Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

That Sunday (four)

That Sunday, when Mama gave me some money to buy rice from the market, to cook her favourite dish, I did not go straight to the market. I met Dorcas spinning the wheels of her chair down the rocky path. She favoured the left side of the road, because it had more trees and she liked being close to the leaves. She would stretch her arm and pluck a few every time, and she would caress the leaves and keep them until they lost their texture. She said it reminded her of the garden that beautified her home in Lagos, before her parents passed away and she had to live with Pastor Ejiro in the village.

I crossed the road to meet Dorcas on the left side, just so I might say hi and hear her voice. She wore her Sunday dress, a red gown that fell over her knees, and her hair gleamed like she had smeared oil on it. She must have noticed how unkempt I was—with my bathroom slippers, tattered shorts and my overgrown, bushy hair that was so tangled, combing it was a torture only Mama dared to impose on me.

Dorcas asked me to go to the village square with her. "My grandfather is preaching today." She held my hand and tugged.

I could never say no to Dorcas, but I told her I had to go to the market to buy ingredients for cooking. I didn't have time to spare. I tried pulling my hand away, but Dorcas did not let go. "The food is for Mama," I added, so she might understand my urgency.

"Come," she said. "After church, I'll go to the market with you and we'll cook the food for Mama in my house together. I can serve my grandfather too from there."

Dorcas always had the brightest ideas. How could I say no to that? I walked around her, stood behind her wheelchair and pushed her to the village square to spend the day with her—leaving Mama at home, all alone and weaker than she had ever been in her fifty-odd years of living.