You Girls Are Good

My twin sister’s name is Nkemakonam. Mine, Nkemjika. Both names are twin siblings of the word ownership. Silly names from silly parents with no things, given to girls with no one, maybe, a quarter-parent. Our father, when he was here, was a brain of dreams, always reclining to smile, to say riches would be his. That the winds of the world would dry his sweats to blow in wealth.

Our mother was a runner. She began running after our father died drunk in a nearby dump. People said he was poisoned, our father. It didn’t matter. He was a truck driver who, every other night, drove plastics from Lagos to Awka and back. On the rare days he was home, we would be in school, but by evening he would be out drinking. He was a screamer, our father. He once bashed my head against the wall for coming home late, and for weeks I carried around the wound, a watermark saying, hey, I’m the stung child of a strong man. I liked him the way thieves didn’t take things, and because thieves were always taking things, it meant I didn’t like him at all. The way he burned my skin and my sister’s skin, our injuries, our bruises, clanging bells — bells telling men to flee.

But I might guess our father made our mother happy — that much I could say — so happy his death took something from her. It would start with her in the kitchen prepping meals, cascades of meals. Jesus brought her home to cook for Him, for His twelve disciples too. It was what she said. In the days following, she would sit before the served meals, hands on her lap. The food would sour; the food would rot; ants would come, but she would sit, eyes on the clock. Always, I tried to clear the food. But she would smile and, with one finger, touch my hand. Then, calmly, like all of it was the norm, the way every mother lived, she would pack the plates, wash the plates. Nothing else seeming absurd, or less than normal. She, staying calm, singing happy, talking fast, returning to her shop, stuffing the house with foods, paying rents, paying bills, dashing out money, buying clothes: for orphanages, for wealthier cousins, for her mother.

The spending was usually the last phase. From there, she would swallow air and take a flight. For more than three times we tried to follow her, but either one of us fell and got injured or a big bus blocked our views, so we stopped. Anyway, we knew