Baba changed when Mama and my siblings returned from the village. Perhaps it was because Mama too had changed. Physically weak, she had lost the charms of motherhood. The silence and resignation she brought from the village festered and turned into a disturbing fury. She found fault with us, shouted at us, insulted us whenever she insulted Baba and often wished to be left alone.
The day before, she had returned from the market very angry. Oyigwu ran to her, chanting ‘Mama oyoyo.’ She almost did not notice him when he clung to her. She had a faraway look as though it was not a market but a place of mourning she had come from. She entered the room with Oyigwu still holding on to her cloth. ‘Leave me alone!’ she barked at him. He recoiled and burst into tears.
‘Mama, why shout at Oyigwu?’ I asked, worried.
‘You shut up over there!’ she snapped back.
Unlike Baba, Mama often shouted at us. She even beat us, but always with good reason. Did she have any good reasons to shout at us now? Had Oyigwu done any wrong in welcoming her as a child welcomes its mother?
‘I didn’t buy anything for you, if that’s why you’re shouting “Mama oyoyo”,’ she said brusquely.
Oyigwu looked at her fearfully, then turned his teary eyes to me. He drew closer and I picked him up. ‘Stop crying. Let’s go out. I’ll buy you biscuits.’
Mama complained aloud about how the market had changed. People only stared with sunken eyes, wanting a lot of alubo for little money. Adults would go on their knees to beg for extras. She could sit for hours without a single person coming to buy her alubo. At home she did not count money as before, but sat brooding and lamenting, her eyes turned away from the TV. She accused Baba of causing her depression, sang sad songs and read her Eloyi Bible silently. With a heavy sigh, she retired to bed.
In the evening we were eating our supper when Imatum returned from an outing, clutching a small polythene bag. The weather was hot and there was no electricity. Unlike other families who ate dinner outside, we ate ours inside no matter the heat. The room was filled with the smell of our sweat and the aroma of the food. Imatum stood by the door and sniffed as if she had suddenly found herself in a smelly latrine. She asked Yakubu, who was sitting on the floor, to make way for her so she could move into the inner room. Mama and the girls were eating in the inner room, which was even hotter than the outer room.
‘Good evening, Mama,’ Imatum greeted her.
Mama exploded. ‘Where are you coming from?’
Imatum shouted her answer. ‘I’m coming from my friend’s house. Shouldn’t I go to my friend?’
‘Every day you go to your friends. Your friends don’t ever come to your house. Imatum, what a stupid liar you have become!’
‘I’m not a liar!’
‘You talk to me with a raised voice!’
‘You just leave me alone!’
Mama sprang up and came after her. Imatum turned and rushed towards the door, stumbling through the tuwo Yakubu was eating. Yakubu shrieked. Imatum was gone. She did not return until Mama had gone to bed.
*
Baba returned from Sabon Gari, bleary-eyed and belching an offensive odour of beer. He carried an old copy of Newswatch. He addressed Mama, ‘Look here, woman, we’re dying of SAP.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There you are, poor uneducated woman who makes trouble for her husband. Structural Adjustment Programme is…’
Mama interrupted him, raising an arm. ‘Don’t take me there, Father-of-my-children. You look elsewhere for the causes of your problems while they are here with you.’
‘That’s incorrect. I’ll tell you what you don’t know,’ Baba drawled, belching.
‘Not while you’re drunk.’
‘I’ll take that as an insult.’
‘Do something about the mouse holes in this room.’
‘Mouse holes?’ Baba asked as if something grave was being brought to his notice for the first time.
‘Don’t you see the huge mice that live with us in this house?’ Baba laughed, throwing his head backward. ‘Ija-gu-wa, you amuse me. If the mice didn’t live in the room with us, where else would they live? How would they survive?’
Mama smiled, in spite of herself. ‘I can see that something is wrong with you, Father-of-my-children.’
‘No,’ Baba retorted, ‘It’s you something is wrong with. You complain of holes in our tiny rooms when the whole world is infested with holes.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘The mice come out in the night to steal and destroy our things. Highly-placed human beings crawl out of their holes in big cars and aeroplanes in the secret of the night to steal and destroy common people’s wealth.’
‘I still don’t get you.’
‘Dullard!’ Baba shouted, saliva spurting from his mouth. ‘The mansion, hidden from public view, surrounded by a fence and tall trees, where the rich oga hides his thieving hands, is a hole. So is he not a big mouse?’
‘God gives and takes. He makes a man rich or poor…’
‘When he likes!’ Baba belched again, levelling a look at Mama.
‘You also have to ask.’
‘You don’t need to ask, Ijaguwa. And when he likes, he tells Muslims, “Hey, rise and kill the Christians”. And then turns to the Christians. “Hey, rise and kill the Muslims”. Is that not what the human mice have reduced God to?’
‘You didn’t go to church today, Father-of-my-children.’
‘Church?’ Baba sprang up, grasping his crotch and staggered out of the room, heading for the bathroom.
*
I accosted Imatum. ‘Where do you get money to buy these things and play Father Christmas always?’
‘What’s your business?’ she retorted. ‘Yes, I’m a Father Christmas. I know how to make money and help my brothers and sisters.’ She sucked her teeth, rolling her eyes in contempt.
‘Oh yes, I know you’re born to help others, but you make your money by following men about.’
‘I use my talent to make money. If you think I get money from men and you’re envious of that, you can go hit your head on a tree. I don’t use your body to follow men anyway.’ She gave me a sidelong glance, rolling her eyes again.
It was a hot afternoon. The air in our room was stuffy. Anger welled up in me. We were sweating, glaring into each other’s eyes spitefully. Her impudence maddened me. Our sisters were staring at us, unable to intervene. My body was growing stiff and hot. I dropped the book I was reading.
‘Don’t tell me nonsense when I’m trying to call you to order.’ I was wagging my finger at her.
Imatum burst into a mocking laughter, clapping her hands. ‘May God have mercy on Baba, the patient one. Baba has not roared to call me to order. But you, you want to kill yourself with the task of calling me to order. If I were you, I’d mind my own business. No use being envious of each other.’
‘Envious? Well, I’m not envious of a prostitute like you!’
She flared up. ‘Don’t call me a prostitute. I warn you, don’t call me a prostitute again. You’re the one who is a prostitute! Kill yourself with envy. That’s why this house will remain poor forever! ’ She stormed into the inner room.
I restrained myself from raging after her. ‘I’ll let Mama know of your fucking around to bring money home,’ I railed.
She rushed to the door of the inner room, almost screaming, ‘Tell her. Let her kill me. When she kills me, every envious mouth will be shut. Mama knows that I’m bound to be rich and nobody can stop me. Am I responsible for your condition? Book-reading poor boy like you! Your mates are making money outside. You imprison yourself in this oven, hunched over books, pretending to be an important person. Poor…’
In her outburst, she did not realise that I had drawn close to her. The blow caught her by surprise. She yelped and came after me. Her wild fingers went for my neck. I dodged and hit her left ear. She gripped the neckline of my shirt. I hit her repeatedly. She scratched me furiously with her long fingers. Ajara and Anyaosu tried to pull us apart.
Mama Tindele, fat and round, suddenly appeared in our room, yelling, ‘Leave her alone, Murtala! Leave her. You, take your hands off his shirt.’
But her fingers had dug into my shirt, madly tearing it. Enraged, I kicked her repeatedly, harder, more harshly. Her screaming voice rose to a pitch.
I heard Omodiale’s voice: ‘M-Boy! Unbelievable…’
I heard the voices of other neighbours in our room. I ignored them, ignored my siblings, but Baba’s sudden voice pierced through to me: ‘Murtala!’ I let her go and raised my head to see Baba’s face. ‘Do you want to kill her?’
I did not answer him.
*
It was night. Our door flew open and Baba, stark naked, hurried out of the room. Mama sprang up, alarmed. I stood up too. Mama made to grab him, but Baba trotted off, headed for the bathroom.
The children, women and men sitting in front of their doors, under the moonlight, watched in dismay. Some of them rose with exclamations.
‘Wetin be dis?!’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Who be dat?!’
‘Na Baba Murtala!’
Mama stood motionless in front of our room. I knew her feet would be too heavy to carry her. Why has the moon chosen to be bright this hour? Why? The neighbours were staring. No, don’t ask me for an explanation. Don’t ask me anything about this bizarre sight. I followed Baba, walking gently, bravely, making sure that I remained calm. The silence from everyone spoke of sympathy. Before he reached the bathroom, Baba grabbed his penis, his urine splashing around. He did not go inside. I stood beside him, unable to say a word. His urine gushed forth. I thought the world stood still as the gushing sound of Baba’s urine filled the compound.
‘Chei! Dis na piss?’ It was Baba Peter.
‘Na wa o. I for like am if to say we get tap wey dey rush like dat.’
Some people burst into laughter. I did not hear Omodiale’s voice.
I grew cold with shame. I looked at Baba’s face. He was rheumy-eyed, swaying as the urine flowed. He seemed to relish the way he held his penis, the way his crotch thrust forward. Still I could not talk. Why can’t something awful, more awful than this, happen now?
His penis still dripping, Baba turned sideways, staggering and knocking me out of the way. If I had wanted to keep pace with him, I would have had to trot. But I allowed him to go. It was a costly mistake.
Baba plunged into Baba Eddy’s room.
Mama Eddy screamed, ‘No enter my room! No enter my room!’
Other people shrieked along. Baba Eddy was not home. I rushed into Baba Eddy’s room where I found Baba standing and muttering in the centre of the outer room, turning round, confused by the shouting. I grabbed his arm and shouted: ‘Baba, this is not our room! You’re naked! In somebody’s room!’
He levelled his look at me and belched, rocking his head drunkenly. I was glad there was a power outage. I repeated what I had said, louder. Then widening his blurry eyes, he said, belching, ‘Mur-ri-ta-la, what are you saying?’
By now I was pulling him with all my strength. He yielded. His legs hit the doorstep and he collapsed, filling the doorway. I was helpless. I looked towards the others for assistance, unable to say a word. Omodiale promptly came to my aid.
‘M-Boy, let me raise him up. I can.’ He fixed his hands in Baba’s armpits and, biting his lower lip, struggled to raise him, staggering backwards. ‘Y’know, I underestimated his weight, M-Boy.’
No other neighbour came to help.
Omodiale succeeded in pulling Baba up. ‘Now to your room.’
I led the way.
‘For our place, dem say na quiet people dey dangerous pass people wey dey talk.’ It was Baba Peter.
Baba Fatima answered him, ‘Abeg, keep quiet, na wetin you get to talk be dat?’
‘Wetin I for talk? Dis policeman dey dis compound, even to greet, e no fit greet. E tink say na him get sense pass everybody. See wetin e don do now.’
‘Dat na yeye talk.’
Baba Peter raised his voice, ‘Wetin you…’
An angry female voice howled, ‘Abeg make una shut up!’ It must have been Mama Peter. Of all the women in our compound, only she could openly shout at a man.
Omodiale and I were struggling with Baba at our door. The neighbours crowded around, now silent as though in worship. They moved out of the way for us. Omodiale dragged Baba into our room. Mama had hidden herself inside the inner room, weeping. A number of children followed us.
‘Keep him on the floor,’ I told Omodiale. I pushed away the wobbly centre table.
Baba lay on the floor, in a sprawl, muttering something.
‘Thank you, brother Omodiale.’
‘Don’t mention it, M-Boy. Y’know, this thing happens from time to time. It’s part of the life we’re condemned to. Take it easy.’
Imatum suddenly appeared, shooing the children away. Some neighbours stood by the door, looking into our room, saying:
‘Murtala, sorry, you hear.’
‘Madam, sorry oh.’
‘Make una take am easy.’
‘Na so man wey dey drink dey do.’
I thanked the people for their concern and closed and bolted our door.
Baba was fast asleep, snoring. Oyigwu, awakened by the noise, took Baba’s hand, attempting to drag him. ‘Baba, shtand up. Baba, shtand up.’ Emayabo and others stood, watching in amazement.
Mama came out of the inner room, weeping, cursing and praying at the same time: ‘Jehovah my Lord, why am I fated to be with such a man? Tell me why all this is happening to me. Murtala, your father has lost his honour to beer. Tell me, when did this habit start?’
I could only stare at her. It occurred to me that Baba was never this disgracefully drunk when Mama and my siblings were away in the village. I did not bother to tell Mama that this habit was just as strange and off-putting as her own habit of being hostile towards us.