In Between.

#5

I shut up from my very short and useless sleep in shock. "Lois! Get up from that bed before I beat yesterday's sickness into your body!" My mother seemed like a screaming banchi as she waved her arms around in annoyance.

Tuesday morning. The only morning where my Yoruba cultured mother would be up before my even earlier to rise father.

I resisted the persistent urge to roll my eyes as I rubbed my eyes and paid zero attention to my mother. With a silent groan, I rolled off my bed and went into my bathroom.

I plopped my bottom * which still hurt after last night's injection. I absolutely hated injections. * onto the toilet and did my daily routine. For those who do not understand, I peed.

On my way out of the bathroom after actually bathing, I bumped into my big sister who was just 2 years older than I was and was my favourite of all my family before we talk of the people who  gave birth to me.

Well my sister Laura was the definition of beauty. Some people have told me I'm cute but compared to Laura, I was poop. Her beauty wasn't just in her appearance but also in her heart.

Laura had these pretty brown eyes that if you stared for too long, you could get caught in them. Her nose was perfectly sculptured for her face unlike mine and her lips were the perfect plumpy pink type like models in movies.

Don't get me started on her body shape. Laura was a dancer so she was always in shape, flat tummy, average boobs and the cutest butt if I may say. Her only problem with herself was her height. She thought she was short but to me, she was a giant. Just exaggerating. I'm not that short.

Laura was a bundle of Joy, she was always happy and she gave the best advice. I loved her for it. "Mummy wants to beat you." She stated. She had this nonchalant look on her face that irritated me for a second.

I scrunched my face up in annoyance. "What did I do?" Laura started laughing to herself after a quick glance at my face. "You did not wash plate." My body was filled with this rush of annoyance and anger.

In a Nigerian house, dish washer or not, the female children must always know how to wash a sink full of plates with ease. You see in my house we had a not so physical time table for who did what.

For a week, one person would wash the dishes, another would sweep, another would arrange and the last would clean. That was how it was and that was how it would be.

Disappointment coloured my expression when she said that she could not wash the plates even when she knew I wasn't feeling well. Looking at her, I walked past her to my wardrobe and pulled it open hearing my mum go on on how lazy I was that I could not wash the plate.

Heaven help me. We were rich, rich enough to buy a dish washer or employ an house help or a cleaner. I just couldn't understand my parents especially my mum who stuck to the almost half truth that female children must be hardworking to build a good home.

Maybe it was true but duh! Who cares.

My line of thoughts were cut short when my sister threw a pillow at me. "Mummy is coming and you have not dressed up." At the sound of that, I pulled open my wardrobe and retrieved my underwear and my uniform which was a white and dark blue material sowed together in the most inappropriate ways.

Pulling the piece of clothing over my body quickly, I adjusted my white top which was long and was stopping at my mid-thigh that we referred to as 'shaba'. 

My sister dropped on my bed, watching me. I ignored her weird looks as I could hear my mother's voice more pronounced. Practically jumping into my skirt, I grabbed my sandals and socks as my mum reached my room and pulled my door open.