THEY LET HER DIE

2

Two weeks had passed, and you were still waiting for your admission letter. You were not bothered; you were very intelligent. No school would ever reject you or as your guy — Gozie — would say, 'They no born them well'. You smiled when you remembered him.

You freshened up and went out to buy some groceries. On your way out, you said hello to your mother who was on a phone call. She looked very excited and was highly pitched in her fluent Badagrylanguage that you didn't understand. When she saw you, she raisedher eyebrows and waved at you.

Unlike other children, you were more familiar with your father's tongue than your mother's. Your father instilled Yoruba into your bones even more than your religion. You remembered when you were in primary five when you and your immediate elder brother— Kunle — returned from school that afternoon. You both prostrated to your father when he opened the door because he told you that it was Yoruba culture.

He scanned you two very closely and pulled you forward. Your heart pounded out of your chest and your fingers shook. He then asked you,

'Bawo ni ile-iwe leni?'

The reply was at the tip of your tongue but your brain and your lips were against you. You replied, 'School was fine, sir'.

Almost immediately, something hot hit you. It hit you again and again. Your mother rushed out of the kitchen to stop your father but he tried to hit her as well. If not for Kunle, you would have been done for. He whispered into your ears when your father was distracted. With tears pouring from your eyes, you screamed at the top of your voice,

'O wa dada, sir!' 

And that was all.

Your mother tongue, as far as you were concerned, was not sweet. She was a conc. Badagry woman and whenever she spoke, you only heard stuff like 'wo', 'gwo', 'va', 'von'. You and your siblings always laughed. She wasn't even patient enough to teach you or your brothers so she only taught your elder sister — Sade— and whenever they had conversations, you were in awe.

But all the comparisons didn't matter anymore because your father was gone, just like your best friend — Senami. Your eyes watered a bit when you remembered her.

You left your house with your knapsack strapped along your back and your air pods in your ears. You made your way into Adesina Street where Adesina Mall stood. It was a clean street with a lot of tenants. When you entered the mall, you didn't greet Oga Ayo, the gateman,and neither did you say hello to sister Nneka at the counter. You just bought the groceries and left.

On your way back home, you stopped by a corn stand. The aroma of roasted corn filled your nose. You collected the usuals from Iya Abe in black nylon and gave her five hundred naira. She then smiled; that wide smile reminded you of Senami. You wiped your tears as you continued walking on the street.

At home, your stomach rumbled when you looked at the black nylon. When you took a bite out of the corn, you felt nauseous. You ran and spilled it in the guest toilet sink. Your mother heard you. She saw that you were weak and helpless so she cleaned you up and let you sit on a couch.

After dinner, you were doing very fine. You sat opposite your mom at the dining table. You had finished before she did so you watched her closely till she took the last spoon of beans. You weren't with your phone because it wasn't allowed at the table. You were tired of watching her so you shifted your attention to the tablecloth on the dining table, twirling it around your fingers.

"Dee," she called.

 You knew that she wanted something.

"Mama," you replied, focused on your 'work'.

"You are okay now, abi?"

"Mhm," You shrugged with your eyes fixed on the pattern of the tablecloth.

"Do you remember how she passed?" She asked you.

"Who is she?" You asked even though you knew where she was heading. She took a sip of the glass of water in her hand,

 "Senami".

You took in a long deep breath and looked her in the eyes.

"Suicide," you muttered, "they told me. They said she didn't listen to anyone who begged her, I got there late."

You broke into tears; wheezing, sniffing, and wailing. Your mother hurried to your side of the table and held you tightly in her arms.

"They let her die, Mom!" Your words muffled in your cry.