Silence Is All I Dread

As the meal progressed, our silence grew louder, like a clock towk-towking in an empty room. This was supposed to be my welcome-back meal, a time for celebration and congratulations. Instead, it felt like a funeral feast, full of heavy, leaden silence and unspoken disapproval. The snake plant by the corner had turned yellow. Why did Mama stop watering it? She used to adore it. I wanted to ask, to breathe life here. But she had her eyes fixed on her plate. The okra soup dribbled to her elbow as she brought the food to her mouth, and she lapped it all up. When she savored her cooking like this, I knew it was terrible. Red oil slicked the surface of the soup like spillage, and the intense aroma of undercooked vegetables hinted at a hastily prepared concoction. 

A sudden clap broke me out of my reverie. Mama had smacked at a fly; she crushed it between her palms before wiping the remains on her dress. The sound echoed in the otherwise silent room like a gunshot, drawing a fleeting look of disapproval from Papa. 

He ate like a bomb disposal expert defusing a ticking time bomb, his fingers methodically and deliberately shaping the fufu. My ever-hasty father’s face was so close to his plate that he seemed to be trying to inhale his food, and as he ate, he guided his food to his mouth with one hand. Usually, people would complain that Papa stared straight into their eyes, like the White people do, as if trying to see into their souls. But now, he seemed to be avoiding my gaze. 

“Pass me the water,” Mama said. 

I cringed at her voice. As I handed her the water jug, she looked at me with a wrinkled face. I resisted the urge to reach for my braid, recalling how Mama would slap my hand whenever she caught me chewing it. Instead, I hummed a tune to distract myself. 

“You’re not eating?” Papa asked. 

I feigned deaf. He didn’t even bother to look at me. 

“Let her keep misbehaving until I’m ready to deal with her nonsense.” 

“It’s ok. Leave her alone.” 

“Am I holding her?” 

Papa turned to me and stroked my arm. “Eat your food, nne.” 

“Go on and continue spoiling her.” 

A minute later, she bolted from her seat, sending it crashing to the floor. She skirted around the upturned chair and strode into the kitchen with her plate. That was my mother, the prickly cactus with sharp spines that could wound. 

I washed my hands and stepped outside onto the balcony, where I sat with my back against the wall and my legs pulled up to my chest, absently chewing on a frizzy strand of my braid. The evening was ripening into the night, the sky turning a deep shade of indigo. Despite the darkness, our street teemed with activity. Through our wrought-iron fence, I could see the women returning from the Orie market, carrying heavy baskets that seemed to push their necks into their chests, their chatter muffled with the strain. Neighborhood mothers chased after their giggling children to drag them home as rickety buses farted and chugged past. 

My mind was fixated on what had happened inside, like a hawk on its prey. It was as if two strangers, disguised as my parents, had taken up residence in our home. My mother’s peevishness was familiar, but she occasionally soothed the injury of her words with treats, like when I’d find generous pieces of meat buried beneath my plate of jollof rice after she’d flogged me. My lecturer-father was an encyclopedia of witticisms, a master of one-liners. He once told me, after catching me with a love letter from a school crush, “Never fall in love. Love comes only to those who’re standing.” Despite their lack of overt affection, I knew my parents were happy together. But now, something was off, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. 

*          *          *

Day after day, my parents seemed to split apart like dry oil bean seeds under the unforgiving harmattan sun. The once-pleasant ritual of dining together became a distant memory. I suspected that Papa had started eating out, for he rarely dined at home anymore, except for the coffee he hastily gulped down before heading to school. Afterward, Mama would order me to “take that rubbish cup to the kitchen,” as if the sight of it disgusted her. 

I used to associate silence with peace and solitude, but the one that enveloped our home now was of a different sort. It crept in like a harmless stranger but soon became a scorching kiln, heating up every corner of the house. 

Mama’s sporadic outbursts had intensified, and now, more often than not, they were directed at me. I learned to hold my tongue around her, as even the slightest provocation could set her off, causing her to throw things. She even tried to grab a pot of boiling soup to throw at me when I asked her why she was talking to herself in the kitchen. Thankfully, the pot had broken handles, making lifting difficult for her. She could have severely burnt my glowing chocolate skin. 

I woke up in the dead of night to pee and heard whispers from the next room. I strained my eyes in the darkness to adjust and carefully survey the room. Holding my breath, I leaned towards the door to catch every word. The intensity of their hushed voices sent shivers down my spine, and I could feel the tension building in the air. I shifted closer to the sound of their conversation, my legs pressed tightly together. But as my spring bed creaked under my weight, I froze, wondering if they had heard me. 

Papa’s voice was edged with frustration. “You can’t continue doing this, Urenna.” 

“Can’t you see I’m tired?” 

Outside my window, the night hooted and chirped. 

Papa persisted. “Is it when you’re fifty, you’ll start having energy?” 

“You disrespect me with that child and expect me to have strength for you.” 

Is she referring to me? I wondered. 

Papa began to speak again, but Mama cut him off. “Oohm, Obiajulu, it’s late, and I need to sleep.” 

The bed squealed and the bedsheet flapped. Suddenly, warm liquid seeped between my thighs. I scrambled out of the room, my heart pounding. 

*          *          *

The air inside the church was thick with the smell of candlewax and the sounds of people shouting. My head spun, and my nerves were on edge as I sat in the pew, trying to focus on the Mass. But it was impossible with Father Ebube at the pulpit, shouting his homily at the top of his lungs. The congregation joined in, screaming out their agreement and adoration. It made me want to punch someone in the face. 

Beside me, Mama was nodding and amening at every word, her eyes closed in rapt attention. Father Ebube was her ideal priest, a holy man whose voice alone could send demons back to hell. If there was anyone in the world Mama would listen to, it was Father Ebube. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. 

I grabbed a copy of the parish bulletin on my way out. The priest’s office hours were listed inside: Mondays and Fridays, 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. When Mama’s alarm rang the following morning, I was up. 

“Where are you going?” she asked when she saw me getting ready. 

“Joining you at the church.” 

“You?” 

I nodded, enjoying the disbelief on her face. 

As soon as the dismissal hymn ended, I hurried out of the church before Mama could trap me in an excruciating prayer session at the Marian grotto. The door was already open when I arrived at Father Ebube’s office. A mere three-minute walk from the parish church, the office building looked like it had seen better days. The walls were peeling and cracked, revealing layers of pastel colors. I sat on the cast-iron bench on the veranda, my hands recoiling at the feel of the rusted metal. 

“Who’s there?” the priest called from inside. “If you’re here to see me, you can come in.” 

Father Ebube sat at a cramped wooden desk, the huge Bible open before him like a barricade. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses, and I saw a faint stitch line just below his left brow, hinting at a long-healed wound. He recognized me instantly as Urenna’s daughter. Until that moment, I had always taken pride in being my mother’s perfect copy. But now, an overwhelming urge gripped me to strip off my skin and disavow any resemblance to her. 

“Actually, Father, I’m here because of my mother,” I said. 

* 

The hot sun beat down on the concrete backyard as I scrubbed away at the clothes, lost in the rhythm of my work. Suddenly, Mama’s voice shattered the peace, harsh and demanding. I cringed briefly before setting down the soap and walking towards the house. The urgency in her voice quickened my pace. 

“Ukamaka!” she repeated. I remembered my grandmother’s warning about spirits mimicking loved ones’ tones and waited for my name to be called again before answering. She was pacing the sitting room when I walked in, hands gloved in lathers. She gripped me by the wrist and pulled me closer to her. 

“Stand here!” she said. “Have you gone mad, this girl?” 

I looked at her, wondering if she had gone bonkers. 

“Why must you shame me like this, eh?” 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said, wriggling my hand to release her hold. 

“How could you tell Father all those things about me? Me,” she thumped her chest, “your mother.” 

“But I only—” 

“Shut your mouth.” She slapped me. 

It was so unexpected I stumbled and grabbed my cheek. 

Papa rushed out from the bedroom and snatched me to his side. “For God’s sake, leave this girl alone.” 

“You should first ask her what she did.” 

“And so what? Can’t you get a cane and flog her like a parent?” 

The left corner of my face stung. I still held it, afraid it might melt away if I did not. With all the anger flooding my chest, I turned to her and said, “I hate you.” 

She shuddered, took a step backwards and narrowed her eyes into slits, as though I had returned the slap. I relished the sight. I hid behind Papa, fearing she might pounce on me at any moment. 

She picked her handbag from the sofa and trudged into the bedroom. 

*          *          *

Papa came home one Monday afternoon with a pack of grilled chicken, his face beaming. He hardly came back on Monday afternoons, except when there were university strikes. I was convinced that only medical practitioners were on strike, so I pressed him to tell me what the celebration was, but he kept saying, “Ribe ife! Enjoy!” Mama didn’t join us for the meal. She watched us from the sitting room in complete silence, which unnerved me, making the chicken taste like red earth on my tongue. 

After that day, Papa began eating at home, and my mother cooked and served the meals, but she never joined us at the table. I suspected she had embarked on a severe fast from food and speech. She wore her headscarf around the house and sometimes took her Bible even to the toilet. Her hand trembled when she picked up even the lightest objects, and the veins in her arms appeared varicose and green. The angles where her neck met the shoulders had hollowed out. It was as if something had given way inside her, and she was slowly sagging. I missed her presence, her nagging, laughter, and hysteria. Her silence seemed to slow down everything around her, but Papa seemed to thrive on her melancholy. Sometimes, I would retreat to my room and bite into my pillow until the fluffs filled my mouth, wondering how he could be so cold and indifferent. 

Overcome by guilt, I started planning the perfect time to make up with Mama. While she was frying dodo one morning, I offered to help peel the overripe plantains. She shook her head and calmly took the knife from me. I saw tears in her eyes. 

“Are you OK, Mama?” I asked. 

She wiped her face quickly with the end of her wrapper, then turned to the pan on the fire. I stayed there, watching her and realizing how distant I had become from my own mother. It occurred to me I had lost how to be tender with her. How had I let things get so bad between us? I stood for a long while before finally dragging myself back to my room. 

*          *          *

It took me three days before deciding to follow her to church. I stood behind Mama, where she knelt at the Marian grotto praying the rosary. She would forgive in this place, with prayer still warm in her mouth and the Blessed Virgin watching. The Mass had ended, and people hurried to the grotto to pray briefly and leave. I waited until it was only the two of us. Then I summoned all the calmness in me and filled my voice with it. 

“Mama,” I said. 

She turned. Tears like silvery scars were running down her cheeks. She wiped them. The steel rosary in her hand dangled and chinked. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. 

I stepped closer and squatted beside her. But my tongue wouldn’t bulge. I’d forgotten what I had rehearsed on my way to church this morning. Never in my life did I feel so deprived of words. 

She kept looking at me. Her chaplet moved lightly in her unsteady fingers. I lowered my gaze to it. On the main road, vehicles whooshed past. I could hear fading voices of passers-by. And the cooing of the turtle doves in the compound was growing louder and irritating. I felt abandoned by my mind; it couldn’t even squeeze out a single right word. 

Her hand rose and perched on my arm. It was wet and warm. “It’s OK,” Mama said. She leaned forward and hugged me. The last time she did this, I was still learning my multiplication table. I threw my arms around her, and they met at her back. My plump mother now felt like dry wood. A ball of warm air lay heavy in my chest. She made me sit. Then she dropped down next to me. Her eyes turned to the turtle doves flocking in the premises. She stared at them for a long while before she finally said: 

“You have a half-brother.” 

From her profile, I could tell she was serious. 

“He’ll be two weeks old tomorrow. He has your father’s bowlegs.” There was no trace of inflection in her voice. 

“Are you all right, Mama?” 

She looked at me, and her face strained with a smile. 

“She’s your age.” Mama turned to the flock of birds, obviously avoiding my eyes. “A little girl down the next street. I’m talking about the mother. I found out about them the day you came back from school.” 

I rested my head on her bony shoulder and held her hands. 

She pulled away abruptly, facing me. Her bloodshot eyes were dry. “I want you to always remember that you’re worth more than ten sons. Never forget that.” 

*          *          *

We must leave everything to God, Mama told me. But did she practice what she preached? She still cried and prayed in the middle of the night and moped about the house during the day. How could you surrender everything to God and still be weighed down by it all? Mama begged me not to tell Papa about our conversation, so I said nothing and avoided him like coronavirus. He gifted me a pair of original NIKE sneakers (something I had wanted badly for my sixteenth birthday, but he refused, saying it would make me look “tomboyish”). I left the shoes outside in the open, exposed to the elements. 

He ate very little when he was alone and eventually stopped eating altogether. He would sit in the dining room, staring blankly at his food, and then suddenly get up and leave the house. One day, seemingly out of nowhere, Mama said, “I shouldn’t have told you all that.” She did not wait to hear my response; she just walked out. 

*          *          *

One Sunday afternoon, I walked into the house to find my parents seated together, side by side, but not touching. Mama’s bare feet tapped restlessly on the tiled floor while Papa’s legs flapped like he was trying to fly away. Two empty plates with bones and crumbs of meat sat on the center table. 

I dropped my handbag and slowly kicked off my shoes, sensing that something significant had occurred. As I perched beside Mama, the question, “What happened?” sat on my lips like a pill, but I swallowed it. Something about this silence felt right, even reassuring. When was the last time I had seen my parents this close, this calm, and together? My curiosity swirled. 

“Get her some of the pepper soup,” Papa said, turning to his wife. 

“She knows where the kitchen is,” Mama said with a resigned air devoid of the petulance I was almost used to. 

I felt an unclenching inside me, an impulse so overwhelming I wanted to cry it out. But all I could do was lean on my mother and feel her shoulder jerk as she laughed softly and said, “Silly girl, just look at her.” 

IFEANYI EKPUNOBI

Ifeanyi Ekpunobi is an alumnus of Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus Trust Creative Writing Workshop and is currently studying at Boston University. His works have been published in The Saturday Evening Post, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Lolwe, and Transition. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.