When
she heard my voice, my mother dropped her hoe and machete and turned
wide like an aircraft. Her muscles were stiff and sore, it was
obvious. Years of laboring hard at weeding and bushwhacking in an oil
palm estate had seen to that. Decades of asthma had taken quite a
dreadful toll on her too.
She
appeared bent over like a giant lobster. To pull herself erect she
placed both hands on her waist and willed herself with effort to
straighten up. She scrubbed me hard with her eye scanning for signs
of trouble. She had seen so much of that in her life that she was
always alert.
She
had been afflicted by all sorts of trauma from frequent deaths in her
family, which robbed her of parents and all her siblings, uncles and
aunts. The torments of a devastating civil war had reduced us to a
state of frightening destitution.
When
I disarmed her with a reassuring smile, her furrowed brow lost some
of its tensions. She extended her gnarled hands and wrapped them
like a liana in the rain forest around my neck when I got close
enough to her. She clung to me like a long-lost lover.
When
I returned the gesture by sweeping her off her feet and giving her a
bear hug, she exclaimed, “Not so tight or you’ll crush
the old bones and I will join my ancestors and leave you here alone.”
She
was featherweight, so I had no problem holding her in my arms for a
while before gently letting her to the ground. She smelled of sweat,
earth and vegetation. I had no problems there for that is what paid
my way through college.
When
we loosened up and caught some breath, she asked, “What could
possibly bring a professor to this jungle?”
“The
mother of the professor; that’s what,” I said.
“Hmm,
the small woman that gives birth to a king,” she replied.
I
asked her why she insisted on doing the killer job even with the
allowance my siblings and I sent to her monthly. If she stayed at
home, she claimed, her chronic asthma would corner her and kill her
there. Besides, work was the only recreation she knew. Staying away
from it, she said, was something she couldn’t contemplate.
The
money we gave her went into feeding the many orphans left behind by
her dead relations, so she needed to supplement it with earnings from
the job.
I
asked her to sit under a shade while I did the rest of the work
assigned to her that day. Though it was evening, the tropical sun was
still firing fusillades of prickly needles into the bare backs of the
workers. As soon as I picked up mom’s machete and swung into
action, my pores opened up and drenched my body with sweat.
Soon,
blisters just a bit smaller than ping-pong balls formed on my hands
and made it a torment holding the long knife.
As
I stopped often to wipe the sweat off my brow, Mom remarked how city
life easily turns some folks into fat cats. Her co-workers chided
her for allowing me to do such work in the first place. In Nigeria,
college graduates never dirty their hands. Besides with more than 40
million unemployed youth, even the poor can afford a retinue of
servants to pick their teeth, cook, launder and keep their houses.
When
I was done, Mom looked at me and then turned her gaze at an old woman
struggling unsuccessfully to finish the portion of work allotted to
her. It was a nonverbal command that I should cross over and help out
the poor worker. I understood. Grateful, the woman gave me a basket
full of giant snails and tasty mushroom locally known as “tinapa.”
I
made to turn down the gift, but Mother winked discreetly at me in a
manner suggesting my action would be interpreted as rude. The woman
said she would have prepared and brought home a meal to me but she
heard city folks ate half-done foods, which her parents never train
her to cook. When Mom countered that I was a city man with rural
roots, the woman remarked it was a rare combination.
I
had watched my beautiful mother physically degenerate over the years.
Those who knew her from childhood called her “Kposi.” It
was the name by which her father called her. She was the cat because
she not only was athletic but walked with a certain grace and bounce
peculiar to that animal only.
She
was supple and lithe like a tendril. Though plucky, she could bend
with ease as if she was made with substance as pliant as rubber. Even
when she was not dancing her waist teased and rolled like an
Ethiopian dancer’s.
I
guess her adorable physique and resilient character set Dad’s
heart ablaze when he courted her. It had to be, because when it was
time for me to look for a wife, I stopped at nothing until I found a
girl who had similar feline dispositions. As kids, I and my siblings
teased her to no end when her abilities began to wane.
We
would sit amused as she tried in vain to thread the needle of her
sewing machine. She would use soap to firm up the loose end of the
thread, all to no avail. A determined and forceful woman, she would
not let us help her.
When
we taunted that she was a blind bat, she would reply that life was
like a table fan that turns and blows in different directions. She
was a bat-blind to us, she said, but in our own time our children
would not only call us stone blind, but stone deaf as well. Of course
we would explode in mockery at the suggestion, not knowing how well
she anticipated our day.
Mom’s
lean features belied her feisty nature. One day a policeman had come
to the village to arrest a woman. The woman’s husband had sold
the wife’s land without her consent and planned to use the
money to get himself another wife.
The
man had had some drinks too many and carelessly left the money
around. The aggrieved wife got hold of it and rushed to pay the fees
of her children who had dropped out of school.
When
the man woke from his stupor and realized what had happened, he went
to the police. Along with the woman, the cop arrested fowls and goats
he could find in the village as well. One such goat belonged to Mom.
When she got wind of it she went and wrestled her goat from the
thieving cop.
When
someone whispered to the cop that Mom had children in the city that
could make trouble for him, he let go of the goat. To save face, he
told Mom he was letting the goat alone in the hope that he would be
invited at Christmas for lunch. Mom retorted she never invited
rogues to her home.
When
I asked her how she got the audacity to confront a cop, she replied,
“So in all your learning no one ever taught you that I am a
cricket and never bat my eyes for sandstorm?”
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.