I was thirteen when we moved to the brown house on Rest House Road—my ten-year-old brother Ugo, Mama and I. Papa had not come with us as he and Mama were quarreling, which was one of the reasons we moved. Another was that the small hotel behind our house had started to show blue films and Mama was upset that Papa had not thought anything the matter with that. She said any caring father should be able to walk down to the hotel and tell its management to not be stupid; that surely they knew it was a residential area—were they trying to corrupt the kids who played there?

As usual, Papa laughed and said he could never presume to tell another man how to run his business. “Sopuru, if you put in your children the idea of where to and where not to go to, I don’t think it should be a problem.”

That was however not the type of person Mama was. She could never ignore an affront, especially one that she felt insulted the collective moral fiber of our town.

When Ugo asked why we were moving, I told him about blue films but he didn’t know what they were. Were they blue in the way our old TV was black and white? I said they weren’t. Blue films were pornographic films, quite unambiguously, but as his older sister, I couldn’t have told him this or shown him the page on Thrill magazine where I’d read about blue films. Anyway, we moved.

Ugo did not like our new house. He said it was too quiet. But this was a richer neighborhood, much less populated and certainly not a place where one could find a dingy hotel showing blue films.

As it turned out, what Ugo really disliked was that we’d moved out of our old house where his best friend, Dubem, lived with his family in the next flat. He eventually complained about this and told Mama that she had made them move because she and Dubem’s father, Mr. Okafo, hated each other.

For about a minute, Mama laughed and laughed. “M-me-me and Mi-mis-misterO-O-Okafo?” she said and laughed again. She said Ugo’s claim was simply nonsensical. What business did she have moving out of a house because of a neighbor? If there was anything worthwhile about Ugo’s friendship with Dubem—which we all knew there was—then they both had to find a way to carry on their friendship; she’d prefer not to be bothered, as long as Ugo returned home on or before 4pm, wherever he went. A child who came home late? That she could never tolerate.

The truth, clearly, was that Mama would not have permitted Ugo to visit our old house had she not been trying to redeem herself in the eyes of our old neighbors. She’d left our old street, disliked by everyone, and so was trying to get our old neighbors to like her again. She must have thought allowing Ugo to visit a neighborhood wherein her estranged husband as well as a hostile neighbor lived would communicate to our old neighbors that she was changing for the better. And Mama was indeed trying to change for the better. But as it turned out, at what cost?

◆

In those days, Mama used to be quick to get into a fight and was always beating up women, some of whom were customers at her clothes shop. Papa was always pleading with her to report the women to their husbands. Our town was a small one and Mama knew all the husbands. Why was it then so difficult to report a woman’s wrongdoing to her husband?

“O-o-ver my-my de-dead body!” Mama would say. She was not a child that she should go around reporting women to their husbands. If a woman mocked her because she stammered, why did she have to report such a woman to her husband when she could just slap some sense into her? And this was what she was always doing: slapping sense into women.

Once, a woman who’d just bought six yards of a wrapper from Mama’s shop asked Mama to describe quickly, as she was in a hurry, where she could find a tailor to sew the cloth. I didn’t think the woman had meant to insult her, but Mama had by this time become prickly. Any act that gave the impression that a woman might be mocking her, however unintended, provoked her. So she seized this woman and started slapping her. Later, she asked the crying woman to leave her shop and never visit again, that she didn’t need a customer who insulted her. She tossed a wad of money at the woman and took back the wrapper she’d sold to her. All the while, I stood there, horrified. I knew Mama would slap me if I uttered even a word.

It was after this incident that Papa started taking too long, sometimes until late evening, before he’d drive down to the police station to bail Mama. The amount for bailing Mama was rising with each case and Papa had started to complain that the time was coming when neither his money nor his lawyerly influence would be able to prevent Mama from being charged in court for assault. So that evening, Papa said, “I think it’s high time you calmed the storm in your eyes, Sopuru.” All Mama did was glare at him.

Though a lawyer, Papa believed he had a natural gift for psychology and that had his parents allowed it, he would have studied psychology instead of law. He liked to talk about people as if he couldn’t see their physical body but the inner workings of their minds. For example, he’d say that Ugo was testy, and that it was because Mama’s spirit resided in him, as though an independent body in Ugo rather than Ugo himself was responsible for his actions.

A few days after Papa bailed Mama out for beating that customer of hers who’d asked for direction to a tailor, Papa started asking us during morning devotion to pray for Mama to receive the spirit of harmony. “Once the spirit of harmony enters the life of my dear wife Sopuru and replaces the fighting one, everything would be fine.”

The first time he said this, Mama waited for Papa to end the devotion before she said, calmly, that she didn’t need the spirit of harmony. What she needed was for people to neither pity her nor mock her.

“You see,” Papa said a few days later when Mama made the same remark, “it’s the fighting spirit in you that is rejecting the spirit of harmony, Sopuru. It is growing stronger; you must fight it. You have to welcome the spirit of harmony into your heart.”

“I-I d-d-don’t need the-the spirit of har-har-harmony, Chidi,” Mama yelled. Veins stood out on her forehead, and Papa should have stopped talking but he didn’t. He went on to say that Mama had too much anger in her, that anger was not a good emotion—it burnt things. It was destructive. And that Mama was angry since she was fourteen because, well, of course the choir master had been wrong to have touched Mama’s breasts. Of course, Mama’s father should not have blamed his daughter for the incident. He should have commended her for reporting it. But he went as far as banning his daughter from choir rehearsals because he could not see what the future held for a singing girl. But that was such a long time ago. Mama could now sing, couldn’t she, if she wanted to? But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t because she loved being a victim. It was why all that anger had remained in her. After all, was she the only one who’d received some mistreatment from their parent? Whoever said parents were perfect? Didn’t his own father make him study law instead of psychology? But look at him now: he certainly wasn’t going around trying to turn the world upside down because a parent had made a mistake. That was a dangerous emotion for anyone to carry around. It could ruin anyone, and he could see it was already ruining Mama, which was why she needed the spirit of harmony.

Tears in her eyes, Mama said, calmly, “Chi-chidi, you-you’re an in-inconsiderate person.”

She turned to go into their bedroom but Papa pulled her back. “Sopuru, what exactly do you want? You’ve severed all ties with your parents, haven’t you? Do you want to remain angry forever? Don’t I love you enough? Haven’t I stood by you throughout all of this? But here you are, saying that I’m inconsiderate. You’ve always been an angry person, admit it. Stop blaming your father unnecessarily. Anger is why you always see people mocking you even when they’re not, and that is why you need the spirit of harmony.”

Mama turned sharply and went after Papa. She backed him against the entrance door and started to strike blows to his face, shouting that she did not need the spirit of harmony. All she needed was for people to leave her alone.

This went on for some time (Ugo and I tried unsuccessfully to intervene) until Mr. Okafo forced himself into our living room and pulled them apart. Actually, he pulled Mama away as Papa had not fought back. Papa looked as though he was too stunned to fight back. Well, it was after this day that Mr. Okafo started calling Mama, Agbara Nwanyi, Iron Lady.

Mama warned him several times not to call her that rubbish but he wouldn’t listen. He was a man who loved his daily dose of humor. On returning from work in the evenings, he’d step out of his car, look towards our flat and call out, “Agbara Nwanyi, how was your day? Did business go as planned?”

Mama would run out of our flat and tell him to go and eat shit. “Rie nshi, Okafo,” she’d shout at him. He’d laugh, hold his fat belly and shuffle into his flat.

By this time, the news of how Mama assaulted Papa had spread through our street. It was circulated by Mama Bon-Boy, street gossip and Mama’s business rival, who Mama said was simply jealous and stupid, so you can understand why I thought Mama was not bothered by all the talk going on at the time. But I was wrong. All of it had started to wear out her usually tough resolve. She started to yell at us every now and then, and even at the slightest mistake. She complained that Papa did nothing to stop the hostility towards her; that he did nothing to stop Mr. Okafo from calling her Agbara Nwanyi; that he did nothing about the hotel that continued to show blue films. And worst of all? He would not stop bothering her with harmony. So that Saturday morning, crying and screaming, she packed, pushed Ugo and me into her Volvo car and drove us out of Old Auchi Road to that quiet brown house on Rest House Road.

◆

Unlike Ugo, I loved our new house. There was a clump of cashew trees in the backyard which made it cooler than our old house, and the air, fruity and fresher. But that first week, Ugo kept to his room. He went with me to school, but once we returned, he would shower, have lunch, lock himself in his room and stay there until dinnertime.

In a way, I understood his tantrums, as Dubem was something of a favorite brother to him. They used to run errands together. When Mama sent Ugo to buy candles from down Old Auchi Road whenever there was no electricity, Ugo would walk to the next flat and get Dubem to run the errand with him. Dubem would do the same. When they were eight, they were both the page boys at Aunty Martha’s church wedding, On the wedding day, Ugo and Dubem marched side by side, wearing matching outfits of white shirts, black trousers, black waist coats and white gloves. They marched down the aisle with the rest of the bridal train singing “I’m going to meet my lord.” As they reached the middle pew where I sat with Mama and Papa, Ugo winked proudly at me but was surprised to see me laughing. He did not know he’d been marching out of sync with the others even though he’d rehearsed with them the week before.

When we moved, their friendship started to come apart, like the heel of a shoe tacked with bad gum.

◆

After that first week of keeping to himself, Ugo started visiting Dubem. He would ride his bicycle all the way to Old Auchi Road, but not once did he return with pleasant news. Mr. Okafo was always asking him about Agbara Nwanyi and Mrs Okafo was always reprimanding her husband for asking his son’s best friend such a question, telling him that children should be allowed to be children, to go on with their lives, not made to inherit the problems of adults around them.

But their son, Dubem, never visited us. He always gave the excuse that his bicycle was faulty, which Ugo said was true. But he could have walked if he wanted to. People walked it all the time. He also could have asked Ugo for a ride. Ugo would have loved to pedal all the way to Old Auchi Road to pick him up, that is if he’d asked. Instead, he deflected Ugo’s attention to the fact that they’d not yet climbed the Kukuruku Hill, which every other boy was doing.

It wasn’t an original idea: the climbing of Kukuruku Hill. People had been climbing the hill before our parents were born. When we lived in Old Auchi Road—which was closer to the hill than Rest House Road—we’d sit out on the front veranda to watch those who’d climbed to the peak of the hill. From the hilltop, they’d look tiny, waving, proud of their achievement, but we could never tell if we were the ones they were waving at, because from that height, they could have been waving at the entire town.

The day Ugo told me about their plan, I was in the backyard, grinding bell peppers on a large flat, smooth rock, using a smaller rock to crush the peppers into a bright, red paste. I think apapa and garden egg sauce was on the menu that evening.

“Chinyere!” Ugo ran into the backyard.

It was a cool Sunday evening. He’d just returned from visiting Dubem, wearing one of those flowery shirts that were in fashion, the short sleeves billowing about his slender arms. Apparently, Dubem had told him how they’d make the climb, chaperoned by another boy who knew the route, and Ugo was checking with me to see what I thought of it.

Bad idea, I told him. As his older sister, it was my responsibility to instruct him about good and bad. He could fall into a cave, for example, or could be seized by those men who kidnapped children for money. Papa said—when we still lived with him—that the men were growing bolder; some of them were even hiding in the caves of the hill, and yet, the police was doing nothing about it.

All the while that I spoke, Ugo looked like his mind was elsewhere, as if he’d started to relish the trip. He didn’t look like I could talk him out of the expedition. If I tried—and I could convince him if I persisted—he’d be so disappointed I’d not be able to stand his surliness, and Ugo could sometimes get into those ugly tempers. Papa often said a carbon copy of Mama’s spirit resided in him.

◆

On the Saturday of the trip, we waited until Mama had driven to her shop in the center of town. Then I filled a water bottle and put some chin-chin I’d fried the previous day in a plastic bag. Ugo put the plastic bag in the pocket of his shorts and slung the strap of the water bottle on his shoulder. He promised to tell me all about the trip upon his return. I was excited. I wished him well and I watched him cycle away, with his full afro oiled and gleaming in the morning sun.

The rest of the day passed unremarkably. I cleaned the house, laundered our clothes, made some beef stew, boiled some rice, packed lunch in a food flask and took it to Mama at her shop. As usual, she asked about Ugo and I said he was at home, reading. She looked at me and started to say something before she shook her head and stopped.

I came home to find that Ugo still hadn’t returned. I had thought that at the latest he would be back by 1:30pm. Considering that he’d left at about 9:00am, I calculated that it would take them about an hour to climb the hill, about two hours to play around, and then an hour to climb down. Whatever else they could get themselves involved in shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes. So why were they not back even by 3pm?

I could have gone to Dubem’s house, but what would I say? I had not been there since we moved out, and I might not readily admit it, but I did not like Dubem’s father. I could not like a man Mama did not like. Going there, I might also run into Papa, an encounter I did not want to have. Mama no longer liked him so why would I want to meet him? I’d specifically told Ugo to never tell me anything about Papa if he ran into him during his visits. So I stayed in my room and read Thrill magazine, an interview with Eucharia Anunobi, where she talked about what it meant to be a movie star. So engrossed was I that I didn’t realize it was now after 4pm. The honk of Mama’s car startled me.

For a moment, I stood, stunned. Ugo was not back; Mama was back. I did not know what to do.

Mama was shouting our names from the front yard. “Chin-Chinyere? U-Ugo? Whe-whe-where’s everyone in this house?” She must be wondering why neither of us had, as usual, run out to welcome her before she got out of the car so she could hand us whatever gift she’d brought for us. It was the reason she always honked before she parked, to give us enough time to get there before she stepped out of the car.

She called our names again. “Ah-are you people no-no-not inside?”

“I’m here, Mummy,” I said, rushing out.

She was seated on the blue plastic chair on the veranda, holding a black polythene bag. “Whe-whe-where have you be-been, Chinyere? And Ugo?”

“I was reading. I didn’t hear you.”

“Hmm!” she nodded, looked up at me. “And Ugo?” She rose, about to walk into the house.

“He went to see Dubem.”

“Du-Dubem?” She glanced at her wristwatch, “at to five?” Her eyes flew wide open. “Chinyere, ha-how me-me-many t-t-times have I told you pe-peo-ple that whe-whe-wherever any of you go, if the person likes, le-let him go-go to Jupiter, he mu-must be-be-back in my house, latest f-four o’clock?” Whenever she was angry, her stammering got worse, tiny veins jutted out on her eyelids. “It’s okay. Ge-get me water to ha-have my bath. When Mr. Friendship comes back, I’ll ask him who’s the mother of whom.”

There was no mistaking the threat in that statement. Ugo would be thrashed. I was already feeling sorry for him.

“Ta-take this quickly!”

I took the polythene bag from her, felt it. In it were boiled cobs of corn and broken pieces of coconut meat. I ran inside, filled out a stainless-steel bucket with water, placed it in the bathroom for Mama.

When it was 6 o’clock and Ugo still had not returned, Mama charged into my bedroom and slapped my bare legs. I jumped from the bed.

“Whe-whe-where di-di-did you say Ugo went to again?”

“Dubem’s house.”

She slapped her palms in disbelief. “You-you chi-chi-children will pu-put me in trouble. Pu-put on a shirt. We’re going there now.”

“But, Mama, he might be—”

“Put on a shirt now be-be-before I break your neck!” She lunged at me; I jumped back, hurried to my wardrobe, pulled a blouse on my singlet and hurried after Mama.

As we drove to Old Auchi Road, Mama talked nonstop that it was about time she reinforced the importance of discipline in her household. She’d been trying to calm down as she’d seen what rage had done to her marriage, but we were starting to take her for granted. Ugo went out as he liked and I, the older one, who should know better, competed with him for the crown of stupidity.

Just then, it occurred to her that the car ahead of us was dawdling. Mama honked like crazy, swearing at idiots who had L perennially attached to their cars yet learned nothing. When she got a little space, she overtook the car, saw that it was a young woman, and hissed “Mrs. Snail!”

When we reached our old house, there was some chaos in the front yard. Many people we knew stood outside in small groups. It was getting dark now; two cars had their headlights on. People stared at us as we walked towards Mr. Okafo’s flat. Someone ran inside and emerged with Papa, who hurried up to us, as if to prevent us from walking in through the front door.

Mama stopped; I stopped, too.

“Hello, Chinyere,” Papa tapped my chin. I could see this was a perfunctory gesture rather than one of genuine pleasure, to see me, to see us. He looked like he’d rather we’d not come.

He faced Mama. “Can I speak with you for a minute?” He was already pulling her hand. She pulled her hand free.

“Whe-whe-where’s my son?”

“You must lower your voice, Sopuru. That’s what I want to speak to you about.”

“S-speak to me about? Wh-wha-what’s going on?”

“You should calm down.”

“Do-don’t tell me to calm down!” She pushed him aside, marched towards Mr. Okafo’s living room. I ran after her.

“Hi, Sopuru,” Mr. Okafo rose quickly, once we were inside his living room. He came up to Mama.

“Whe-whe-where’s my son, Okafo?”

“Over there,” he pointed.

I turned and saw Ugo lying on a bed placed by the dining table.

“I’m sorry, Sopuru. He was already weak before he got here. He didn’t last five minutes before he collapsed. We’ve called the general hospital to send an ambulance.”

Mama walked towards Ugo. It was the slowest walk I’ve ever seen anyone embark on, like a movie character in slow motion.

I inched after her.

She stood next to Ugo, looking down at him; his nose bloodied; his legs covered in bruises. His afro that had been jet black and glittering that morning was now dirty with brown patches.

Mama knelt by her son, held his right palm in both of hers. It was when she lifted the bloodstained wrapper they’d covered his torso with that I saw the bruises on his chest and belly.

“Sopuru, I’m really sorry. From what my son told me, those kidnappers chased our boys. One of them beat up Ugo with some iron or piece of wood, but he was able to escape and run down the hill. It’s rather unfortunate.”

Mama turned to face Dubem, who sat behind his father, his hands laid carelessly on his thighs, his face drawn. She seemed to stop herself just before she spoke. She turned to me, spoke in a voice that was so calm yet so heavy with what she must be feeling. “Chi-Chi-Chinyere, di-did you know yo-your brother was going to climb Kukuruku?”

She didn’t wait for me to respond before she turned, lunged at Mr. Okafo, pushed him to the floor, started to strike blows to his face and temples. He tried to fend her off. She held on, screaming, crying. People in the living room who’d all the while sat and watched, now rushed to them, pulled her off him. But Mama fought back to stand close to him, staring down at him, her nose flaring, breathing heavily. She turned to me in that instant. Her eyes were heavy with tears. I was waiting to hear what she’d say to me, to blame me for allowing Ugo embark on the climb, anything. I wanted to hear her rebuke me. I was sure it would go a long way in making her forgive me. She just turned and walked out.

I was confused. I did not know I’d been crying. I turned to look at Ugo. On the floor near him was a ball of chin-chin. It must have fallen from his pocket.

When I got outside, I saw Mama putting Ugo’s bicycle in the boot of her car. Then she got into the car, and I realized that she was about to drive away. I ran after her, screaming, “Mama? Mama?” but she drove off. Yet I ran, calling out to her, crying. I stopped when she was out of the compound.

My hands were shaking; my face wet with tears. That was when I felt an arm rest on my right shoulder. I looked up. It was Papa. He said nothing, just held me, both of us watching the ambulance as it drove into the compound, its multi-colored light flashing; the siren, wailing.

The paramedics bundled Ugo, carted him off like a bale of contraband goods.

“You will be staying with me tonight,” Papa said.

◆

To this day, I still don’t know if Papa and Mama would have got back together had Ugo not died. What I do know is that Ugo’s death ensured that it never happened. Papa said Mama blamed herself for Ugo’s death, and we reminded her of him so she wanted nothing to do with us. Papa however continued to hope that she’d one day come back into our lives. According to him, there were things that went on inside people that we would never know unless they told us about it. Still, we must continue to be patient so that when they were ready to speak, they would find us trustworthy enough to speak to us.

By this time, people like Mama Bon-boy had started to say that it wasn’t some kidnappers who’d beaten up Ugo, as a kidnapping case hadn’t been reported in months. That it must have been one of those women Mama had offended who probably hired the hoodlums to kill Ugo. After all, why didn’t the so-called kidnappers do anything to Dubem or to the other boy who’d gone with them?

The police had made no arrest and Papa said Mama was not interested in pursuing the matter. She was instead interested in piecing her life together by reengaging her first love: music. She joined the choir but seemed to have lost confidence in her own voice so she turned instead to playing the piano. But that day, on that Mothering Sunday, as she played the piano, harmonizing it with the voices of the choristers, Papa encouraged me to go up to her, to present my gift earlier than scheduled, to make an impression on her. But as I walked towards her, I could see from afar that although she was looking at me, her countenance was blank, as if she didn’t recognize who I was. It wasn’t until I drew closer that I realized that she was crying, two streams of tears finding their way down her eyes. Yet she said nothing, nor did she acknowledge my presence. She just kept playing, her fingers moving across the keys, the voice of the choir swelling and swelling.