Hell Mary

Chapter Twenty-five

Ashley stared blankly and with speckles of tear drops in her eyes. Her hands still rested defiantly on the door. Dominic turned towards her and then back to Maureen before sitting. His head probed with varying premises that lingered towards the same conclusion. A sharp deluding darkness exasperated his conscious effort to speak up.

How was he going to tell his beloved daughter that he cheated on her mother after years of condemning sexual impurity during the long morning and night prayers? She would spark and never trust him. He felt wretched- an owner of several multimillion naira buildings and contracts but yet, wretched.

He did explain to Ashley in details, but she didn't wait for the end of it before slamming the door and running. She would apologize later and her father wouldn't try to flog her because he would still be wallowing in guilt.

*****

Martins splattered a sea blue to the wavy sketch on his canvas. Then a red followed and he changed the brush to one with tinier and pointed bristles to outline certain details in his abstract painting. An array of varying colours produced an aesthetic polychrome. His hand held the palette now jumbled with different colours as each thick chunk of paint mixed with the others. A serious discerning look cornered his brow as he stared keenly at the life he was moulding.

His mother walked in after struggling to fit herself through the door because Martins had pushed his chair to stand in as a wedge. He wanted quiet, as he did whenever he painted or whenever he read or slept or ate. He would slowly descend the stairs with his pajamas and scoop one spoon full of whatever steamed from the pot and fly up, bolting the door and shutting the world out with his headphone.

He might mumble a nonsensical and incomprehensible greeting to his father, who would be on his short and singlet, burrowing into the newspaper and arguing imaginatively with the reporters on certain controversial issues. Other times he appeared on his black vestment, the white collar peeking out and his eyes would be burrowed into the Bible.

"Ah! Olorun owon omo mi o ko je? You haven't eaten?" She turned, dazed at the untouched crisp rice with a blood red thickened stew smeared on the top, which he was sure was because the tomatoes had been left for longer on the gas. It should be a brighter red not a lot darker, like the lungs of a chain smoker.

His chicken was spicy with pepper bits covering the grilled chicken. It was prepared as the same he took on Christmas day. It made his nose run and mouth burn.

"Bawo ni mama? I'll eat soon." He smudged one end of the canvas with his nails and used a rag to dab out an error.

"My son, you know I gave birth to you. I know when you're troubled and when you're happy. What is the problem?" She asked. Her waist seemed voluminous from different folds of wrapper.

The church members still trooped in to visit the pastor and his family and she would put on her best outfit, plaster a plastic smile and serve. To each person, she knew the perfect compliment- your hair is nice, where did you do it? See how beautiful this dress is. I love your shoe. Even when the hair smelt of must, the dress washed repeatedly and colours drained, and the shoe had no sole. She would say God bless you to everyone who greeted, standing beside her husband and shaded under her hat. She would tilt it a bit to the side to hide the swell as a result of the punch from the night before and will nod to every word her husband said on the altar. It was with that same gait and concentration that she used in listening to Martins.

He dropped the palette and forked in rice into his mouth. The painting was faced eastward, towards the afternoon transcending to evening sun and left to dry. He crouched beside his mum, his comfort and immediate shield from worry. She always pushed him to her back when Sola intended spanking him as a little child or when his father had given him a thorough beating after coming second once.