The traffic is lighter than usual today. I’m driving carefully because the rain that was beating hard on my windshield usually camouflaged the real depths of the potholes on the road. My shoulders feel lighter today and I know why. It is a Friday, which happens to be the favourite day of people with decent, stable jobs. I approach a junction that I know very well and realise the traffic is dense. The traffic lights regulating this junction are stuck on the orange colour and have been like that for a month. My apartment is not too far from here so I decide to lean back on the seat, with my eyes still focused on the road. There’s a police officer in a raincoat, motioning furiously, trying to direct the traffic. The rain is pouring hard and I feel sorry for him. Such dedication to a job that is reputedly poorly paid is admirable. I hear something familiar, but I can’t figure out what specifically. I look around and realise it’s coming from my radio. The sound of the rain outside was dulling it, but I could distinctly hear it. I stretch my hand and increase the volume and I’m immediately filled with a wave of nostalgia. Prince Nico Mbarga’s tune titled “Sweet Mother” is playing on the radio. I start nodding my head to the tune and tapping my finger rhythmically on the steering wheel. The traffic is barely moving and the lights from the cars on the other side of the road illuminate the inside of my car in a strange way. It reminds me of my childhood and takes me back to a specific memory.
Read – The Hell in my Body – A Creative Non-Fiction by Enit’ayanfe Akinsanya, Nigeria
I was on my way back from school with my little brother and sister. We were hungry but knew what to expect when we got home. Our next meal would only be in the evening because that’s all we could afford. It usually consisted of rice in different forms. Our father had passed a year earlier, and life had gotten extremely difficult. My mother was trying to provide for us, but taking care of three children with no assistance was breaking her. We had two meals every day. One in the morning, usually consisting of bread and butter, and one in the evening. It was barely enough for the four of us, but my mom worked hard to provide that, and I often worried that she would soon follow my father. I fetched water from the well when I got home, gave my younger siblings a bath, and subsequently took one myself. This was a routine I followed after every school day, on an empty stomach. It was automatic for me to take care of my siblings and myself till my mom got home, also on an empty stomach.
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By evening, I was feeling my intestines twist from hunger. When she got home, she cooked rice in a very small pot. She was an excellent cook, and the aroma wasn’t helping. I went to the kitchen, hoping that my presence will expedite the process. My mother saw me and smiled weakly. She looked so tired. She rubbed my hair with her hand and told me food will be ready soon. There was a loud knock on the door. She asked me to open it and I obeyed. It was my uncle; my father’s brother. He was very loud and drank a lot. I didn’t like him, and I don’t think my mother did either. She greeted him and he requested for whatever my mother was cooking. It was against my mother’s rules to refuse anyone food. Some minutes later, she brought him a plate of rice. His first reaction was to complain at how little the food was. I really disliked that man. My mother apologized and went on to feed the younger ones. Only a meager potion was left and she gave it to me. It tasted really good, and I was so hungry that I wolved it down, after which I went to the cramped room I shared with my siblings.
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My uncle left soon after, and I heard my mom wash the dishes. The food was so little that I was hungry soon afterwards. I went to tell my mother, but she was not in the house. I opened the door and saw her sitting in front of the house. She was sobbing gently while looking at the sky. When she noticed me behind her, she quickly wiped her tears and asked what I was doing out of bed. That’s when I noticed she was the only one who had not eaten. As a matter of fact, she never had the morning meals that we had. I sat by her, feeling embarrassed that I had come to tell her I was still hungry. She caressed my head and advised me to work hard at school and become somebody so that my siblings and I will never have to be hungry again. I remember being filled with an extreme wave of love for her.
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The loud honking of cars behind mine dragged me back to reality, in the same spot, holding up traffic. The policeman is furiously waving at me to move ahead. I cross the junction and speed home. “Sweet Mother” is no longer playing on the radio. I don’t recall when it ended, but another song is currently on. I finally reach the parking lot of my apartment building and sit in the car for a while. I take out my phone and call my mother.
“Hello, mom.”
“Hello, Essah, how are you?” She sounded sleepy.
“I’m fine, mommy. How are you?”
“I’m doing well my boy.”
I was looking for what to say, but couldn’t find any. It was silent for a moment.
“Essah, what’s wrong?”
“I actually became somebody, mommy, and we never have to go hungry again.”
“I know, my boy. Thanks to you, we have not gone hungry in years,” she said with a chuckle.
I once again felt that intense wave of love for her. I think she heard my unspoken words, and I heard hers.
“Good night mommy.”
“Good night Essah.”
I walked up the stairs to my apartment and made a meal for myself.
This Creative Nonfiction was published in the November 2022 edition of the WSA magazine.
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