by Candice Iloh
I am thinking
about what
it’ll be like
to be the oldest
of three
Friday morning I learn
being the oldest means Aunty and cousins take my bed and what remains are my purple-and-pink blanket two pillows and me left to learn how to sleep above old carpeting like a camping adventure on this second floor of our suburban house and I will learn how to sleep with my face to the ground with my bed in the next room and my favorite dresser emptied so this house can fit us all
Aunty thanks god in the doorway
and greets me with a smile
and long sucking of her teeth
ah-ah! Ada, baby
you have grown so much
I see you have been eating well-well
was di news, baby
Aunty’s pidgin English
is so cool
I’m almost
able to ignore
that she
has already
called me
fat
I rush to hug her
catch the familiar
whiff of Nigerian sweat
in the pocket of her neck
where she holds me
I can forgive it
knowing she has
been on a plane
for fourteen hours
with a toddler
a baby
and stockfish
The first time Aunty cooked stockfish in our house
I didn’t know // the stench would become like // catching a whiff of a girl in desperate need of a shower // probably two days into her period // the scent clinging to me too fishy and rank // the kind of scent // they say to look out for // a sign you’ve messed up // your body’s natural pH wearing panties too tight // or being too fast for your age // but stockfish // dried and hard // is a loved ingredient found in tons of Igbo dishes // tastes much better than it smells // sticks to my hair my skin all my clothes // too often the cause for the kids at school // to smell me coming // squeeze faces into judgment and looks of disgust // its flavor more important than my chances at anyone ever // wanting to get close
Baby whimpers under Aunty’s squeeze
and I almost don’t notice
Aunty’s fingers clenched
into the folds of my back
then the thick of my belly
then the roundness of my cheeks
I’m smiling at baby’s soft skin
big brown eyes staring back
at me and I know for however
long she is here I will make sure
she is safe
On the second day Aunty makes it known that nothing is safe
not the bathroom
not the kitchen
not the tv
not the closets
not the basement
not the garage
not the backyard
not any bedroom
not the living room
there would be no using up space
for dancing like some kind of
little monkey who forgot
she is a lady
she is the new woman of the house now
and things must change
And her first project is me:
How to Fix Your Fat American Niece
I made the terrible mistake
of letting Aunty braid my hair sunday night
before school the next morning
I specifically asked for small cornrows like
I’d seen Alicia Keys wearing on the red carpet
her soft and kinky curls cascading in perfect lines
flawless tight braids parted and woven back with beads on the ends
on the red carpet she had been the most glamorous tomboy
I had ever seen, donning tight jeans a leather jacket and sneakers
Aunty oblivious, did not catch the vision
her hands twisting and weaving my coarse strands into
thick plaits clad with heavy grease was not the plan, when she finished
I counted six horrendous things parted down the middle
the next day an eruption of laughter let loose in the middle of the hallway
all the black girls crashing into the lockers in disbelief
and pointing, me wrapping each finger tightly
around my books as I reached into my backpack for a place
to hide
Hide
/hīd/
verb
to put
or keep
out of sight
or
conceal from
the view or notice
of others
as in
when the girls
at school point
and laugh
in my direction
I wish that I
could hide
as in
I’m glad
Aunty isn’t against
makeup cause
it’s the only thing
helping me hide
the hair on my top lip
as in
when Aunty cooks
the stockfish
I always close
my bedroom door
stuff a towel under it tight
making Dad and Aunty
accuse me of shame
ask me
what it is I’m trying to hide
I had learned I couldn’t hide
far before the sixth grade
it had been five years
since I’d kept my first journal
five years
since that Chicago apartment
and saturdays with my father
taking sips of his coffee
while I slipped across
the floors in my
socks
Today Aunty acts like
it was just some book she found
tucked in the top sock drawer
while putting away laundry
that she didn’t even do
she had no business in my things
but that didn’t stop her from
snooping in places that did
not belong to her I guess
little girls aren’t supposed to
keep secrets, even if
it was an adult who told you
this is just for you, that nobody
has the right to look inside
and judge your feelings here
you are supposed to trust
something that someone
can find and hold against you
like Aunty did to me that day
when I was trying again
because nothing is mine, not even
this
So you think your fahdah
is supposed to be by himself
you think he is all yours to keep
forever? she asks
you think all he’s here to do
is raise you? spend all his time
on you?
never move on with his life?
I’ve never talked to Aunty
about Dad’s loneliness
can not make out
what would make
her believe I’d think
something like this
about him
when I’ve eaten
popcorn I knew
I wouldn’t like
laughed at all
his corny jokes
to make my father
happy
had always
discovered
his smile
a big part of what
my life is for
But what I discover now
is that fire can live in your bones
that betrayal can
strike the match and light your
greatest fears ablaze
where I couldn’t believe the words
I’d written for myself
about the women I didn’t like
who weren’t Mama
buying me things to be with my father
had been seen by someone else
I vowed to myself to never do this again
I’d thought hiding it underneath
my mattress would be enough
to keep someone’s hands from
reaching deep inside
I thought the word PRIVATE
would be a warning to someone
who may not know if they should read
I thought the word PRIVATE
could still somehow mean
don’t touch
I thought PRIVATE
was a place I could feel safe enough
to speak and not be made fun of
or spanked
or called names
somewhere I knew I would be believed
I look up at Aunty
my head hanging too heavy
with what I know I can’t say
bouncing back and forth between
wanting to slap the smirk
off her face and wanting to
ease the burn behind my eyelids
wanting to cuss and stomp and
demand that she give me back
my privacy my space everything
she has taken by using my words
against me
she shifts her body in the chair
but keeps her eyes locked on
mine, her smirking turning to
full-blown smile then ugly laugh
knowing full and well she has
taken the thing she believes
no child should have and
there is nothing I can do
about it
Back upstairs and in my room-not-room
I slam the door closed
behind me with all
the force my arm
can give
bury my face
in a pillow
soak it
with hot tears
and muffled scream
An hour later I rise
from a heavy sleep, drenched
in the stink and wet of sweat
dressed in sad fatigue,
my room a tornado of everything that
once lived in the pink dresser
Dad bought me
the way my family sees me
I am still only in the second grade with nothing
I can safely call mine
I count twenty
of the first pages
once written only
for my eyes
grab
scissors
cut
rip
go to the toilet
flush
In this house
I’ve learned that children
do not raise their voices to adults
do not accuse adults of being wrong
do not accuse adults of disrespect
according to tradition, all of that
is impossible
The sixth grade was already impossible
without Aunty’s return to change everything / now I can’t eat without permission / I can’t watch tv without permission / it’s now my job to clean the kitchen / as the oldest child / as the first daughter / learning her duties as a future wife / and mother / who was going to understand / that all I wanted to learn / was how to make friends / at school
At school I was the funny black girl
my voice an instant punchline
my body an awkwardly shaped and useless pile of flesh
my hair styled too many years back
my clothes carrying the stench of stockfish and pepper soup
my father too proud to understand
being different meant being alone
Sometimes when I’m alone
I’m on a stage / there are lights / tons of lights coming from every direction / there are people in seats before me / their eyes glued to the jerk of my shoulders / the sway of my hips / the rhythm of my feet moving too fast for them / too smooth and I am perfect for the beat / my arms fling up and so does my body / I leap like I know this / I move like I’m seen
COLLEGE
I leave the cafeteria unseen just in time
to witness Sophia
finally making her
way into the building
with all her potential boyfriends
heard her voice before
seeing her face
heard her heels before
seeing them descend
from the first floor
into the basement
where the cafeteria is
and realize that everyone
who’s poppin gets there late
I technically can’t be late to anything yet
cause class doesn’t start
until next week so I figure
I can wander this building
where the smells of the cafeteria
rise above it
there are halls leading to offices
on the first floor and a ballroom
on the second where I hear
music blasting
for us new students on campus
every corner of this place
sounds like the parties
I’ve never been to
so I stay on the first floor
and dip into one of the halls
to look through everything
I can find posted
on the walls
On the walls of a college campus
you can find flyers to:
get your hair done just as good as in a salon
join weird clubs that are a safe space
try out for a team that wins
protest this fascist administration
audition for the dance program
apply
for a job
Dad said he would send me money
every month so I could focus on school
but I knew he’d use that to control me
parents paying for their kids to be in college
still try to tell you what to do from across the country
but Dad wasn’t technically paying
a scholarship means being here is what
being smart earned me after all those nights senior year
spent doing homework while kids my age partied
I cringe remembering those nights
my head bent over math books under a small desk light
crunching imaginary numbers and symbols
now remembering I still have to buy those books here too
think back to parents weekend
upperclassmen upended over horror stories
where they’d spent hundreds
on textbooks for classes failed for being boring
I shake my head bringing myself
back into this hallway eyeing the flyer
for the job that had emails attached
at the bottom for everyone to pull
I pull one and feel the flyer
with the dancer on it burning a hole into my chest
I stare back
take one of those
too
not to go look
I’m new here
so I have
every excuse
to walk down hallways
look into rooms
open doors
watch people
I don’t know
I’m making sure I’m not seen here
walking
just past dark studios
quiet and empty
hardwood floors
glistening like
they were freshly polished
for chosen feet
I peak around
the corner
of a door cracked
exposing a soft ray
of sunlight
see her here
by herself
hair pulled back
in a headwrap
oversized t-shirt
catching the air
feet bare with
spread toes gripping
the ground
watch her
run back and forth
across this studio
rewinding the music
keeping the volume
low
but loud enough
for her to feel
find it strange seeing her
face all the mirrors
smiling playfully into them
as if telling herself
yes that’s it
get it, girl
then stopping
when she stumbles
suddenly screaming
NO
DO IT AGAIN
In high school I had overheard the girls at church
talking about dance classes
I figured I would go someday
if it’s a class that would make me a student
if I’m a student they’ll expect me to make mistakes
I’m always making mistakes