Chapter 2: Night of Pain

That night, everywhere dark, harmattan breeze just dey blow anyhow. As I dey doze off, somebody pick me up, throw me out hard.

The wind dey cut skin, sand dey fly enter mouth, moon just dey hide for sky. My body dey shiver like newborn goat, as sleep dey drag my eyes. Suddenly, I feel hand—strong, desperate—fling me out like say I be nothing. The cold hit me, na so I roll for ground, sand dey enter my nose.

“Wuu...” I wake up from the pain, use my skinny hands and legs prop myself up, and see my mother—who usually dey act like say her head no correct—stand by the sheep pen, her face pale like person wey don see masquerade.

Her wrapper dirty, hair like matted sponge, but her posture stubborn—chin high, lips tight. If to say I no know better, I for think na spirit I dey see, not my real mama. The fear for her eyes, e strong pass hunger, pass cold.

I was born with the ability to see at night, but my mother, her eyes don blind since. Her eyes blank like palm wine cup after festival—nothing dey inside.

Na so I dey see things wey others no dey see—rat wey run for bush, shadow wey pass for back. Mama own different; she dey move as if darkness get hand dey cover her eyes. But even so, her ears sharp like hunter dog; nothing ever pass her notice.

I just dey move towards her without thinking.

As I take one step, ground cold enter my leg. My chest dey shake, but my feet dey push me go where she stand. For my mind, I dey hope say maybe tonight, she go let me hold her hand, small comfort for all this wahala.

“Mama...”

The word come out weak, voice almost crack. My throat dry, but the fear of losing her strong pass my shame. I dey beg her with my eyes—make she no push me away.

“Go! Get away from here! Don’t come back and make me vex!” Her hands grip the fence tight, knuckles white. After she talk finish, she groped her way back inside the flock, the iron chain on her ankle making loud clanking noise.

The chain heavy, and every step she take, e dey bite her ankle. I dey watch her stumble, sheep dey bleat, some dey shift for ground. The sound of the chain be like bell for village square, calling attention of anybody wey wan know say trouble dey.

I just stand there outside the sheep pen, no fit climb back in. I fear say she go hate me even more.

The grass dey cut my bare foot, cold dey bite my skin, but na the words wey she talk dey pain me pass. I dey wonder if na true say she hate me, or if na the suffering dey make her push me away. For that moment, I fit feel the weight of my own small body—like stone wey nobody wan carry.

I no get papa, I no get anything—I only get my mama.