“How do I even create masterpieces in this junkyard of a room?” I asked myself, staring at the pieces of crumpled paper and rusty milk cans that littered my room. A strange idea crossed my mind. What if I turned my back to the mess and painted from behind the door. I rolled my eyes and laughed at the silly thought, but did it anyway.
Within a few minutes, I sat crouched over my drawing board, a paint brush in my hand and a white piece of paper daring me to transform it into something colourful. From across the corridor, I could feel the thud of my parents’ voices closing in, Mama asking Papa to be patient until her school salary dropped. Their shouts gave me visions of bright colours. I shut my eyes and leaned forward, my forehead almost touching the drawing paper. I imagined that somehow the paper would whisper secrets of an image no one else had seen before and I would replicate it on the canvas.
Their fights inspired me, guiding my hand to my painting brush and canvas. I picked up the brush and dipped it into the tins holding my paints. A little yellow. A little red. I swirled it in circles until it became a perfect shade of sunset. Joy tugged at my heart at the resultant mix. I had created a beautiful backdrop. All that was left were characters to tell the story I had in mind.
I was lost in this euphoria until a familiar scent tickled my nose. Goodness gracious! I ran to the kitchen immediately. The rice I had put on the fire was rising in smoke like an offering to the ceiling. That was the second food I would burn that week. I quickly switched off the gas burner and shut the kitchen door to prevent the smoke from extending further down the corridor, where my parents’ room was. I scooped out what I could salvage and dropped the pot in the sink. It made a hissing sound as I poured water in. It oozed brownish water from the cinders; I wondered how bad the rice would taste. Mama would be so mad when she found out. Food rationing was her thing, especially during the holidays. Mama said holidays made teachers lazy and that it also kept children at home which meant more food would be consumed. I’d always felt there was no need for her complaints and stringent measures since I was an only child.
I tiptoed back to my room. It was the smallest room in our house. We moved here last year when Mama got promoted to the position of principal. Perhaps the first principal of the grammar school who lived here before was a middle-aged man with no family. Otherwise, I could see no reason why the house should have just a bedroom and a convertible pantry. Apart from the fact that I still had a small room, it was much better than our former house where we didn’t have running water or a gas cooker of our own.
“Monera… Moneraaaaa…”
I heard Mama’s high-pitched voice from without, interrupting my thoughts. My heart began pounding. Immediately, I grabbed a knapsack from a corner. One by one, I began to dump my colours, brushes, and drawing papers into the knapsack. I could tell Mama was already close by the way the sound of her sluggish footsteps became more prominent. I jumped out the window just in time to hear the grating sound of the door smashing something. My drawing board.
No pain, no gain, I told myself, running as fast as my tiny legs could carry me. I’d even forgotten to put on my slippers. It was a hot Friday afternoon and the sand was a heap of hot coals. I could still hear Mama’s screams. “Monera Azuka Ejiofor, you will come back to meet me in this house! If you don’t come back here this instant, no food for you tonight!” She would keep breathing threats even though I was out of sight. During one of their quarrels, Papa had said she should have put her shrill voice to good use by joining the evangelism group.
The first place I thought of going to was Olu’s house. The disadvantage was that she lived close by. Mama could easily walk in there with a whip behind her and demand that Olu’s mother vomit the contraband in her house.
I changed my mind and kept running till I got to the village square; it was usually quieter in that hour of the day. Only a few people idled underneath the large oak tree. They sat on roots that rose as high as benches. I chose a spot behind a young man and a woman. Their shoulders touched as they leaned against each other. I quickly knelt on the sand and unpacked my knapsack. There was no board to place my book on so I used paper tape to attach a sheet to the trunk of the oak tree. I had to start painting all over again, thanks to Mama’s interruption.
The weather was hot so I had to use my blouse to wipe my brow occasionally. I was already putting finishing touches to the painting when I saw Olu running towards me.
“Nera, I knew you’d be here. Your mother, she is after your head! She said you stole five thousand naira from her,” Olu said, bending to catch her breath.
“I will pay her back fifty and five thousand naira after I win the Junior Art Competition,” I replied without looking up. Olu drew closer, her hot breath fanning my ear as her eyes scanned my work in progress.
Her brows knitted. “Is it done?”
“Yes, my dear. I am simply appending my initials, as you can see.”
Olu pouted and rolled her eyes.
“What? What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“I should be asking you that question. What is this you’ve drawn?”
I looked at Olu’s cross-eye and wondered if I should have included it in my drawing. My stomach grumbled and I sighed. I was getting hungrier by the minute.
“So, you mean you cannot tell that this is what’s happening right before us? See this blue stroke? It’s that boy over there. This red stroke is that girl there. And here we have those ones over there gisting.”
Olu peered at the painting as if all she could see was a war of colours against paper.
“Okay. I agree with you, but why is this one’s mouth like obogwu? Is it a duck?”
She stood arms akimbo, scrutinizing my painting like a school mistress.
“They are kissing Olu. K. I. S. S. I. N. G, for crying out loud. Look here, this painting is called Stolen Waters, and it is a form of contemporary art.” I smiled as I noticed the puzzled look on Olu’s face had turned into a smile. She liked it when I spoke big grammar even if I sometimes used a fake accent. She might not have understood what I meant but it made me feel like I was important.
“Nera, let’s just get to the town hall so you can submit it and win the money. I don’t want your head rolling in our front yard tomorrow morning,” Olu said. We both burst into laughter.
There was a silver Volvo car parked outside when we got to the town hall. It was so distinct from the other parked cars. It probably belonged to the organizers of the competition, because I had never seen anything like it in our village.
The hall was packed with people. Mostly children of the elite and their well-dressed parents. I didn’t know where I fit. My ragged house-clothes made me stand out. I looked at my dusty feet and wished I had at least worn a pair of slippers. I spotted Jeremiah, the son of our village head. Olu was looking at him too.
“He’s worthy competition,” Olu said. I nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was the last person I wanted to see me in this state.
It seemed as though we were late and the competition was rounding up. My palms grew sweaty. I did not want to believe that I’d irked my mother and risked starving for nothing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have come to the end of this year’s Abo Junior Art Competition,” said a woman in a purple suit and contrasting yellow accessories. She had on a yellow camisole, yellow stiletto heels, yellow bang earrings, and a red bangle on her left wrist matching the red handbag on the desk she stood behind.
“I understand it’s an art competition but does she have to dress like a fowl to be slaughtered at the new yam’s festival?” I whispered to Olu who giggled quietly. “You can laugh if you want to, you know. This isn’t my mother’s class.” Olu couldn’t suppress her laughter any further. I wondered if she’d actually imagined my mother hosting the art competition as I left to find someone to submit my artwork to.
“Excuse me, ma. You forgot to mention my name,” I said to the woman in the purple suit, when I got to the podium in front. Each word came out of my mouth in high pitched sounds, which was the closest I could come to faking a British accent. The woman wore a badge with “Maria Silva” inscribed boldly on it.
She shuffled out of her seat and moved closer to where I stood. Then she bent low to my height and said, “This is an art competition, not some scavenger hunt.”
That stung me so much that I lost my accent and began to speak like I did whenever I was in math class.
“I registered for the competition, ma. My name should be on your list. Check it, ma.” I could hear the quiver in my voice.
The woman placed her hands on her forehead and batted her fake eyelashes. “Go. Just go.” She waved me away as if she was swatting at an irritating fly. She was about to finalize the competition when a tall man walked towards her. He was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt and, except for his shoes that shone, he was less flashy in his appearance. He seemed to be very important because the “Maria Silva” woman instantly cowered.
He motioned me forward and requested my drawing. After studying it intently for some minutes, he traced his hands across the paper. The bustle of the hall had died down and people were paying attention to us.
“What’s your name, young lady?” he asked. The woman in the purple suit didn’t even give me space to respond.
“Why waste our time? She couldn’t possibly have afforded the fee for the competition forms. She can’t even afford a pair of slippers. I mean look at her, look at her dirty feet and her scrawny figure. So small like a… like a…” The woman kept stuttering.
“Monera,” I said. Some people in the audience laughed. My name always stirred laughter when people heard it the first time.
“Yeah. That,” spat Maria Silva, and then she walked back to her seat.
“What is your name, young lady?” the man asked again. His voice reminded me of my Papa’s voice. Not the tone he used in the quarrels he had with Mama, but the type of voice he reserved for his sermons in the parish. Authoritative.
“It’s Monera, Sir.”
“I don’t mean your nickname. I mean your real name.”
“Yes, sir. It is Monera. My mum is a biology teacher. She gave me that name at birth. She said I looked so tiny and malnourished that she had to call me the smallest thing she knew.”
The lady in the purple suit laughed. Many people in the hall joined her.
The man did not laugh but continued to study my painting. I wondered if I should also tell him that Mama called my father Euglena viridis, instead of Eugene Ejiofor, but I reconsidered. That would mean I disregarded him like Mama. In her opinion, Papa was a two-sided man, just like the unicellular organism, Euglena. A forceful preacher in the parish who liked to say, “Man shall not live by bread alone,” but at home he was a weakling who lived by bread. The bread Mama provided, to be precise.
I saw a smile forming at the corners of the man’s mouth.
I smiled; I knew that he liked my painting.
He opened his mouth to say something but someone interrupted from behind.
“Monera Azuka Ejiofor!” called a shrill voice which sent shivers down my spine. I would recognize the voice anywhere. Everyone turned.
“It’s the village principal,” someone said. A woman near me asked her neighbour, “Isn’t she that mad woman who beats her husband?”
I watched Mama, stomach protruding, sweating as she marched towards me. It didn’t matter that she was heavily pregnant. Her black skin shone brightly. I didn’t see her hand coming for my face. The large hand that had trained fifteen generations of students at St Paul’s Anglican Grammar School, Abo, landed on my face. My face felt hot, like a bomb had exploded in my eardrums. I didn’t hear any sound for a few seconds. I stood firm, holding back tears that were threatening to drop from my eyes.
“Why did you steal my money and run off?”
“The art competition fees,” I managed to say.
“How dare you!”
Mama unsheathed a whip from her large waist and aimed for my back. I dodged the whip and bolted away. She chased after me and we kept going in circles within the hall. When she recognized a teacher working in her school amongst the crowd, she commanded her to catch me or risk being suspended. The teacher obeyed, getting up to chase after me.
I leaped over wooden benches and dodged art exhibits. The entire town hall was in pandemonium.
“Make sure you catch her! Catch her and don’t let her go!” Mama kept saying to anyone she recognized.
Suddenly, Mama grabbed her belly and screamed. Then she reached for her back, screaming again.
“Her baby is coming,” one woman said in alarm.
I stopped running, when I saw Mama writhing in pain. I’d never seen her that way before. More women had gathered around her, each trying to provide succor in her own way.
“Sorry ma.”
“What of Reverend Eugene?”
“Try to breathe, slowly.”
“If it’s a boy, it will hurt more.”
“I ran to the man in the gray suit. “You have to help me, sir! Please! The silver Volvo outside, is it yours? Could you take my mother to the hospital?” I swallowed hard knowing that I had taken a huge risk assuming the car belonged to the man. My heart was palpitating and I was spewing out words without thinking.
“Sure. Sure!” he replied, as if my request awakened him from his shock. I exhaled deeply and clasped my hands in gratitude.
“Handle this mess!” he said to Maria Silva, then motioned for me to lead the way.
Two women supported Mama and helped her get into the car. They sat with her at the back, while I sat in the front seat. I saw Olu peering out one of the windows and I waved at her. I needed her as a witness when I boasted to the other kids at school that I’d ridden in a silver Volvo.
Mama had delivered the baby and fallen into a deep sleep by the time Papa arrived. I wasn’t allowed to stay in the ward, so I sat in the waiting room for hours.
“Welcome, Reverend Eugene,” the nurses chorused, bowing when Papa walked in. His burnished dark skin and great height filled the room like God’s presence.
“It’s a baby boy,” one of the nurses said to him, grinning. I’d never seen Papa laugh so heartily like he did that day.
“Welcome, papa,” I knelt to greet him but he was too overjoyed to notice. I felt like an artery snapped in my chest. When Papa went with the head nurse to the ward, I followed them.
In the ward, Papa picked up the baby and grinned widely. “Now here is a boy from my loins.” From his loins? I wondered what he meant by that.
I saw Mama had woken up, a weak smile on her face. She stretched her hands out and Papa placed the baby in them, then she planted a kiss on the baby’s forehead. “We have waited so long for a male child. What do we call him?” Papa asked.
I silently hoped in my heart that Mama wouldn’t name him Tse Tse because she fell into a deep sleep after his birth. To my surprise she said, “We shall name him Dike. He is a strong and healthy baby.”
The attention this new baby received was enough to tell me that I would no longer get attention from my parents anymore. I imagined that I would have to run more errands for Mama, wash Dike’s clothes and, who knows, maybe clean up his poop. I walked out of the ward unnoticed and went back to the waiting room. I bowed my head and wished something could uproot me from here to a place where I mattered.
One of the nurses turned on a transistor radio and was vibing to Fela’s song. The song dimmed and a male voice bubbled from the radio.
“Good evening people of Abo. We are sorry to interrupt tonight’s show for a special announcement.” A fanfare tune played briefly, then the voice resumed. “The Abo Junior Art Competition was held today at the village square and it was an interesting occasion to behold.” I smiled. Interesting indeed. “We are pleased to announce that the winner of this year’s junior art competition is Jeremiah Nwaeze.” An applause track was played before the broadcaster continued. “The winner gets a whopping sum of one hundred thousand naira in cash. However, there are also three runners up, alongside the winner, who get the chance to participate in a six-week mentorship program at the governor’s house in Owerri.” Another applause track played.
“Chai. One hundred thousand for ordinary art? How much do we even get paid as nurses?” one of the nurses exclaimed. The other nurses joined her in agreement. The broadcast had resumed and their chatter was distracting me, so I moved closer to the radio.
“The first runner up is Ikechukwu Gozie.” I squeezed my face like akara paste in hot oil. Ikechukwu was the son of our village Chief Priest. He could not draw a proper circle as far as I knew. Maybe his father had used juju on the organizers of the competition.
The second runner up is Dora Akhigbe…” the broadcaster paused briefly, “and the third and final runner up is…” There was silence. I clutched my stomach as excitement and fear squeezed in. I really needed this opportunity so that Mama would for once be proud of me. I wanted her to tell the students at school to emulate me. I imagined her saying in the assembly when school resumed next term, “Be like my daughter, Monera Azuka Ejiofor. She persevered and rose to fame right from this Abo village.” Then she would add with a big smile, “She has even seen the governor face to face!”
I strained my ears as the broadcaster cleared his throat and continued.
“The third runner up is Monera Azuka Ejiofor, the daughter of our village principal.”
I jumped up, screaming, “That’s me! That is me!”
The nurses giggled excitedly.
“Abeg, you go share me money oh,” said one nurse whose white uniform was already faded.
“Don’t worry, I’ll add extra money to her mother’s bill,” said another nurse who appeared to be the matron.
“Aunty, it’s not money oh. I’m going to the governor’s house in Owerri,” I managed to say as I dashed to the ward to break the news to my parents.
Papa was the first to comment. “Well, God works in miraculous ways,” he said, smiling and stroking his chin. He brought out a folded paper from his pocket, which he gave to Mama. I watched Mama’s facial expression change as she absorbed the content of the paper, Dike in one hand and the paper in the other.
“This is all too sudden,” Mama said, looking at Papa.
“What is too sudden?” I asked, confused by the smile on my mother’s face.
“We’re moving to Owerri. Your father has been transferred to the Anglican diocese there.” She paused, handed over the paper to me, then continued, “I am going to become the next principal of the government grammar school at Owerri.”
The glee on my parents’ faces made me wonder what gave them greater joy. The birth of a son, the move to Owerri, or the fact that it happened all at once. I wondered if my runner up position held any space in their joy.
As if Mama could hear my thoughts, she suddenly said, “I’m proud of you, Monera Azuka Ejiofor. You have brought goodness to this family.” She then began to narrate to Papa how I commanded the rich man to bring her to the hospital in his silver Volvo. We all laughed. My eyes welled up. Papa pulled me closer to his side and stroked my hair. I could perceive the familiar fragrance of the cologne that had stuck to him for years. I edged closer into him and let myself get lost in that familiar scent.
As Papa’s cologne filled my nostrils, images of bright colours began to fill my head again. I closed my eyes to catch a glimpse of what my next painting would be. This time it would be an image of Dike’s naming ceremony. Mama would be in her red George lappa and white lace attire. Her smile would stiffen from having to take too many pictures. Papa, in his white guinea lace with his crucifix dangling across his chest, would hold Dike with Mama. I would be at papa’s left, my arms wrapped around his waist with a wide grin plastered on my face. And of course, I would be in my beautiful Sunday shoes.
About the Author:
Adeola Aregbesola is a Nigerian writer passionate about telling narratives that mirror the African experience. She was a fellow in the 2023 Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop. She mostly writes literary fiction, articles and sometimes poetry. You can reach her on Instagram @ olaharegbesola or adeolaaregbesola95@gmail.com
Isele Magazine 