Facade (Romola 1)

67: Wetin Happen

Beware, heavy use of pidgin.

***

Her mother flung the medium sized bag at her. It fell short of her feet. Romola picked up the bag and tried to rush into the house, past the wooden net door. One of her mother's slipper soared through the air and landed on her temple. Her mother pointed outside. "Get out of my house."

"Mummy no." Romola tried to walk into the house and her mother found this to be the best time to throw a couple of shoes and sandals.

"You cannot be a prostitute in my house."

"Please mommy." Romola held the Ghana-must-go to her chest as her mother stepped closer. She missed a step and tripped on her own feet. The bag fell before she did. She got to her knees, pleading. "Mummy, no please."

Her mother returned to the house and grabbed more of her thing, flinging them into the open space surrounded by the houses. Romola scrambled around, trying to gather her belongings and return them to the house. Her efforts were futile because for every one or two things she picked, ten more were tossed at her. Exhaustion seized with her, faster than it did her mother. She settled for gathering her things and eventually fell to her knees, crying as more of her belongings filled the open space and more faces joined the observers.

"Iya Romola, wetin sup?"

"Na this girl oh." Romola could hear her mother sobbing between words. "If na for street she wan stay, e beta for am."

*It is this girl. If she wishes to stay in the street, it is better for her.*

"Ha, e never reach that level." A male voice added.

*It can't be that bad.*

"It don pass tay tay."

*It is long past bad*

"Wetin she do exactly. Maybe we fit epp."

*What exactly did she do? Maybe we can help*

"Una no fit epp this one oh. She don spoil finish. Make she kukuma go before she corrupt the rest of my pikin." Her mother said.

*You cannot help her. She is done. It is better that she leaves before she corrupts the rest of my children.*

At any other time, Romola would have laughed at such irony. Of her mother's four children, she was the most responsible one. The others were just like their father and the youngest, Lola, was beginning to pick up some bad traits.

"E no fit bad reach that one." The man responded.

*It can't be that bad*

She placed his voice now. It was Mr. Ibrahim, one of the teachers in the sub-standard primary school down the street. If he was here, her life was as good as over because the little brats on the street would begin to talk of her story. She would become an example of what not to be.

The murmurs faded and Romola took this as a cue to begin. She took a deep breath. "I was... I went... I... I"

Her mother burst into some incoherent words that could be mistaken for speaking in tongues if not for the anger burning in her eyes as she threw the other pair of her slippers at Romola's head. She didn't miss her target. "Don't talk oh. Make she no go start to lie for una. Me I go tell you the truth and make una tell me whether to send pikin to university na bad thing."

*Let her not lie to you. I will tell you the truth and you will tell me whether sending a child to the university is a bad thing.*

Romola raised her head knowing that her fate was out of her hands. She watched her mother sit outside the net door, wiping tears with her wrapper. "You think say when you live with pesin, you know who them be. Life no be like that."

Yetunde's face flashed in Romola's mind as her mother spoke. All of this was her fault.

Her mother continued without a pause. "Na so so struggle I dey struggle to hawk bread and beans so this girl go fit go school. Na borrow borrow I dey use pay school fees. She dey go school, I been think say she be beta student. I for don suspect when she dey bring fine bag and shoes... things wey I go need to save for tiri months to buy. She go kon sell am, give me the money to keep for am. I no know say na ashewo I dey live with."

*I hustle and hawk bread and beans so that I can send this girl to school. I often borrow the money I use to pay for her school fees. She used to go to school and I thought she was a good student. I should have had suspicions when she brought fine bags and shoes. The types I would need to save for three months to afford. She would then sell them and ask me to keep the money from the sale. I did not know that I was living with a prostitute.*

"Haa."

"Moromola."

"Jesus." People chorused different things but there was a general tone of shocked.

"How you take know say she be ashewo. Na good person she be na."

*How did you find out that she was a prostitute? She is a good person.*

"I'm not a prostitute. I'm not." Romola sobbed. Her mother flew at her, hitting her with palms and fists in a fury of anger. The older woman had to be pulled away by other onlookers.

"Iya Romola, calm down."

"I no wan calm down. I don warn this girl plenti times." Her mother pointed at her and burst into a fresh batch of tears.

*I don't want to be calm. I have warned this girl many times.*

She refused to stop crying and narrate the rest of the story. Romola had no more tears. She sat on the floor, avoiding everyone's eyes and waiting for the debacle to be over. When it seemed that her mother would continue to cry rather than talk, the wheels in Romola's head began to turn as she tried to extricate herself from this situation.

She hadn't been thinking long when a chuckle from the crowd drew her attention. She turned back like everyone else to watch Olajide, her mother's first son, bounce into the open space.

"Ah Romola. Wife of many men. You're back?"

Author's Note:

Hey. In the previous chapter, I warned about a coming economic collapse. Please, do not just take my word for it. Research for yourself. May God keep us all through this. Amen