Eno was sixteen, his stomach large enough to swallow the world but the little food served cold and meatless could not possibly quench his hunger.
“Mma, this food is too small,” he complained.
“Nko you are Oliver twist. This food has to remain till tomorrow.” Amaeti said.
Eno gazed at the small pot of food and imagined that even if he ate everything in it, he would still be hungry. His mother wanted him to manage the food with her till tomorrow? Impossible. If Amaeti was not the kind of mother that counted every grain of rice she fed him, it would have been easy to scoop up some extra spoons, he thought. But the woman was as frugal as she was sharp-eyed, even if the pot only shifted slightly she would know. Her voice interrupted his thoughts.
“When I return that pot better be the way I left it Eno or else we will wear one trouser.” Amaeti said. Eno frowned, careful not to throw an obvious tantrum as Amaeti was leaving to the market. When he thought she was out of earshot, he mumbled, “This wicked woman self,” his eyes red with rage.
She heard him but decided not to waste her energy on the boy. Eno wished he could have the meal all to himself. He wished he would be the only one at home with no one to give him orders or send him on petty errands. He wished she wouldn’t return.
*
Things were much better when Ubong was alive. He wasn’t rich but he knew how to hustle to keep his family safe from poverty. It was one of the things Amaeti, his wife liked about him — his uncanny ability to find solutions in the most difficult circumstances. She, on the other hand knew how to hustle to get back on her feet. When no one was buying from the little kiosk Ubong had set up for her, she started the Akara and Bread business and when there were no customers to sew clothes for, she started selling palm oil. Ubong worked as a keke driver and was at the slightest opportunity a businessman who traded everything from shoes to palm oil to household equipment.
“Na original Gucci be that, straight from Lonlon,” he’d say with a sprinkle of saliva from his mouth to a customer’s face, his eyes brimming with excitement. The customer would know that it couldn’t possibly be, that no original Gucci shoe would cost N3500 but they would buy it anyway in that his small keke. There was something about Ubong Udombon, a jolliness to him that was impossible to resist. It was also one of the things Amaeti liked about him, that impossible charm.
So when he died, she died too. It happened before Eno was born. A truck carrying gravel had skidded off its path and fell sideways along IBB Junction. Ubong was driving beside it. He could have been lucky if he listened to Amaeti that morning. But Ubong was as stubborn as he looked; attentive but when he made up his mind about something there was no going back. It was one of the things Amaeti hated about him, his stubbornness. Her baby kicked a lot that day, her heart raced more than it usually did and when she let go of him that morning as he left early enough for more passengers, more money; something left her. The truck crushed his body beyond salvage, pasted it on the tar like paint. Only the head remained, which according to passers-by flew a distance into a nearby dump. A neighbour had recognized the head, had ‘thoughtfully’ called to tell her that her husband was involved in an accident along IBB. The place was a five minute walk from their house. She quietly went there to see for herself. There was an army of people gathered at the dump so she forced herself through the crowd, this crowd of nothing but strangers: some with phones taking pictures, others with their mouths agape. She finally saw him, her husband as a bloody head, a red river gushing from him.
“Ubong, Iyammi, Ubong!”
And she screamed and screamed and screamed.
*
This was the second thing Amaeti hated about her husband, his death. Eno his son reminded her of pain, of a man that left her without even a proper body to bury. Eno was like his living ghost, too alike in resemblance, too similar in manner – his wild laughter, the way he frowned with discontent, the stubbornness she was beginning to notice. This is why she felt both love and contempt for him. Once when Eno was a few months old, Amaeti left him by the dump where her own husband had left her, sat there and watched him cry. She wanted him to feel the same pain she felt but it only ended up hurting her. It was there at the dump, her son’s bellow parting the harmattan morning that she decided to continue at all cost, even if she had to scrape the earth for a lifetime.
Her hustling would serve her now more than ever because there was really no one she could call on for help. Ubong was an orphan and only son while Amaeti was from a family that couldn’t care less whether or not she lived. She had chosen to run away from her village for love against the family’s wishes that she marry a useless Chief. The bride price could have saved her father’s life but she paid that huge price and eloped with Ubong to the city. Before her low-budget marriage to Ubong she called home to invite them for the marriage. It was a big mistake.
“Papa has died…And it’s all because of you Sister. The day I see you ehn I’ll chop off your head.” That’s what her little brother said to her; like her and like their father, he didn’t mince words.
*
With every passing year Amaeti learnt to fill in the role of both Father and Mother to Eno. She had heard of those wayward sons raised by single mothers who brought nothing but shame to their family. Eno would be different, Amaeti had promised herself. He was going to be a respectable person, a big man who would bring pride to his mother and community. Her family would hear his name and say, “that is Amaeti’s son.”
She was now a trader in the market who sold everything needed to cook a proper meal but never had one herself since her husband’s death. Amaeti had come to have a pessimistic view of the world, that suffering was an absolute necessity in life, and one had to bear life’s vicissitudes with courage, had to prepare for the many bad times to come in the future. If for example Eno fell ill with malaria there had to be money for his treatment. Frugality was her defense mechanism against financial insecurity. She would teach Eno to live this way.
“Mama, I need a new shoe and shirt.”
“Not now. I’ll have to pay your fees in September.”
“But the only shoe I have is that koi-koi. It makes so much noise when I walk in church. And my shirts are so big they wear me instead. My friends laugh at me, Mama.” Eno murmured.
“Well, tell them to mind their own business.”
“But Mama…”
Amaeti would raise her hands and Eno would know his pleas from then on would be futile. Sometimes he thought he was adopted. The whole world was enjoying but here he was selling garri and nkong leaves at Urua Akpan-andem. Of course, the next morning he would eat three grains of rice on a teacup saucer. He bit his lip at the thought of it.
*
The next day Amaeti had prepared Eno’s meal to avoid any excesses. Eno used more groundnut oil and crayfish for joloff than necessary. Like always, she put what she thought would be enough for him on the plate, no silly extras. Eno asked for more and she refused him. He called her a wicked woman and she paid him no mind. Probably she wouldn’t buy the shirt and shoe he wanted again because of the insult or maybe she would, and explain everything properly to him: the death of his father, her husband and the aftermath. Yes, she would explain everything and tell him she loved him, tell him not to hate her so much.
But she wouldn’t return as Eno had wished. There would be a truck loaded with gravel skidding off its path by IBB junction, she would be in the keke right beside it. And no one would remember that the same thing happened sixteen years ago.
Read – Chronicles of a Hungry Man – A Short Story by Jonathan Samson, Nigeria
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