Oluronbi did not say anything for a long time. She was on her knees before the Iroko, thinking about her family, her father, her mother, her brothers, her sisters – all gone.
‘All right,’ Oluronbi said. ‘I will give you my first child.’
‘You must swear,’ the Iroko said.
‘I swear that I will give you my first child.’
‘You must go and swear before the king of your village,’ the Iroko said. ‘When you come back, I will tell you where they are.’
Oluronbi ran into the village and swore before the king that she would give the Iroko her first child if the Iroko revealed where her missing family was.
When Oluronbi got back to the forest, her family members were all standing beside the Iroko tree.
She was so happy, she hugged all of them. ‘Where have you all been?’ Oluronbi asked. ‘What happened?’
‘We can’t remember,’ they said.
‘How did you find them?’ Oluronbi asked the Iroko.
‘That is a secret of the forest,’ the Iroko said. ‘I can never tell you.’
‘Thank you,’ Oluronbi said.
‘Don’t forget your vow,’ Iroko said.
‘I will never forget it,’ Oluronbi promised.
Oluronbi went back into the village with her family. Whenever she remembered her promise to the Iroko, she became very afraid. She stopped going into the forest to gather firewood for her cooking; she stopped going to the forest to gather herbs to sell.
Many years passed and Oluronbi never saw the Iroko.
However, any time someone from Oluronbi’s village went into the forest, the Iroko would ask about Oluronbi.
‘How is Oluronbi doing?’ the Iroko would ask.
‘She is going to her husband’s house tomorrow. In fact, these twigs that I am gathering will be used to cook at the wedding.’
‘How is Oluronbi?’ the Iroko would ask. ‘Is she enjoying her husband’s house?’
‘Oluronbi is too lucky, she married the best man in the world. She is even pregnant already. She is very happy. I only wish I were as lucky as Oluronbi. Why did I have to marry a foolish man like my husband?’
‘How is Oluronbi?’ the Iroko would ask.
‘Have you not heard? She just had a baby girl. They named the child Aponbiepo.’
‘How is Aponbiepo?’ the Iroko would ask.
‘She is the most beautiful child in the village. Her skin is so fair, so spotless. I have never seen anything like it. You don’t need to ask if she is Oluronbi’s daughter, she is exactly like her mother from head to toe. If only my own daughter were that beautiful, what kind of luck do I have?’
As Aponbiepo grew older, she was warned never to go into the forest. Every morning, Oluronbi warned her child never to go near the forest.
But one day, while Aponbiepo was playing with her friends, they decided to go into the forest.
‘Come with us,’ they told Aponbiepo.
‘My mother says I must never go into that forest,’ Aponbiepo said.
‘But there are beautiful trees there with sweet fruit.’
‘My mother says I mustn’t go there.’
‘Why?’ they asked.
‘I don’t know.’
The other children laughed. ‘So you have never been in the forest?’
‘No.’
‘Never in your life?’
‘No,’ Aponbiepo said.
The other children laughed and laughed and laughed. ‘So you have never seen the forest?’
‘No.’
‘You have never seen the deer?’
‘No.’
‘You have never seen the very tall Iroko that is the king of all trees?’
‘No.’
‘Then you have not seen anything; you don’t know anything. You have not seen anything in your life,’ they said.
‘Goodbye,’ the other children said, ‘we are leaving for the forest. We are going to find some twigs and eat sweet fruits. We are going to say hello to the Iroko, the king of trees.’
‘I’ll go, I’ll go,’ Aponbiepo said. ‘Let me go with you. I want to see the king of trees.’
The children went to the forest and that was the last time anyone ever saw Aponbiepo. The other children came back to the village with the twigs. They did not even notice Aponbiepo was not with them until Oluronbi came out and asked, ‘Where is my daughter?’ They searched every inch of the village for Aponbiepo but nobody could find her. The only place left to search was the forest.
When Oluronbi got to the forest, the Iroko refused to say a word to her. Oluronbi pleaded and pleaded, but the Iroko would not speak. Oluronbi never saw her child again and the trees stopped talking to human beings after that.
The reasons why we do the things we do will not always be the ones that others will remember. Sometimes I think we have children because we want to leave behind someone who can explain who we were to the world when we are gone. If there really was once an Oluronbi, I do not think she had any children after she lost Aponbiepo. I think the version of her story that survived her would have been kinder to her if she’d left behind someone who could shape the way she would be remembered. I told Olamide several stories, expecting that one day she too would tell the world my story.
18
A mother must be vigilant. She must be able and willing to wake up ten times during the night to feed her baby. After her intermittent vigil, she must see everything clearly the next morning so that she can notice any changes in her baby. A mother is not permitted to have blurry vision. She must notice if her baby’s wail is too loud or too low. She must know if the child’s temperature has risen or fallen. A mother must not miss any signs.
I’m still sure that I missed important signs.
I had decided as soon as she was born that I would breastfeed Olamide for at least one year. I still had a long way to go on the morning that I missed the important signs; she was just five months old. I was feeling sleepy that morning because I’d had to wake up several times during the night to feed her. At dawn, I showered, gave Olamide her bath, rocked her to sleep and laid her in the cot. Then I climbed into bed to get a few hours of sleep, fully expecting her to wake me up with her wails within a few hours.
I woke up around half past noon and was relieved that Olamide was still napping in her cot. I went downstairs to get some food and must have spent about thirty minutes in the kitchen. After I finished eating, I went back upstairs, expecting to find my daughter awake. She did not always cry when she woke up; sometimes she would stay in the cot, gurgling and amusing herself.
When I leaned over her cot, Olamide seemed unusually still. It took me about a minute to realise that she was not breathing. I picked her up and screamed her name. I shook her and tried to check her heartbeat. I ran downstairs with my baby in my arms, still screaming. I rushed about the sitting room trying to find my car keys. I probably spent a few minutes searching for the keys, but it felt like a year. When I’d checked every surface and kicked the cushions out of the chair, I stood in the middle of the room for a brief moment, holding my limp baby close to my breasts.
I remember picking up the phone and calling Akin’s office. I know that I spoke with him, but I do not remember what I said. I remember dropping the phone and leaving the house, running out of the estate into the street where I flagged down the taxi that took me to the hospital.
19
Yejide was sitting in the corridor when I arrived. Not on one of the benches but right on the cemented floor. I could see her as soon as I left the hospital parking lot. Wasn’t sure she was the one at first because there were no shoes on her feet. Should have known when I saw the bare feet that something had gone very wrong.
I crouched when I got to her side, put my arm around her shoulder, even waved a greeting at a nurse that I recognised.
‘Get up,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK. Has the doctor said anything?’
I assumed that Olamide had been admitted, figured they might have
found out what had caused whatever was wrong and had given Yejide an update before I arrived.
‘Do I need to pay for anything? Yejide, please get up. No need to sit on the floor. Relax, she’ll be fine. You know they say children are resilient. Oya, stand up.’
She stared up at me, eyes wide, and mouth open.
‘Yejide?’
She blinked and swallowed.
I shook her a bit because I could tell that she was not fully present with me. Her hair was in disarray, so I placed my hand on her head, pushed her tresses backwards.
‘What did they say happened? Have you spoken to any of her doctors?’
‘They have taken Olamide to the mortuary.’
My hand fell off her shoulder and I fell to my knees beside her. ‘What do you mean by “mortuary”?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Yejide said, holding her head in her hands as though its weight had all of a sudden become too heavy for her slim neck to bear. ‘Akin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t take long. I was hungry. I just wanted to make something to eat. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.’
‘No,’ I said, sure that I wasn’t processing what she’d said quite right. It didn’t make any sense for her to mention Olamide and mortuary in the same breath. ‘Wait, wait. Calm down, please. Olamide, where is Olamide?’
She ran her hands through her hair, slapped her head, then spread her arms. ‘They have taken her to the mortuary, Akin. They say she is dead. They say my daughter is dead. They say Olamide is dead. They say . . .’
I stood up, rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand because I felt as though everything I was seeing was tilted. I walked down the corridor, away from her, stopped when I could no longer hear her voice, then turned back to look at her. She kept slapping her head, but there were no tears. She did not scream, just kept hitting herself, her breasts, her thigh, her face.
Don’t know how long I stood at the end of the corridor, just watching her, trying somehow to absorb the fact that after everything Yejide and I had done to have a child, we had, without warning, lost Olamide. Didn’t think it was possible for the world to change so suddenly. I was aware of other people moving up and down the corridor: I heard heels clicking, people speaking, felt some bodies push past mine. But I felt so alone, as though within the space of time it had taken Yejide to say – they have taken Olamide to the mortuary – I had been transported to a planet with no human life.
Eventually, I went back to Yejide, held her hands as she stood up, led her to the car, and helped her into the passenger’s side.
Still don’t know where I got the strength to walk into the emergency ward. Only know that I found myself in front of the matron on duty.
‘I’m Mr Ajayi,’ I said. ‘My daughter was brought in some hours ago – Olamide.’
She led me away from the ward into a cubicle, offered me a chair as she opened some drawers. She placed some documents in front of me, asked if I wanted to see the body before signing. Took me a few minutes to realise that by ‘the body’ she meant Olamide. I shook my head because I couldn’t speak and started signing the documents. Didn’t read a word of the text, simply looked out for the signature boxes on each page and appended my signature.
The matron offered her condolences when I got up to leave, assuring me that the doctors had done their best, but the baby had been dead on arrival. I shook her hand, said thank you; told her that I appreciated their efforts.
Yejide was sitting still as a rock when I got back to the car; I could only tell for sure that she was alive when she blinked. I was supposed to offer words of comfort, tell her something to alleviate her pain. I’d done it before on condolence visits, spoken to colleagues who’d lost spouses or relatives, had found words to tell them everything would somehow still be all right.
I jammed the key in the ignition, gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windscreen at the people walking up and down in the sunny parking lot as though it was just any other day. I did my best to think of something to say to my wife, even found enough words to string together into a sentence or two. And because I wanted my words to have maximum impact, to give comfort for what I couldn’t yet fully comprehend, I turned to look her in the eye.
Then I noticed the breast-milk stain on the front of her green blouse. I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra and the stain was right in front of her right nipple. It was a fresh stain, small, about the size of a baby’s hand, Olamide’s hand. I simply forgot whatever it was I had wanted to say. As I watched the milk stain spread downwards, I realised that the ground under our feet had just been pulled away, we were standing on air, and my words could not keep us from falling into the pit that had opened up beneath us.
20
Moomi said Olamide was a bad child, an evil girl who had chosen to die. I almost slapped her when she said it.
It was her way of comforting me, convincing me that my Olamide wanted to die, that there was nothing any mother could have done. It was not working and she knew it. I could not stop thinking of my baby, how wicked it was that she was forever trapped in soft yellow and her skin would never match her ears.
I was untouched by the downcast faces of mourners who filled my sitting room. It was their silence that touched me, squeezed my heart, the almost total silence of the mourners broken only by soft words meant to comfort and encourage. If my Olamide had grown older, if she had married and had children before dying, if it was me or Akin who had died, the mourners would have been wailing openly, not biting their lips and shaking their head and asking me to forget because there would soon be another child.
It squeezed me inside that no one wailed or screamed. Everyone was so organised. There was no chaos, no crashing chairs or utensils, nobody rolling on the floor or tearing their hair out. Even Moomi did not dance. No one was lost for words. They all knew what to say. Don’t worry, you will soon have another child.
There was no framed photograph on a table with a condolence register beneath it.
It was as if nobody would miss her. No one was sorry that Olamide had died. They were sorry that I had lost a child, not that she had died. It was as though, because she had spent so little time in the world, it did not really matter that she was gone – she did not really matter. One would think we had lost a dog that was dear to our hearts. It squeezed me deep inside to see people so calm, as if nothing much had been lost. And when voices from the too-calm stream of consolers told me to imagine how terrible it would have been for this to have happened at a later date, on the eve of her graduation or the eve of her wedding, I wished I could wail, scream, roll on the ground and give her the mourning she deserved. But I could not. The part of me that could do that had gone into the morgue’s freezer with Olamide to keep her company and to beg her forgiveness for all the signs I had missed.
The funeral took place within five days. Akin and I were not allowed to attend and we would never know the burial spot. My mother-in-law kept reminding me that I should not pester anyone about the spot that had been chosen. She whispered into my ears that I must never see her grave because then my eyes would have seen evil, then I would have experienced the worst thing that could happen to a parent, which was to know a child’s burial place. I did not respond to my mother-in-law’s words. I lay on the sitting-room couch through the morning, holding myself perfectly still, waiting for the moment they would place her little coffin in the ground. I was sure that if I lay still enough, I would know. I lay motionless and watched the clock until it became blurry. Time passed in a haze. I vaguely remember Akin picking up his car keys and saying something to me at some point. I stayed on the couch until I realised the time was two o’clock. The interment would have been over by twelve noon. I had felt nothing all day. As still as I had been, I had not been vigilant enough. I screamed then, a short piercing sound that left me coughing. A sound I could not sustain as much as I wanted to. Even then there were no tears, not a single drop.
Moomi was by my side instantly, tracing her finger across my scalp. ‘Before
you know it you’ll be pregnant again. You will recover, you’ll see,’ she said as though I had a cold and only needed to rest a little so that I could get better. I wished she were dead instead of my child. I turned away from her and did not tell her that I was already pregnant. Walls of pain closed in on me from every side; I tried to push, but the walls were concrete and steel. I was mere flesh and miserable bones.
Akin hinted, advised, cajoled and finally insisted that I go back to putting in full hours at the salon. I had not told him yet that I was pregnant.
I actually never told him. When my stomach became too big to ignore, he leaned against the kitchen door’s frame and asked me. ‘Are you pregnant?’
I picked up a knife from the plate rack.
‘Again?’ Akin added, as though he was just remembering that I had been pregnant before.
I cut through the water leaves, gripped the knife too tightly and exerted every muscle in my arm as if I was cutting a tuber of yam.
‘Yejide?’
I stabbed the knife into the wooden chopping board and turned to face this man who was my husband. I clasped my hands over my protruding belly. ‘What do you think, Akin? Tell me what you think is in my stomach.’
‘Why don’t you just answer my question?’
‘You think I have strapped a calabash to my stomach? You, this man. Is that what you are thinking?’
He scratched his eyebrows and looked away, fixing his gaze on some point above my head. I turned my back to him.
He cleared his throat. ‘So you are pregnant?’
It was still a question. The man thought that my head had scattered, scattered to the point where I would strap a calabash to my stomach. That was why he was still asking a question: he could not believe. The weather was hot and the only thing I was wearing was a big T-shirt that stopped mid-thigh. Did he want to inspect my stomach? Maybe cut through the skin a little, just to be sure? I prised the knife from the chopping board and let my hands fall to my side. I nodded. ‘Yes.’
He made a sound that I could not quite make out. It sounded like congratulations, it sounded like he was choking or holding back a sob. I stared out of the kitchen window, the knife’s steel cold against my bare thigh.
Stay With Me Page 11