Running Away Solves Everything

Chapter 3- Ekene

A new day is a blessing from God to make things right. This I recite from the back of Mum and Dad’s door while spraying her perfume.

“E-kene! Please, finish it o! Please!” She screams from the showers and I feel very gloomy for being the first to make her shout today, when it ought to be my responsibility to fight against that.

I drop it quickly and put her room in the order she must have left it before I say, “Sorry.” Then as she comes out, she tells me to zip her yellow blouse to the top and I do. It’s barely eight thirty, and apparently, we’re all ready for a church service that’s supposed to start by ten. Except Emelie who’s still bathing. Walking out of Mummy’s room, I scream, “Chukwuemelie, why are you wasting time in that bathroom? With that small body,” but as I get to his room, he’s out already has the black singlet I got for him on and he’s wearing his Ankara trousers, but I don’t swallow my words, instead I refurbish them. “This is how kro-kro will be growing on your body. When you won’t take time to bath. See soap in your ear.” He checked but there wasn’t soap. I lied.

In thirty minutes, I see myself bolting the back door and locking the front door to the house with my large Bible in my hand. Ezinne in the front passenger seat with Mum, and her immunity, Ebuka on her laps. Both buckled and smiling sheepishly.

Coming to church is always weird to me, because the story of my life is that The Onuohas occupy an entire pew at church, and I’m almost always in the middle of the parents. Today is a different though. One, because we take barely half a pew and Two, because it’s Mummy’s first Sunday as an orphan. She shoves all the pain inside; the pain of not being able to talk to her on phone again, and that’s something I can’t think of in forty years.

Mummy didn’t say a word to anyone about Grandma because she doesn’t want to be told sorry. She says and I quote, “Sorry can never be the same as congratulations.” So she’s smiling and agile, almost like she’s celebrating a blissful union, not a loss. She stays away from choir today, probably because of Grandma’s death or not. I don’t know how I feel about all this. I’m crying inside, because I also miss Grandma. Ezinne should feel what I feel too, Ezechukwu too, but Egodi worst of all. Who Mum said we shouldn’t tell till she comes back from school. Emelie is still young and probably doesn’t know what’s going on.

The worst thing today could ever bring is constant reminder that Grandma’s dead, and that’s what it keeps doing. The theme for Today’s service is Acknowledging the Faithful Departed and when I see that, everything pauses before I glance at Mum. Is it just me or is everyone around us old and smiling? Mrs. Onifade, Evang. Mrs. Aigbiremolen and Mr. Okoh are the grandparents who make the cut. I see Grandma in their eyes, and their smiles, and I wonder what Mummy feels too. It would be insensitively stupid to ask, so I don’t even bother, but I want to know. I have to know, because seeing her face plain staring at Dame Nwosuji as she begins the intercessory prayers is shredding my deeply pained heart.

“Let us pray for Nigeria, those who have tried to fight for a better country in their own way, but are dead now. Let us pray that the Lord Almighty upholds our country and pray that she will continue to move forward.” This is the first time in fifteen years as an Anglican that I’m hearing a prayer as such. I glance at Mummy with just my right eye and she doesn’t look moved. Not in the slightest way, and I’m sure Mummy Vivian did a great job yesterday.

There’s one thing I pick from the sermon as Mrs. Tope Olusina, a layreader preaches, “You worry about the dead. But can the dead worry for themselves? Rather, do they? Worry for themselves?” Deep talk. I’m not sure she’s looking at me, but her eyes are on the third column— where we are— as she speaks and I’m out of words. They can’t. They don’t worry for themselves. Should we worry for the dead? I write this at the rear of my Bible, because I have to know what this means. Five minutes after I write that, the sermon is over and it’s straight to Collections and Aunty Valentina is with a wireless mic behind the lectern where the First and Second readings were taken and she’s joined by Mrs. Odera and Yomi.

“… I will dance like David danced…” Mummy sings in the same pitch as Mrs. Odera's backup voice, smiling and showing the whole church nothing. She’s okay and doesn’t need sorry. As our pew moves to the altar, Emelie and Mummy are showing moves I’ve never seen them do and Ebuka wants to groove along. Ezinne couldn’t even if she tried and I’m the only one who’s still and projecting sadness. I’m the only one who’s not normal and I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even think I know what normal means anymore. Is it doing what you do or doing what everyone else is doing? I don’t give it another thought before I sing, dance and clap like everyone else. I feel some good energy coming in until I trip on my laces in the middle of the church. Gladly, I don’t fall on my face and I don’t waste time to get back on my feet. In times like this always pick up the lesson you learn and paste it on the walls for your children to see: Dancing is not for everyone. 

The Women’s Brown Card Collection goes by and Mum is as graceful as summer itself. I don’t know when I spill, “Why is Mummy so happy?” but Ezinne answers.

Without even looking at me, she mutters with her teeth sealed, yet revealed, “Don’t you want her to be happy?” and I hiss at that, staring at Mum as she greets people showing such a genuine smile.

“It’s like she’s pretending.”

I wasn’t definitely expecting what I got when I made that four-word statement, but it sank in anyway. Emelie, just like Ezinne, doesn’t look at me, but says, “Why can’t you pretend? What is hard in, 'No sorry, just Congratulations?’"

When the vicar comes down from the altar to say the Notices the first thing he says with a grin is, “Your vicar would be going on his Annual leave on September 14th immediately after the Choir Festival.” People clap in the church as he says this, and I wonder how he will make announcements of something to happen in September in May.

Ezinne suddenly puts Ebuka, who she was playing with down and stands to shake someone behind her, so I turn to see who the newcomer is. I jump in after Ezinne because I can’t stop looking at those eyes. I finally know what I want to do in church while Mummy is having her choir practice.

Church is over and I don’t know where the girl I shook disappeared to. Disappointment fills my heart now, and I remember that the day before yesterday that was filled with lonesomeness and just this morning, I would say it was pity. I try to console myself, but I know she wasn’t just a girl. She was a girl and a lady at the same time. She didn’t look at me like I was short and her “Thank you” when I welcomed her carried so much determination and strength… Okay, Ekene it’s enough. You’re past weird.

I have two alternatives; Samson in the Media corner or the Piano, and I choose the Piano. Goodness Gracious, my heart leaps when someone unexpected talks to me.