RukkyGrowing up in Lagos is not exactly the most pleasant memory I have. My family never lived in one place for long; so the concept that our beliefs, values, and teachings emanate from the impact of the people around us never really applied to my siblings and I. Few people impacted us. But even despite this, I learnt early enough that in Lagos, women had a level of independence that was rare to find in not-so-civilised places. There were married women who were not so married, there were people with children who lived like barrens, there were women who manned the family, there were the stay at home mums who knew everything about everybody on the street. There is no kind of woman you would not find in Lagos, yet, there was none close enough to have any kind of life-changing impact on the way I saw the world while I was growing up.
Like I said, we never stayed in one place for a long time. So, there was never familiarity between us and any other people apart from my immediate family. The saying “No family in Lagos” was as true as they came.
But despite this, I knew women could be strong if they really wanted to be. I knew women could man the house alone. I knew women who could move mountains for their children. I knew women who would spend their last dimes to push their children forward.
I met the first woman who ever left a life long impression on me when we moved to the second house that I can remember us living in. “Mummy” as we fondly called her was in her mid 50s, lived in our compound when I was about 10 years old. She was an active woman, very tiny and fragile looking; whom just by looking, you’d know used to be very beautiful in her prime. Something had taken away the light in her eyes but if you looked close enough, you’d know she still struggled each day to retain the little remaining. She and her 4 children lived in the room next to ours in the 17 roomed compound we lived then at Egbeda. To say she loved her children was an understatement- she was fierce, strong, and resilient. She would sleep after everyone had entered their rooms and wake up before everyone did. Hardworking woman to the core. She didn’t have much. But her children were all in school. That year, her first born, Brother Kola was a final year student at the University of Lagos, the 2nd and 3rd daughters were in a catering school and the School of Nursing respectively, and her last born was just about finishing secondary school at the time.
‘Mummy’ was a cleaner in Unilag. As early as 3am, she would wake up to make soya milk and soya beans, take it to school for sale, trek back home, then take the batch remaining at home to the bus stop closest to the house for sale until late at night. That was how she kept her children in school. I remember one day when I sat with my parents- my mother was telling my father about her asking ‘mummy’ why she worked so hard.
“Her husband is a bank manager,” I remember clearly the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she recounted. “He left her with her kids for a younger woman.” I remember her blinking rapidly to keep the water pooling her eyes away, and clearing her throat to compose her voice.
“There is a patch of baldness in her head. She said it was from her days as an alabaru before she got the ‘cleaner’ job.”
“O má ṣe o,” I remember my father shaking his head pitifully. “Àwọn ọkùnrin míì ó l’ọrun ṣá.”
I also remember Mummy Samuel; the fat woman in the first room whose husband was a bricklayer. She was a stay at home mum; the kind that knew what everyone on the street ate for dinner the previous night. There were rumors that she learnt hairdressing; but throughout our stay in the house, she never held a cutting comb in her hand. Mummy Samuel was trouble extraordinare; if she wasn’t fighting her husband for not leaving enough money, she was yelling at 5am; cursing unseen people for talking about her the previous day. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was beating her 3 sons like phone thieves. She represented everything my father disliked in a woman- a chronic alcoholic, stylish beggar, and street flirt, with about 38 shades of skin on her face alone; effects of excessive bleaching. Her bulging tummy would make you think she was pregnant if she hadn’t announced several times during fights with her hubby that he hadn’t gotten sex from her for over 6 months. But everyone knew she was giving enough sex to the ‘boys’ in the small hotel down the street.
We thought it was her regular early morning wahala the day we heard screams from their room at around 5am. Loud curses and sounds of things being thrown around resounded in the whole house; so loud that even the late wakers hurriedly trudged up the corridor to see what was happening.
“Iya Samuel, ìkà ni ẹ o (Mummy Samuel, you’re wicked),” her husband’s repeatedly screamed until he broke down into choking sobs. It was a cold morning, and I hurriedly pulled my aṣọ ìbora around me to keep the cold out as I creeped towards the balcony. I remember thinking my mother would kill me if she saw me going out but the noise was so terrifying.
“Mummy please no go,” her oldest son, Samuel wailed loudly as she kept slapping his small hands away from her Ghana-must-go bag. I remember the short tight gown she wore, and she bright red shade of lipstick she wore as the light from the bulb poured on her. Virtually everyone on our street was in our compound. No one knew what to say. The men, including my father was with Daddy Samuel; imploring him to ‘keep it together like a man’ as sobs physically wrecked down his body.
Mummy Samuel had allegedly secured a travelling spot to an unnamed country with one of the ‘boys’ and didn’t inform her husband until the morning she was leaving. She left her 3 boys behind.
The most impressive woman I met, however, was Iya Mariam. Between her early and late 30s at the time, she was a single mother with 3 children-a boy, followed by 2 girls. No one knew who her husband was, or who she had the children for. However, it was the first time I saw a young woman, apart from my mother do so so so much for her children. She was a tailor in the mornings, and for the rest of the day, she sold cold drinks in holdup. Petite, beautiful, smart, hardworking to a fault. Her children attended the best schools in the area, wore the neatest clothes, ate the best foods, and even had toys. Even without a husband, she had to be one of the most decent ‘Lagos women’ I knew at the time. I remember almost everything about her- her hopeful eyes most of all, her warmth, and most importantly the shining love in her eyes when she looked at her kids. If there was one thing everyone loved about her, it was how overprotective of her kids she was- she literally shielded them from anything that’d make them believe the world was anything but good.
“She was married into this house,” our landlady randomly said to my mother one day, after staring at Mummy Mariam with so much pity in her eyes. “She was brought from ibadan; looking so pretty and naive. Her husband is a fine young man who worked as a cashier for a company in Ikeja.”
It was the first time I every heard anyone speak about her husband. It was always a hushed topic; like they shielded the woman from any kind of pain the topic might have brought.
“He got the chance to leave the country with the Oyinbo people in his office and left. He promised to come back soon. It’s been seven years”
I remember how much pity filled me. I was young and I knew how sweet a complete family was. But I also understood how the lack of it could be. It never showed though- she was as solid as a rock. She never slowed down or tired for a day; and she never looked like her pain, or acted it out on her kids. And when you ask her why she does so much without assistance, she’d just smile and say;
“Kí wọn ṣáá ti s’oriire ni koko. Èmi náà a ní ìsinmi nígbà yẹn” She banked so much on her kids. She had a strong conviction that one day, they’d be successful. After we left the house, I never knew what became of her.
Today, the dark clouds covered everywhere. It matched my mood perfectly. I hate going to the market; and a bit less than that is the great dislike that I feel walking from stall to stall to – price things. I tire easily; so the stress has never been something to look forward to. After putting it off for 4 hours, I finally got off my bed, threw on a gown, pulled up my braids, held it together with rubber bands and hastily scribbled my purchase list in a jotter. The rain had just stopped but the clouds were gathering again and if I didn’t take the chance to make a quick dash to the market, I knew I’d starve for the rest of the day. The first bike I called insisted on #150, and I waved dismissively at it; continuing my careful walk down the sloppy path that led to main road. If one wasn’t careful, one would become a muddy roll of shawarma from the fall one would take.
I had bought everything I wanted, and was waiting for a bike when I saw a familiar figure coming up the road. I hadn’t seen the face, but I knew there was something striking in the woman walking towards me. So I waited.
“Mummy Mariam,” I screamed. It was my childhood neighbor. I was taken aback when she came closer. I saw the recognition in her eyes, and I saw her struggle to be excited at seeing me but I also saw something else. Irrepressible sadness.
“Did her child die?”
“Did something bad happen?”
“Does she have a mental problem?”
“Wait, what’s she doing in Ibadan?”
I had 40 questions in my head at once. Then I looked at her. I really looked at her. She looked dishevelled; like she hadn’t taken her bath in 3 days or more. The makeup on her face looked shabby to day the least, and she looked so old and strikingly defeated. Gone was the smile; or warmth, or the hope-filled woman I knew. Something had replaced it- a kind of harshness and hardness that was hard to figure out. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what to say to her. Something had changed and I was scared of what it was.
“Ekaasan ma,” I greeted sullenly with a slight bend of my knees. I didn’t want to be too peppy. It would be insensitive and hard to take back if something bad was coming on the way.
She tried hard to smile but instead, what appeared like a grimace showed on her face as she answered with an almost imperceptible nod. An Okada man pressed his horn as he zoomed past and she flinched.
I asked about her kids and she didn’t respond. Silence, as she dropped her eyes to the ground. My heart started beating loudly in my best. Standing before me was who used to be one of the most positive women I knew while growing up. Something had happened and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know it.
“Àwọn Bolaji nkọ.” I persisted, mentioning her son’s name with the hope that it would rouse something within her. I knew being more specific by mentioning her kids’ name was a mistake immediately after I said it. She transformed totally right before me. Mummy Mariam broke down into loud wails that attracted people by-passers on the road- she looked 50 years older as sadness overtook her entire demeanor. She crumbled. To say I was scared would be an understatement. I was terrified. I looked around but saw nowhere I could take her to-away from the main road, or anyone interested in us enough to help me pacify her. My heart was beating a million miles my hour.
‘What have I done?’ I thought desperately.
‘Something bad has happened.’ My mind kept reiterating wildly.
I just stood there. I couldn’t being myself to leave, or to say anything else. Finally after what seemed like ages, she brought herself together and asked about my mother and my siblings.
“They’re fine.” She asked if I was staying in Ibadan and I said ‘yes’. However, I couldn’t ask her what she was doing back in Ibadan. The last I heard of her son was when he gained admission into UNILORIN a couple of years ago and even at that time, they were still living in Lagos.
“So you didn’t hear.” She said it so quietly I wouldn’t have heard if I wasn’t staring intently at her face. She shook her head and paced back and forth. I was getting worried, but I didn’t know what to do.
“Daddy Mariam padà dé ní last year. After 17 years. He took my kids from me. He stole them. He took them away after all my years of suffering.” She muttered frantically in Yoruba. We were starting to draw attention but I did not care. I was so broken by the news.
This was a woman, whom the only thing that kept her going was the believe that her children would be successful one day. It was real, hot pain, to see her reduced to a near mental mess.
“Ó ti sọ mí àgàn alẹ́.” (He has made me into late aged barren). Ó ti gba àwọn ọmọ mi lọ́wọ́ ni (he has taken my children from me).” She wailed loudly again, and passersby took a few steps away from us. I didn’t care.
I saw Mummy Mariam keep struggling to keep it together but kept losing out every time.
“Wọn ti ru mi wá sílè wá (they’ve sent me back to my father’s house), ìṣe ọdún mẹ́rìnlélógún ti ko lérè (24 years struggle without gain).” She said on, and on, and on. Then she took off without looking back. I didn’t know what to do.
I slouched on my way home. I didn’t bother taking a bike; it was a long walk but I needed the pain in my legs to give me the kind of consciousness I needed. I called my mother on the way home and she said she knew. I hardly ever heard that much pain in my mum’s voice and I knew it affected her as much as it did, me.
“She sued him but the court said she didn’t have the financial capacity to take care of the 3 of them at their age because of their increasing needs. The court granted him the order to take them out of the country. That’s where they are now.”
I was so so angry. At the husband, at the law, at life. She’s definitely past the mental level of remarrying, and unless some miracle happens, she may not have another child. Yet, she lost out. Horribly.
Life is a fucking mess. It really does crumble the strongest ones. And fucks over the least deserving.
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