Chapter 4: Pepper Soup Tears and New Resolve

Grandpa sef don enjoy better life before.

I see him old photo—agbada, big car, wide smile. Him dey dance for owambe, hold trophy. Na true big man him be before wahala reach am.

He carry me go one popular private fish joint—dem dey famous for their catfish pepper soup.

The aroma from that place fit wake dead man. The smell of pepper soup, hot and sharp, dey make my stomach twist, but I bone face. Waiter dey shine teeth, everybody dey hail Grandpa: “Odogwu, you don show face again!” Na respect full everywhere.

But we reach late, fish don finish.

Waiter shake head, say, "No more for pot." Grandpa sigh, rub him stomach. “Next time, we go come early.”

As we dey go, na so we jam our family.

My leg nearly fail me. Their laughter loud, as dem dey gist with soft drink and pepper soup for front table.

Four of dem dey together, dey chop fish dey laugh.

No be only Mummy and Halima, even Daddy and Brother wey say dem busy come dey there.

Halima wear new gown, Daddy dey raise glass. Everybody dey jolly. Na only me and Grandpa dey look like stranger for outside.

My mind don strong, so nothing move me for the scene.

My eye just cold, I hold my chest, tell myself: “No cry, Amara. No be your people.”

But Grandpa eyes red with vex. He rush go, wan scatter table, but the marble table no gree move.

He grip table, shake am. Waiter rush come, beg, “Oga abeg, no break table.” Grandpa voice loud, everywhere hush small.

Daddy stand up, drag Grandpa one side: “No be like that. We really busy before. When we get chance, we wan carry Amara and you join, but una don go.”

He dey talk fast, sweat dey his forehead. For his mind, he dey try form peace maker.

Mummy, dey form pity: “Amara no wan accept us, no even wan live with us—wetin we go do?”

Her face squeeze, lips tremble. She wan make everybody pity am. Halima drop fake tear.

My brother, Musa, just dey look me with eye wey fit cut person.

He cross hand for chest, frown deep. His eyes dey sharp, like say him dey warn me from far.

To calm Grandpa, Mummy come try hold my hand: “Amara, since you dey here, join us chop.”

She stretch hand, voice low. Everybody watch, waiter dey peep from counter. But my heart don dry.

But na only bone and leftover remain for table.

Fish head dey plate, small piece of yam, pepper soup cold. Nobody remember say na me dem suppose dey welcome.

I just pull my hand: “No need. I no like fish.”

I talk am soft but clear. For Naija, if you no want wahala, better hold your ground quick.

Everywhere come quiet.

Even music wey dey play for background, DJ reduce volume. All eyes land on me. My heart beat small, but I no shake.

Daddy try patch: “If you no like fish, no chop am. Amara, I don get you admission letter for Divine Academy, one big private school. E no easy at all. Make you focus on yourself. Later, you and Halima go the same school, so behave—no disgrace Musa family.”

He raise voice, dey talk with pride. For Naija, school na big thing—family dey measure status with am. Him think say e fit sweet me.

Him talk like say I suppose dey grateful.

He dey wait make I kneel down, thank am. For here, elders like that kain respect.

Last life, I really happy.

I dey jump up, dey call orphanage friends, dey tell them my luck don shine. I think say life don better.

That school na big name—if you no get money or brain, you no fit enter.

Principal dey ride big car, students dey speak phoné. Even parents dey form big man for PTA.

So I go.

I iron uniform, shine shoe, dey waka with pride. My hope big.

But I see say almost everybody there wicked.

For class, girls dey group together, dey gossip. Boys dey form gang. If you no get clique, you go suffer.

Except the few top students wey school dey protect, others just dey find who dem go bully.

The top five dey get special chair, dey chop better food. Others dey use you do errand, dey laugh you for assembly.

Because of Halima gossip, everybody for school sabi say I be orphan before.

She dey whisper my gist for class, even teacher hear. For Naija, gist dey fly fast like okada.

Dem mock everything about me—my walk, my English, my old clothes, even my hair.

Some girls laugh as I dey talk. One even touch my hair, call am "broom". Dem dey use slang: “See as you dry like crayfish!”

Halima even snap my plain underwear, post am for WhatsApp status make people laugh.

Dem dey shout, "See pant na! E don red!" for corridor.

She dey show everybody for hostel, dey form big girl. I cry, but she just dey laugh with her friends.

Some girls hold me, drag my cloth open make dem see my underwear…

Dem push me inside bathroom, block door, dey mock me. I fight but dem strong pass me. Nobody help.

With all this wahala, I no fit read at all.

Test dey suffer, my brain dey jam. I go sleep with wet pillow every night.

When I find out say na Halima dey behind am, I slap her.

My hand hot, Halima shock. She run go staff room, dey cry, face swell.

She run go house, red eye, go complain.

She form big tears, tell Mummy say I wicked. Neighbours hear am.

See as slap mark show for her face, my family craze.

Everybody gather, dey shout. Neighbours peep window. Na so family for Naija dey overreact quick.

Dem no let me talk.

Dem shush me, say, "Keep quiet!" I dey wave hand, but nobody look my face.

Mummy abuse me: “How I go born this kind wicked pikin? If I know, I for no bring this bad luck come house!”

Her mouth sharp, words bitter. She point finger, say, “You don carry bad spirit come.”

Daddy and Brother beat me—one slap, one kick.

I dodge, but dem catch me. Pain bite my back, tears drop.

Na second time wey dem beat me after I return.

I count the marks for my body, tell myself say enough don do.

"So just because you enter Divine, you don craze? Shame dey catch me," my brother talk, drag me out my bad memory.

He snap finger, face hard. I shift eye, no wan answer am.

I no look am. I tell Daddy: “No need. I go Unity High School.”

Na public school, but na real people dey there. No forming, no eye service. My voice clear, confidence dey my tone. Everybody shock, even waiter stop clean table.

Daddy and Brother shock.

Mouth open, hand for air. For their mind, na disgrace say I reject their offer.

Mummy no believe.

She dey look me like I don dey mad. She hiss, cross leg, look Daddy.

Daddy think say I no get sense: “Orphanage life don make you get small mind, Amara. Make I tell you, Divine—”

He shake head, dey look pity-pity. For Naija, elders dey think say dem sabi pass pikin.

I cut am: “I dey go Unity High!”

I raise hand, talk am strong. For my mind, I dey proud say I fit decide for myself.

Unity High na public school, na merit dem dey use, and e even better than Divine.

Their result dey shine every year. Everybody respect Unity High—students dey win spelling bee, dey enter university sharp.

Lucky for me, I always dey try read, so my result dey good.

I dey wake early, read by candle. Even teachers for orphanage dey hail me—"Bookworm!"

But last life, because I dey find family love, I enter wrong road.

I dey chase shadow, forget say my life na my own.

This life, I no go dull. Na book go change my life.

I dey write goals for paper, hang am for wall: “Success pass love.”

With my result, I fit enter Unity High.

My heart dey beat small, but I hold my ground. Unity na my dream school.

Daddy, Mummy, and Brother look me with one kind face.

Silence heavy like rainy cloud. Nobody talk for two minutes. Everybody dey digest my talk.

Everywhere quiet.

Even fork drop for table, sound loud. Grandpa squeeze my hand under table, give me small nod.

As dem see say dem dey notice me, Halima begin cry: “Sister, you hate me? Na why you no wan eat with us, no wan live with us, no wan go same school? I go move out. Once I commot, Grandpa and Amara fit come live for house…”

She sob, voice break. Her crocodile tears dey flow, but I no move. Everybody rush her, dey wipe her face. She dey act like Aunty Ramota for Yoruba film.

Once she start cry, Daddy, Mummy, and Brother forget my own, rush go pet her.

Mummy hug am, Daddy rub her back. Brother dey promise say all go better. Na only Grandpa stay with me.

I carry Grandpa, comot from restaurant.

I hold his hand, we waka go road. He no talk, but him smile small. For my mind, I dey thank God for Grandpa.

Grandpa no even argue with dem again. He let me hold am, we waka go.

We reach bus stop, breeze blow us. Grandpa pat my shoulder, say, "You strong, pikin. I dey proud of you."

But this time, my heart no shake—her voice no fit break me again.