SO, I DO.
I tell them everything I remember of my journey with Mother Crow: the ecstasy to begin with – the flash of stars as we soared in the sky, the moon’s smile on our descent. Then I tell them about the bats and moths nestled in the cotton tree, the guzzle-nuzzle of antennae and stamens.
The more I talk, the more the memory of bird sensations quickens an itch I need to scratch; an itch just beyond my reach.
Neck cricks, twitching.
Feathers flutter beneath the skin.
Fur bristles, yearning for air.
I rub my shoulders, patting them to soothe a twinge there.
But as I go on to describe what I saw and smelled in the cotton tree, I notice Nana cocking her head the better to hear me; Grandma Baby’s rubbing her nose, while Aunt Ruby raises an eyebrow. Aunt Clara, face gleaming, peers at the rise and fall of my halo of hair; the dangle twist of curls that shake and flicker with drops of river as I talk.
They watch me. Then, in a single swoop, the four of them lean in, as if they’re seeing me for the first time.
‘You’re your mother’s daughter,’ says Nana.
‘You seem to have enjoyed it…’ Aunt Ruby, as surprised by her observation as I am, mumbles: ‘She’s Sika’s daughter, all right.’
‘I didn’t enjoy all of it,’ I reply. Which is true. And yet, when I recall the throb of heartwood, the thrill of crimson-petalled flowers turning to greet the moon, my blood spins, singing.
There’s no denying my exhilaration because four pairs of eyes drill into me once again.
I hurry on. I’ve been raised not to pass on gossip, not to tell tales, yet in describing the nightmare at the core of my journey, I repeat what Ma said about my father. ‘I wanted the truth,’ I go on, ‘so I travelled to her heart’s shrine, the flame of her soul.’
Aunt Clara smiles. ‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘Your mother tried to bind you. Even so, you used what I’ve taught you to interrogate her.’
Grandma Baby agrees. ‘I told you your talent would be the making of you, Sheba. You did well.’
They applaud, mesmerised by the tale I’m telling, while Nana, a hand on her chest, moans. She rubs her heart, easing tension there. When her breathing has steadied, and she’s able to talk once again, she asks: ‘And what did you see in your mother’s shrine, grandchild of mine?’
All of them inch closer, so close their curiosity buzzes like bees over pollen. ‘Grandchild of mine,’ Nana insists. ‘What did you see in your mother’s flame?’
‘What I saw?’
‘Must I ask a third time?’
It takes me a moment to grasp what’s going on, and when I do, the answer is in Nana’s eyes. They’re begging for a crumb of comfort, a drop of honey to sweeten the taste of bile on her tongue. After years of Ma’s antics, on a day of sorrow and rage, Nana’s still looking for the best in my mother. Anything to make up for the havoc she’s caused.
I get it. I see it. I am not an okra mouth, yet I cannot lie to Nana. Not now, not ever. ‘Grandmother of mine,’ I say to her. ‘Ma took my father’s life as easily as that!’ I click my fingers and the image imprinted on my soul of Ma draining my father’s blood flares. I bristle with anger as, once again, I see Ma feeding on him and hear her words: Better to eat a man than marry him.
‘My mother’s a monster, Nana. She’s sasabonsam. Not only is she cruel, she’d like to claim the power she believes Nana Gyata su gave you. She called you a hypocrite last night! She said you’re the biggest hypocrite of us all.’
Word for word I repeat Ma’s rant. ‘She said that one day, one day, I should ask you how you got rid of your husband, the grandfather I never met. You bore him three children. Then whoosh! The man’s gone forever.’
Nana’s mouth tightens into a thin line of pain. But having started, having fanned a cauldron of rage at my mother, I’m boiling over. Nothing can stop me now. In fact, Mother Crow’s utterances spill out of me in her deep, ragged voice.
‘Ask your Nana exactly what your great-grandfather Nana Gyata su possessed that made her cleave to him more than her husband. Even in death, he has power. Power, he’s passed on to her.’
‘Enough!’ Nana moans. ‘Enough, Sheba!’
I pause and, in that moment of quiet, Grandma Baby’s nostrils flare and my skin prickles warning me that Ma’s close by. It’s almost dusk. The cotton tree will soon be singing its song again. Moths and bats will begin nestling in its branches and darkness will fall.
I feel that itch, that rub beneath my skin.
Feel it. Seize it. Shape it.
I stand tall, fingers balled in a fist, toes cradled by the strength of the earth beneath me as a gust of wind rushes in.
A crow’s feather drops at my feet. The scent of river licks my face.
The door slams shut and there she is, hand on her hip, reeking of liquor, chuckling.
She’s been listening to our conversation for a while, I reckon, because when Nana says: ‘What was hidden is now revealed. How long have you been standing there, Sika?’
Ma replies: ‘Long enough to see that my little chick here has found her voice and started squawking at last.’
She laughs. A belly burst of glee that jiggles the length and breadth of her, from swept-up locks to sandaled feet. Wobbling from side to side, slapping her thighs, Ma shrieks: ‘Aba! You people should see the look on your faces!’
She giggles, covering her mouth, before a peel of laughter, luscious as sucking a mango in the sun, circles the yard. A mango with a maggot in it.
The worm wriggles to the surface, for as Ma’s delight recedes, contempt glitters in her eyes; contempt for me and those she believes beneath her.
As suddenly as she started, Ma stops sniggering. ‘You people were talking about me,’ she says, folding her arms. ‘Tell me, Your Righteousness,’ she adds, addressing Nana. ‘What have I done wrong now?’
‘What haven’t you done, my daughter?’
