Chapter 3: Rules of Silence

My mama dey talk about my twin brother wey die when we small.

Memory flash: two small boys in blue singlet, dey play with old rubber tire for front of our old flat, him laugh dey echo for sun. The pain for her eye just bring back all the questions wey nobody dey answer.

Dem always talk say na sickness kill am, but as I look my mama, e clear say story pass like that.

I try remember that time—people carry black nylon rice, cola nut, my mama cry, no chop, no sleep. I never ask more because the silence dey always heavy.

"Mummy, how my brother really take die? And wetin be that thing just now?"

Voice dey tremble, but I need answer. The way her mouth pinch, I see say she no want talk.

She no answer. Panic catch am, she grab mask put for my face.

The mask na thick Ankara, with dried herbs for corner. E dey smell camphor and bitterleaf. Her hand dey shake as she tie am for my head. She dey always say the herbs fit confuse any spirit wey dey look for us.

"My pikin, no ask. Wear this mask sharp sharp, and try breathe slow."

Her words heavy, voice dey break. I breathe slow, mask make my head heavy.

Honestly, as sixteen, I no too like when mama still call me "my pikin." But for this family, rule strong:

After sunset, nobody for family fit call my name.

E be like say night dey hear, and to call name for night na to open door for evil.

Even for day, dem no dey too call my name. Neighbour pikin go just call me "brother" or "boy." My name na secret.

One night, my mama mistakenly call my name for dream around midnight. When she wake, she slap herself so till blood come out.

That morning, the slap sound echo for flat. She kneel, dey pray with bitter kola for mouth, tears dey rush her face.

That same night, we run like devil dey chase us. No pack soup, just throw small cloth for Ghana-Must-Go, begin waka. Even my school sandals, I wear am wrong leg.

As small pikin, I no know anything. I just follow.

I dey think say na game, until I see my papa red eye and my mama hand dey shake.

Now, my papa quick wear shirt, begin pack bag, like that time.

He no look for socks, just push everything—birth certificate, Bible, wrapper, and that small bottle of anointing oil wey he dey hide under pillow—inside bag.

"Mama, abeg, pack the important things—make we commot now now."

Voice urgent, like when NEPA take light and we dey rush save meat from freezer.

Leave? For middle of night—again?

My mind dey turn. To start again, another place, where nobody know us, my chest just tight. Outside world suddenly big and cold.

Truth be say, we never reach two months for here.

My mama still dey remind me make I greet neighbour well, no let our way show. I never even sabi shortcut to provision shop.

Since I sabi myself, na so so waka we dey waka.

No time for friends, no join football team, always new face, new landlord, new secret.

South, north, village, city.

Our accent dey change as we dey move. Sometimes, I forget which language to use answer.

We never stay one place reach one year before.

I no even know wetin e mean to decorate room or plant flower wey go grow pass one rainy season.

My mama wipe face, dey cry.

Her sob deep, chest dey rise and fall like say she dey carry world for chest. She wipe tears with wrapper, stain am.

"When all this hiding and running go end?"

Her voice break for the small room. Question sharp like new razor.

She drag suitcase come, I grab her hand.

Her hand cold and small, finger grip mine like person wey dey drown.

"Mummy, abeg tell me—wetin we dey run from since all these years? Wetin be that thing just now?"

I dey beg now, words heavy as the mask wey still dey my face.

She stroke my face.

Hand soft, warm, thumb dey follow my jaw, like when I be baby. The touch get love and regret.

"No ask again, my child. Na our fault."

The words sting like curse. Her eye dodge mine, like say she no fit face her truth.

I tire for this waka-waka life, no get home. But dem no gree tell me anything.

Frustration dey burn my belle, like hot ogiri. I wan shout, break something, but na only to clench fist I fit do.

Anger rise for chest. I sit for ground, refuse to move.

Floor cold, rough for my skin. I cross leg, determination strong for bone. Tonight, I no go let dem drag me.

"If una no tell me the truth this night, I no dey go anywhere."

My voice loud pass normal. Both of them freeze, look each other, dey argue with eye.

My papa, in middle of packing, rush come slap me well.

Slap loud, hot, ear dey buzz. Eye water, but I hold tongue.

"You this stubborn pikin! You don forget wetin happen seven years ago?"

Voice fierce, but I hear fear under. He glare, breath dey heavy, like say he wan use memory knock sense into me.

Seven years ago…

The words dey swirl for my head like harmattan dust. Body cold, old memory dey wake up.

My head dey ring, I remember that drying ground wey blood full everywhere.

Hot sun for red earth, fear taste, children scream—everything rush back.

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The drying ground: For our village, na the big open place where dem dey dry cassava or maize for sun. Here, na where people dey gist, old women dey pick beans, sometimes church choir dey rehearse if rain no fall.