Anna Grace Awilli
Mark Obibi had never sucked his teeth at his mother, but he did it in January 2011. Everything she was saying annoyed him.
She described the scene of plates flying in the air, cutlery in clinking descent, and dark orange soup splattering across the wall.
Her narration, through her split upper lip and bruised arms, minced his insides with a peppery heat. Not because it was raw or new, but because it was familiar. A repetition. The same.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
“But your father…”
“Mummy!” he punched his fist through the bamboo table and sucked his teeth. She flinched, and Mark was both sad and sorry.
“Mummy,” he said. “We are leaving.”
“I cannot leave your father, Obi. I cannot leave this marriage.”
Mark made as if to speak but changed his mind. He pulled his hand from the hole in the table, rose up from his seat and left. He never spoke to her again.
In October of that same year, Mark pulled up into his parents’ compound in a Tata lorry. His mother, who had just divorced his father, was in the front yard. She looked peaceful as she lay in the coffin, resplendent in her purple kitenge with a lace hem and embroidered neck.
Mark awoke, drenched in sweat and jumped from his bed, jolted by what had been a very bad dream. His hands rattled with dread as he hurried to call his mother.
“Hello,” her voice, answered from the other end of the line. It was a delicious sound to his ears; one that he wanted to fold in his hands and also eat.
“Mummy!”
The next day, Mark pulled up into his parents’ compound in a Tata lorry. His mother, who had just divorced his father, was in the front yard. She looked peaceful as she stood, resplendent in her purple kitenge with a lace hem and embroidered neck. Behind her, was a tower of boxes, labelled and stacked, one on top of the other.
Mark carried the first box labelled: “Kitchen (Dishes. Plates. Cutlery)” and his mother followed him to the truck.
#fiction
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