separate the first person from the third person statements. Maybe also some attractive use of literary forms, but all the same, I'll read this story again and again.

golpen:
Wow.... I really love the concept and the simplicity of this story. It's a very simple work of art, but magnificent in the way you have put it. It is also a story of the usual incidents we see about domestic violence and the innate reaction of the mama's son.

I only think there's more need for the appropriate use of punctuations to separate the first person from the third person statements. Maybe also some attractive use of literary forms, but all the same, I'll read this story again and again.

Thanks dear. I'm glad you feel the way you do and I'll take note of the corrections you've pointed out. #Bearhug