Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

That Sunday (seven)

Dorcas could not be a great cook, because she spent most of her time in a wheelchair, while Pastor Ejiro did most of the cooking. Still, she seemed to understand how to measure the rice. She scooped some with her hands and let the grains pour into the pot expertly. I stood behind her chair, watching.

"We need salt," she said. "There's some in my grandfather's room, on the table. Can you go get it?" She pointed in a vague direction.

I nodded.

Pastor Ejiro's room was so large, it could contain enough yam tubers to serve the entire village. His bed looked like it was made for kings—I had never slept on a bed like that, and the comfort I derived from my bamboo bed depended on the number of cloths I spread on the hard wood. I touched Pastor Ejiro's bed. It was soft. Springy. I would have laid on it if I did not fear that I would fall asleep immediately.

There was something else on the bed, next to the full pillow. Something green and small and crumpled, like life had been squeezed out of it, until it was left wasted and void of what once made it pretty. I leaned in to have a better look and picked it up. It was a leaf—definitely one of Dorcas's leaf. I grinned. Maybe Dorcas slept in Pastor Ejiro's bed often when he wasn't home.

Ah, who could resist such a luxurious bed?

I tucked the leaf in my pocket, to keep something of Dorcas close to me—something she once held dear—then I grabbed the salt and returned to the kitchen. Dorcas added a few pinches of salt in the food and covered it to boil.

We strolled out of the kitchen, to receive fresh air outside the house while waiting for the food to cook. On our way out, Pastor Ejiro approached the house. I shared greetings with him, and he asked God to bless me. He glanced at Dorcas, but she did not seem to pay him any attention. Pastor Ejiro nodded and entered the house.

Later, when the food was ready, Dorcas served some rice in a flask for Mama, then she served some for Pastor Ejiro as well, leaving just a little leftover in the pot. I took Mama's share to her and I met her in the living room, waiting for me, with such a bitter grimace on her face. She must be starving and angry.

Mama did not say a single word to me while she ate, as though she needed to concentrate on her meal to enjoy it. Sometimes, she smiled as she chewed, playing with the grains of rice in her mouth. The plate was almost empty when she dropped her spoon and stood up. I sat across from her.

"Come here," Mama said; the bitter grimace returned to her face.

I stood and walked—my feet trembled with each step on the floor board.

When I reached where she stood, she said, "Kneel down."

I obeyed.

"So, it took you a whole day, just to cook a plate of rice, ehn?"

Before I could answer, Mama descended her wrath on me, pounding my head with her fist, and slapping my cheeks, ensuring that I tasted blood. I fell to the floor and rolled and cried and begged, but Mama did not stop pounding me. Soon, she staggered, and her blows slowed. She panted, then stopped hitting me. She staggered again, as though she just exhausted all the strength in her bones and needed to recharge. She took a step back, and then two more, before she finally turned around and dragged her feet to her bedroom. Later, she called me to pray the rosary as penance for skipping church, and that was when Mama closed her eyes and fell asleep in the middle of our prayer.

It was a long sleep.