MARTYR

The crucifix looked considerably fragile from the last time I saw it, on the harvest ground.

Papa had given a chunk of everything we had in pledges and mother had dragged his agbada, trying to tug his senses back. Death stared and just as quickly, it was replaced with faux smile of a big man.

When we got home, papa pounced on nnem, like a panel beater at work. As if, her growing stomach would save her, it did nothing.

Papa said- ‘child, it’s a cleansing ritual to cure mama of her madness’. She was mad to have stood in the way of his religion, his authority. But papa was mad, because he pounded too hard and didn’t stop when her blood stained the wall-crucifix or when mama stopped shouting.

Returning a decade after, I came here, before the crucifix and cried because it appeared we both knew nnem was no martyr, even though she had her blood spilled on the cross that day- she was a wounded prey till death, who told me lies to cover the sins of my fanatic father. I cried because I was no martyr and the sins of my mother’s marriage ended with her.

[papa= father, nnem= my mother, mama= my mother].

DeedeeOfili.