{THE BUTTERFLY} PART 1
“What are you doing with my diary? What business do you have with it? Have I not told you many times that it is wrong and rude to look into other people’s personal stuff, especially their diaries and journals?” I shouted at Jenny, my third child.
She is the most inquisitive of my four girls. Nothing ever escapes her sharp mind and eyes and this scares me to no end. When you give an instruction for the girls to take their baths early, it is Jenny who wants to know why. Tell them they cannot have pancakes for breakfast, Jenny is the girl whose big eyes will pop right at you, her unruly hair all over her face, running to your side to ask you why not in a whisper, as if to save you from embarrassment if her sister were to hear her question you. JENNY!
Her curious mind was both a blessing, and well, you know what. I am a Naija mum and living in Michigan is not gonna change that. I am not gonna call my daughter’s trait by any negative expression.
She looked up at me, all of her slim frame drooping as she stood facing me and not even afraid to look me straight in the eyes.
“I know you said so mummy, but this looks like an old journal. I did not even know that it belongs to you.”
“Really? Are you kidding me right now? Are you serious? So, if you did not know it belonged to me, who did you think owns it?” I asked her, with my hands folded across my chest as if to shield my heart from what was to come.
I looked like this confident mum who had it all together, when in actual fact, I was scared. I was scared that she may have read my old diary. I knew I would be in a mess if she dared ask me questions about the events narrated in the diary if she had read it.
“Hmmmm, actually, I haven’t had a chance to think about that.” She responded. She looked like an elderly woman who had to carefully choose her words in a court of law. This child of mine. Phew.
“so when were you going to get to that madam?” I teased, relieved that she had no inkling as to who wrote and owned the diary. But who was I kidding?
“But on a second thought mummy, I think the entries in the diary from what I have read so far are very similar to your story. I noticed the owner of this diary had a daughter at about age twenty. You were forty three on your last birthday right?” She said sweetly.
“Ha God. It is done. I am finished. This girl has read the whole damn book! How do I begin to explain myself to this girl?” I thought. I was shivering inside but I managed to maintain composure on the exterior. I had mastered that art, thanks to her father.
“And so what if I was forty three on my last birthday? How does that relate to anything?” I said, trying to look away from this girl who was bent on disgracing me in a foreign land. I need to get myself out of this situation but I can’t even think of how to do that.
“Is it not time for your hockey practice yet?” I quickly added in a bid to change the topic all together.
“No mummy, today is Thursday. No hockey.” She said with glee.
She derived too much pleasure in making me feel stupid. She started hopping around the basement as if she could sense my unease.
“Alright, can I have the diary now?” I asked carefully. Choosing my words with plenty sense.
“You mean YOUR diary?” She asked standing still for a few moments and looking at me.
“Did I ever tell you it is mine?”
“You didn’t have to. I already made the connection. Boluwatife is twenty three years old, you are forty three years old. The date on the page where the ‘ow-ner’ of the book wrote about when she gave birth to her first child was twenty three years ago and the ‘ow-ner’of the book wrote that she was twenty years old then.” She explained to my ‘confused brain’.
The discovery did not annoy me as much as the way she said it all and the emphasis on the word: ‘owner’. I felt like squeezing the smile off her face.
“That still does not mean anything.”
“I didn’t say it did. Just saying.” She said again.
“Alright, I have had enough of this. Go to the bedroom and help your sisters clean up.“
"But I want to read. Please mummy, I promise not to tell anyone about the diary. I promise.”
“Hand over that diary to me Jenny.” I ordered.
She knew her game was up and I was not going to allow myself to be the object of her reading pleasure.
You see, Jenny is a voracious reader who had read practically all the books in the house. I am sure she found my diary when she was searching for what to read. Gotta love her for that.
She reluctantly handed the book over to me and walked away, unhappy.
I held the book close to my chest, then raised it to my nose and inhaled the smell of old books. The memories came back and I sat down right there to read and see my life from another lens all over again.
#######################
“Moradeyo, Moradeyo.” My father screamed.
“Sir.” I answered. I was about fourteen years old.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you since? Are you deaf?”
“I am sorry sir. I went to buy the beer you sent me. I was entering the compound when I heard you calling my name.”
I replied as I quickly entered our apartment.
“You are mad. So because you went to buy a bottle of beer, you decided to sleep there abi. Go back, get out. Did you clean your legs with the rag? Did you wash them at the entrance? How can you enter the house with those filthy legs of yours?” he screamed as usual.
I had forgotten to do all those things which were by now our normal. My father was not a rich man but his cleanliness and meanness was second to none. When I swept, he will sweep again. The plates were never clean enough for him to eat with until he washes them again. No wonder my mother left, no wonder no woman could cope with him. Ever since my mother left two years ago, I had been at the receiving end of his extremities. Even our neighbours were tired and pitied me. They whispered and gossiped about him all the time. They thought he was not human. He had no friends and nothing was good enough if he did not do it.
My father, Adeogun Adefeso was a man who started off as a commercial cab driver who eventually bought his own cab and he even had two by then, but he would never bring them home for fear of being killed by witches and wizards. He was doing well financially, but he will never let it reflect in our standard of living.
Our sultanas which were our only Sunday attires since we attended the Celestial church of Christ were always well worn but neatly washed and ironed by him.
I ran out of the house to wash my legs and clean them as instructed, then I heard him shout again.
“M-O-R-A-D-E-Y-O!!!!”
ÀDÙNNÍ
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