Chapter 5: Mountain Wahala and New Sunrise

I book bus ticket.

The process long—queue, sun, conductor dey shout. I hold my bag tight, heart dey race. First time in years, fear and freedom hold me together.

Six hours for road, three hours for keke, I reach one small town for South West.

Journey rough, dust enter window. Children dey wave for every stop. When keke stop, my leg dey shake with relief.

Dem talk say when person dey old, na him dey miss home pass.

Old men for park dey gist about home, eye dey mist. But na person wey no get home, dey miss am pass.

I remember all the room I don call my own, every borrowed bed. My heart pain me, but I push go front.

Even if family no dey again.

The thought sharp, but I swallow am. I go build new thing, even if na from dust.

I rent one small house with compound for the town.

The house humble—wall crack, zinc dey rattle, but air fresh, sweet with guava smell.

The local language dey sweet and strange for my ear. I small when I comot, since then I dey Kaduna.

Market trader dey talk quick, sound dey roll for my ear like music. I dey smile for the ones I sabi.

I don forget how to speak am.

Shame dey my tongue, but I promise myself say I go learn again. For now, smile and nod dey work.

Lucky, my neighbor for next compound still be outsider, but e come before me.

He greet me for pidgin, face open, no judge. Relief rush me like rain for dry ground.

That day, as I dey buy food for market, I no understand wetin one mama dey talk, na him help me.

He explain, dey laugh. The mama join, dey shine eye. “New wife for our town!” she tease. I blush, heart dey dance.

Next day, I make corn moi-moi thank am.

Smell fill my small kitchen. I carry bowl, hand dey shake small. He smile, dey chop. “You sabi cook, oh!”

Na then I know say he be painter, come here find inspiration.

Hand full of colour, sketchbook dey show me—face, tree, market for morning. “Everywhere na story,” he talk.

He look like person wey just finish NYSC, energy full body.

E dey waka up and down, dey hum, hair twist small. Restless, like caged bird.

After I leave everything for Kaduna, for this simple place, I remember say I still be only twenty-five.

Face still soft, eye never dull. I laugh for first time in years. I buy chin-chin for roadside, chop am hot, oil stain my hand.

But for Ajayi family, as Madam Ajayi, I dey carry myself like old woman.

There, laugh dey measured, step dey careful. Here, I dey breathe, even if I fall, no shame.

I buy flower for street, plant hibiscus everywhere for my yard.

Petal yellow, bold, dey happy. I dig ground with hand, dey hum old song wey Mama Ajayi dey sing.

Beside the flowerbed, I put small rocking chair.

Evening, I sit, listen to cricket, let mind wander. Peace dey, new but sweet.

E simple, but everything fit me well.

House no be palace, but e belong to me. For first time, I feel root dey grow.

For Ajayi family, na yellow hibiscus everywhere because Bisi like am, and one expensive piano dey inside glass house.

The flower dey pain me—too much Bisi, no be me. Piano dey gather dust and memory.

That piano, na Tolu design for her, nobody fit touch am.

He polish am, sometimes stand for hours. I learn to waka pass am, pretend say e no dey.

That year, Mama Ajayi talk say make dem remove those flowers.

Her voice firm, tired. She wan make house be my own, in her way.

Tolu vex.

E burst, word sharp and hot. Even staff avoid am for days.

“If those flowers go, I no go come this house again.”

Threat hang for air, heavy like harmattan. Nobody challenge am after that.

Nobody mention am again. Bisi and those flowers become forbidden for Ajayi family.

The flowers stay, but pain follow. Even in death, Bisi rule Ajayi house. I learn to waka round her memory, careful not to disturb.