ÀṢÀKẸ́

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

                     It was one week to the annual Ẹbíjọgbé festival, and the atmosphere literally could tell; different food aromas diffused everywhere! Both food that could be easily identified by how they smelled, and those that couldn't. It was that time of the year when women like ìyá ẹlẹ́mu sold free palm wine to the men who came to drink, so they could favour her in the upcoming cooking competition. She did this every year but still never won once. School had given one week holiday for everyone to prepare adequately. Hunters who traveled far in search of worthy sacrifices returned home, the drummers and dancers practiced their presentations, foreigners who consistently visited for the festival in previous years traveled down. Citizens who had traveled out of the village returned back. There was so much excitement and noise in the air, everyone was about the festival, except my family.

Màámi and bàámi did not look like they were on good terms with each other. She visited the evangelist, who had preached to her, every day so he could read the Bible to her hearing. Bàámi assumed she wanted to pay back for what he did. From his perspective, all the matter required was a mutual understanding from both ends, he didn't understand why màámi was taking the matter that far.

“Gbagaun! Gbagaun!”, the bell rang. The annoying tingles from its sound raced through my ears and awoke my slumbered soul. The bell kept ringing for a few seconds, after which it stopped. It was immediately followed by màámi's singing, “Jí ọkàn tó ń sùn, àkókò àdúrà àárọ̀ tó o. Bá ẹlẹ́dàá rẹ sọ̀rọ̀ lónìí òó ọmọ...” (Wake up, every sleeping heart, it's time for morning prayers. Communicate with your creator today...). I shook my head and hit my bed as she sang and danced. It was just few minutes after four in the morning. This was how she sang and called us for morning prayers every day.

“Ìyá Àṣàkẹ́! Ahhah! Kílódé? Ìwọ nìkan ni?!” (Mummy Asake! Ahhah! Why? Are you the only one?!), my dad shouted from inside. Màámi continued singing regardless, and we knew she won't stop till we came out. I stood reluctantly and staggered out of my room with each step accompanied with a murmur and a squeezed face. It was still dark and I could barely see her face. The little lamp she lighted in the center of the sitting room at best casted her shadow on the wall; an obscure image of a new mother who had in her hands a bell and a bible, all gotten from the evangelist, and a hair net for covering. I preferred when she would bother me with putting on protective beads and clothes than now that she robbed me of my sleep.

“Pẹ̀lẹ́ àṣàkẹ́” (Asake, sorry), she repeatedly said as she watched me grope around the other half of the room that was darkened. “Ẹkáàrọ̀ màámi” (Good morning mummy), I responded, with knees half bent.

“Oṣé ọmọ ọ̀ mi. Wàá ṣoríre lórúkọ Jésù!” (Thank you my daughter. You will succeed in Jesus name!). I raised my eyebrows and gave a stare she couldn't see. We were already used to her praying in the name of jesus. She would hammer on the need for us to respond with "àmín" (amen), but she grew softer in her resolve with time, when we persistently refused to respond. For a moment, I envied bàámi who enjoyed his sleep with loud snores, while I had to listen to bible stories explained by màámi. Her favorite biblical character was King David, a man of praise. She was inclined to the stories of these men and drew her life lessons and conducts from their stories, weaknesses and strengths. As she narrated, my eyelids became attracted to each other. Each time they drew closer to each other, they separated at the louder words of màámi, who now grew more passionate about what she was saying. Sleep offered me its temptation, for what? A beating from màámi and words of insults? At that I sharply objected. As I sat on the floor, the last thing I remembered was màámi saying something I didn't hear, it sounded like “obìrin ló pa sámsónì” (it was woman that killed Samson), after which I slowly rested my head on the wall and fell into temptation.