TABITHA

Prologue

I could hear the thunder strike. It was raining heavily, which is so typical in Lagos, especially during the rainy season.

I was in the sitting room of our two-bedroom apartment with my mom and brothers. The time was 9:45 pm. We had just finished eating.

Dad wasn't back yet. This is a usual occurrence. My mom lay on the couch. She had fallen asleep while trying to assess some assignments her students had submitted.

I guess she was really tired.

Well, she has to be, because apart from the normal school hours which are 8 am to 4 pm, she conducts private lessons for students who need them. And most times she ends up getting home around 8 pm. Then starts going about her daily chores and cooking for us. She sometimes takes two or more students at a time just to have a bulkier income at the end of the month.

She currently teaches at a low standard private school around New Oko-Oba, Agege where we live. Mind you my mum is a graduate. She studied Economics Education.

Due to circumstances, she couldn't get a job that befits her. I also think it's because of the environment we live in. It's not entirely actually her fault though.

My dad studied architecture at the University of Lagos. He graduated with honours, top of his class. After his youth service, he decided to enter the labour market and search for a job as any other graduate does. Let's just say luck hasn't been on his side.

Due to his inability to find a job, he had to become a labourer at construction sites, carrying cement and such in head pans. He always comes home in pain.

And it isn't every day that there is such work available. He sometimes goes weeks without any work.

There isn't a single day that my parents don't lament how hard they work and how little they earn. My dad especially, because he never expected his life to turn out this way. And, I could tell my mum was already getting fed up. She's always grumbling and telling us stuff about dad we don't want to hear.

They had had to enrol us into public schools. At least they wouldn't have to worry about school fees but only about how to feed and clothe us, they thought.

And here in Nigeria if you attend public schools, people sort of look down on you. It is believed that it is only children of the poor that attend public schools. Left to me, attending a public school is better than attending low-standard schools where half-baked teachers are employed to teach and over-worked with little pay, resulting in little dedication to their work.

I was sitting on the other couch while my brothers were sprawled out on the floor.
We were watching a programme on TV. It was already after 10 pm. My dad came back from work just then and went to freshen up a bit.

When he came out he sat down waiting for his food to be served. He knew full well that there was not any food in the house but he didn't fret because he knew that mum would have done something about it. Even if she had to borrow. When he saw that nothing was happening, he turned to my mum and asked her to get him his food.

She had already awoken from her slumber. She then replied that there wasn't any food for him. She had told him she would do this one day, I guess it is tonight.

Although we had eaten something, mum didn't prepare anything for him because he hadn't dropped any money before leaving for work that morning.

My mum has started this habit of picking fights with my dad at any chance she gets. I wonder why she does that. Lately, it's as if she's a whole different person.

"Louisa, where is my food?" Dad asked.

"Edwin, is it the one you dropped money for or the one you didn't?" Mum replied sarcastically.

"Woman, do not answer me with questions! Where is my food I say?" He said with a voice that was laced with tiredness, frustration and anger.

"Well, there isn't any." Replied mum nonchalantly.

Dad got livid and pounced on Mum. It was a very unusual thing for my dad to do.

My siblings started crying because they were scared and I had to get them out of the sitting room. I was afraid myself but I couldn't let it show to my siblings, Micheal and Jeremiah.

After a few minutes, it was calm, we couldn't hear any more sounds. I rushed to see what had happened.

There on the floor, lying unconscious, was mum. She had hit her head on the floor during the fight. Dad sat in a corner sobbing. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Quickly, I rushed for the telephone and dialled 121, the emergency service number. I said to myself repeatedly, 'this can't be happening'.

They've fought before, but it has never been violent. It was also plainly verbal. I thought, sobbing. This is turning out to be one of the worst nights ever!