Gone by Dawn

       If mother never told me about the grief that engulf her each day from the travails of life, I would still know. I could see it and feel it just as I quivered when a strange cold through me whenever I poured a bowl of water down my back on cold mornings. The pains she struggled to conceal was glaring. It was open to see like the crack in the wall at home next to our dangling old clock whose weariness showed despite the daily energy exerted on it by we, polishing it. We hung it as though it wore a large cloak but it did little to conceal the ugliness of the cracks. I plod forward, my damp hands behind my fleecy dress with the belt, dangling and a torn bow refusing to lean on the fabric. I counted my steps and ambled, stomping my feet on the smoggy ground as I strived to avoid the mud and puddles spluttered on the road. 

          “55....56....57....58” I said as I walked at a slow pace. Fright has curbed me from swirling and trotting towards home as my heart thumped as though an orchestra strummed their instruments, therein. I raised my chin and squinted when my face met the glow emitting from the sky with thick and blurry yellow lines encircling the cloud. I once asked mother why the sky changed colors like she said the chameleon does. With wonder, I watched and she explained how the sky could wear different brocades depending on the weather.

          “Either it would pour down a drizzle like sifted flour or shine forth light, Roliat.” She had said.

         I was heading back home and I felt revisited by the tremor I had felt thirty minutes ago before I was directed to call Nurse Foyin. Her son riveted his bulging eyes at me after relaying the message that his mother travelled to her hometown. I fretted, wishing I had a fistful of pebbles to throw at him. This was how I fantasize hurting those who did not fall in the same age group as me, those whom mother called elderly but who still choose to irk me and make wrath sprout from my little soul. The thought of going back and having to see mother in her condition jolted me. I trembled and gradually, my legs betrayed me. I remembered the full glow her skin wore and it baffled me that in few days the lustreness her face once harbored, waned. Her ruffled hair with rough braids had received drops of water from her strident clamor of gripping headaches, her frail body slumped on the weary bed with a wrapper tied round her flabby bosom. I did not wish to see this or perceive the stench emanating from the thick and balmy lotions or the pap leaves leaning in the brown basket, next to the wooden door which had charcoal marks spluttered on its frame. I winced, my eyes met with Sofia, a girl from my age group. She deserted the large playground where kids our age rambled on. She walked to me, spreading her arms in the air as I stopped halfway. I riveted my eyes at her leg which seemed like cassava sticks in the small tight trousers she wore. The two corn-rows on her head stuck out, a fancy rubber holding them tight and she broke the silence dangling between us.

              “Hey,You! Why not come play with us?”  She said.

 

              “I have to go home.”

               “Why then did you stop?”

                “I......I......” I stuttered, devising ways to break free from the cuffs of the little demon who just approached me.

 

              “But we will start Boju-Boju _soon. What are you up to?”  She asked, pouting her lips and made a loud sound by letting the two lips slap each other. I hated this and refer to it as “distasteful “ from a word I picked up in my english textbook at school.

            “My mother.....is......sick”

             “She is? Why do people fall sick?”

              “I don’t know...”

      

              “Well, you are close. Why not walk fast?” she advised.

  

              “I don’t know what to expect.”

              “Stop being dumb. Baba fell sick two market days ago and he recovered.”

              “Okay....I’ll leave “

              “Walk fast! We’ll see....” I stared as she leapt and scuttled. With a strange courage overwhelming me, I plod forward. I was approaching home and walking fast as I could while I shielded my face with my right palm to avoid the brightness emitting from the sky. I halted, gasped for breath and stopped. I could see a large mass sprawled outside the door and I could not count. I covered my dropping jaw with the right palm as whispers and mumbles flooded the air. I stared longly, poring my eyes at all as though to seek a response and reason for the large gathering. The red flame some eyes harbored and the quietness and stillness the environs harbored made me fret. I was not dumb and although young, I understood. It was it, the end! I felt my hand gripped by an unknown palm whose fingers clamped my small wrist. I stumbled, clutching at my fleecy dress. My heart thumped and grew cold as I fought the tears but lost the battle for it streamed down my cheeks. Then, it dawned upon me, the pain of having to live days, months or even years without someone whom I have lived half of my life with.

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Olukoga Opemipo (Opemiplenty) is a young creative-writer who believes in creativity and the beauty in writing. She’s a poet, fiction writer and lover, short-stories writer and an art enthusiast. She’s a student of the great University of Ibadan, currently studying Linguistics and African Languages. She believes in self-development, creativity and change for this to her is the spice of life. Her aim is to speak with her pen, impact and bring people to cherish and love literature and art just as she has for years.