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As I reclined on the porch's white, inviting seat, my mind drifted far from the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia, back to the serene evenings under Baba's mango trees and the comforting aroma of smoke from Nana's abacha stove. My heart ached for my grandparents, for the tranquility of North Central Nigeria, and for the nights spent with them under the starlit sky.
Lost in reminiscence, I failed to notice the elderly woman who stopped to stare at me, her dog tethered to her side. Irritated, I shot her a look, hoping she'd move along. But she remained, casting curious glances towards my father's room window.
With a sigh of frustration, I retreated indoors, slamming the door behind me. The ache for home intensified; I detested the shallow-mindedness of the kids at my school and longed for the comfort of familiar surroundings.
Entering my room, I was surprised to find my little sister, Gigi, hiding under the blankets, her eyes red and puffy. Concerned, I asked her what was wrong, but she remained silent, gripping my hand tightly as she led me to our father and stepmother's room.
Confusion turned to horror as I heard the tumultuous sounds emanating from within – the clattering of objects, the menacing crack of a belt, and the heart-wrenching cries of my stepmother pleading for mercy.
With tears streaming down my cheeks and fury boiling in my veins, I burst into the room. My father's gaze faltered upon seeing me, guilt and shame evident in his eyes. My stepmother, unable to meet my gaze, cowered in silence.
Ignoring my father's attempts to leave the scene like a coward , I comforted Gigi and ushered her away from the chaos. Despite my affection for my stepmother, whom I fondly called Nne, I couldn't overlook her repeated justification of my father's abuse.
Recalling the times my father had landed her in the hospital, I made a silent vow to call my older brother, Divine, for help. Ignoring my stepmother's pleas, I locked the door and dialed Divine's number, praying for a swift rescue.
As we awaited Divine's arrival, the phone rang incessantly, and upon answering, our grandmother's voice echoed through the receiver, demanding to know our whereabouts.
"Where is Baba and Gina!?" she shrieked, her tone laced with urgency.
Grimacing, I ended the call before Divine could respond, earning a chuckle from him. Our grandmother's insistence that I was the reincarnation of my late grandfather had long been a source of discomfort for me. According to her, my birth coinciding with my grandfather's death was no coincidence; I was destined to carry on his legacy.
As we pulled up to a fast-food restaurant, Divine suggested indulging in a little ice cream to lift our spirits amidst the turmoil.
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Perfumes and Prayers
General FictionFrom my deepest fantasies about my celebrity crushes, to movie scenes my brain thought would've been better if I was the director, here's a compilation of stories too hard to start and too stressful to finish
