Chinelo Okparanta - Under the Udala Trees

I did not have the presence of mind to say anything but the truth. I looked Mama in the eyes and nodded. “Yes, I still think of her,” I said. And, “Yes, I still think of her in that way.”

Suddenly Mama was rising from the floor, flailing her hands in the air, shouting about prayer and forgiveness. She pulled me up by the collar of my dress.

She screamed, “Get on your knees now! I say, get on your knees!”

I got on my knees as she demanded, but I remained silent, unable to speak. My mind was too busy for words — too busy retracing steps and settling on and mulling over the moment that I had made the gaffe. I stewed over my foolishness, over why I had not been more clever — far less forthcoming — about the answer that I had given.

“Pray!” she screamed. “You must ask God for the forgiveness of all your sins, but especially for that one particular sin in you. Did I not just tell you to pray? Why do I not see your lips moving? Why do I not hear any sound coming out of your mouth? Pray, I say! No child of mine will carry those sick, sick desires. The mere existence of them is a terrible disrespect to God and to me!”

She continued to scream in that fashion, and all the while I could only get myself to look wide-eyed at her. Finally I made to rise up, but she shouted at me to kneel back down. “Kneel!” she screamed, panting as if out of breath.

I did as I was told.

She placed her hands on my head, put pressure on it so that I turned my face downward toward the center table.

“Only your own prayer will save you now. I have prayed all I can for you. Now you must pray for yourself! Only God can save you!”

I brought my hands to my face, shutting my eyes. I remained in that pose, still lost in my thoughts, still wishing that there were a way that I could go back in time and take back the answer that had led to this blowup.

“Pray!” she cried.

I could have prayed at this point. I did want to pray, even, if prayer would be what would calm things down. But my mind could not think up the words to begin. All of her screaming, all of her orders, were instead replaying themselves inside my head.

Kneel!

Pray!

Sinful!

Terrible disrespect!

Only God can save you!

It took me a while to register it when I was no longer hearing her voice. Only then did I open my eyes. Mama was nowhere to be seen.

I stayed kneeling for some time. I expected that she would soon return, but minutes passed, and when something like half an hour passed, I stood up, walked out the front door, across the veranda, around the house, and back into the kitchen through the back door. No sign of Mama.

I walked the path that led to the shop. The gate of the store was fastened with a metal chain. I knew that Mama could not be there.

I returned to the bungalow. I sat back on the floor where she had left me and waited.

Something like an hour went by.

The rattling came from the direction of the front door. The jingling of keys, the turning of the knob, smacks and whacks, objects bumping into the wall.

Mama entered with a decanter made of clay in her hand. It was a reddish flask with a dull finish, hand-painted in such a way that the red coloring appeared to drip in spots, something like trickling blood.

She approached until she towered above me. She got down on her knees. A scent of incense floated out of her. Her voice was weak, even a little apologetic, as she said: “I’ve been thinking. It’s not you.”

My head snapped up in her direction.

She continued. “No, it’s not you at all. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s the devil causing you to be this way.”

She placed the items in her hand on the floor by the table.

“ Ngwa , get down on your knees,” she said in a far more composed manner than earlier.

I got down on my knees.

“Lower your head and close your eyes,” she said, still calmly.

I lowered my head, and I closed my eyes.

She placed her open hands on my head.

“In the name of God the Almighty, I order you to come out of her,” she said. Her voice was progressively louder each time she repeated it, but still controlled: “In the name of the Almighty God, I order you to leave my child alone.”

I felt droplets of liquid on my neck and a little on my face.

Her voice came out piercing, almost like a wail, causing shivers down my back. “ Lagha chi azu! Lagha chi azu! ” she cried.

The droplets continued to wet the skin on my neck and face and even my arms. I felt lightheaded, as if the blood had drained out of me. She was speaking to the devil, crying for him to turn back and leave me alone. “I order you to leave. I order you to leave her alone. Lagha chi azu! Lagha chi azu! Asi m gi, Lagha chi azu! ”

Finally she let out a lengthy sigh of exhaustion. Everything grew quiet. I no longer felt the droplets on me. I opened my eyes slowly. Mama was sitting on the floor by my side, her face tear-stained. Her hands dangled aimlessly at her sides. The decanter lay nearby, in the little space between her one hand and the couch.

“It’s my fault,” she said, weakly now. Her throat was hoarse.

I moved closer to her, leaned my head against her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Mama.”

We stayed quiet.

“It’s my fault,” she repeated in a thin voice.

“No, Mama. It’s not anybody’s fault.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course it’s my fault.” She went on to recount that day out on the veranda when I begged to follow her to Aba. Maybe she should have allowed me to go with her, she said. What kind of mother sent her daughter off to be a housegirl for someone else, and for all that time? And beyond that, to send off a child who had just seen her father’s corpse lying in all that blood. To send off a child under those circumstances when she should have done anything to keep her close.

Up to this moment, I had still been holding a grudge against Mama for abandoning me at the grammar school teacher’s. But now, hearing how much she herself had been thinking about it, how much she was still tormenting herself over it, all my grudge melted away. “Mama,” I said, “you’re not the only person who sent your daughter out to be a housegirl.” I knew of other families who had also kept housegirls. The girls’ parents must have been the ones who sent them to work in that way. I said, “You’re not the only one. There are many others too.”

She nodded. “It was for your own good,” she said softly.

I nodded.

“For your safety, for your well-being.”

I nodded again.

“He and his wife were kind to you the entire time?”

“Yes, Mama. They were nothing but kind to me.”

“You know, some people leave just to have the benefit of coming back home.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said.

She placed her palms on my cheeks, held my face tightly. Her hands were wet. The air was stuffy, thick. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “There’s no sin so bad that it can’t be forgiven, no wrongdoing so terrible that it can’t be repented of. You will repent and you will be forgiven by the glory and the power of God.”

There was silence.

She said, “You will be cured by the glory and power of God.”

I remained silent.

“Say it!”

“I will be cured by the glory and power of God.”

She took the decanter from where it was sitting, tilted it until more water poured into her cupped hand. She sprinkled the water over my head.

“Amen,” she said.

“Amen,” I replied.

We moved on to the New Testament and made our way quickly to Revelation. Six months had passed since our studies began. It was approaching the time for me to start secondary school.