#2 BENEATH THE CROSS

Hi Friends,

Thanks for sticking around. Really tired out today, but here's the second part of Beneath the Cross. To read the first part, click here.

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...Who hears a still sound in the middle of a roving, raging storm.

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This storm, wide and torrential, it didn't roll off its tide on a big, wide sea. Rather, it was brewed in a small tea cup ebbing with drones of Lipton. Yesterday. I was brewing in the kitchen, feasting on the thought of how I deserve a treat, the luxury of a lifetime. I had worked hard the other night, reading till I was meshed up into the candle wax that slurred, like two semitones, onto the broken ceramic plate it was propped against. And my sleep was fitful. It rained. Cool, rosy tip-taps hit the ceiling in quick motions, leaving my vision blurry till i descended into a dreamless oblivion, till I woke up with a yawn, eye boogers in my eyes, and the sweet petrichor scent clouding my nose. I had had a good night. And I was starting to like the new day. I just needed a cup of warm tea to down my joy and make it stay locked within.

The first sip of my tea scathed my tongue, but that was not what made me look up warily, it was the noise from the parlour that did. Mother was calling. And from the grave tone of her voice, that voice that always sounded like a dark myth poured all over a noisy cereal, I could tell it had to be something serious in an empty way. I could even tell the look on her face: skewed, strained, scattered, a million pieces of wrinkles shed all over a dark, aging skin.

I dropped my cup and slugged over to the parlour, only to be spilled with the dark, mythic voice,

"Eniola, you did not hear that I was calling you ni?"

"I heard your voice and I came."

"O jebi. O ba ma ti came. Come. Come and see. Come and see."

My heart geared forward even as I shifted my gaze to see my handbag in my Mother's hands. She had been sifting through my things. This was not quite her first time. But this time, I was terribly sure she had laid grip on something incriminating. My mind searched quickly for what it might be, even as I dragged my feet towards her.

"Come and see na. Iwo no, Eniola. You too."
Her voice had pitched higher. She was vexed. My eyes caught the nude lipstick she was swinging in her hand. But my mind had travelled far because I knew just what this meant. I stammered while I scampered for words.

"Ma, it's...it's not for me oo. My friend, colleague....my lips, because of the harmattan, it was dry. She borrowed me, I forgot...forgot it in my bag. So..."

I had barely found the voice to continue when I felt her hand unfold and spread its weight on my left cheek. Her slaps had always felt like fine sand gritting the teeth. But this one, it was hell wrapped in a scoop of anger,

"Eniola, you, omo ti mo bi la na, ti mo jiya fun. The child that I suffered for. You are now turning into something else, o ti fe ma do ge. Jesu mi ooo. My Jesus."

I was petrified. I didn't know how to wriggle out of this without getting my face smeared with more heat.

"I am sorry ma. Sorry ma. It was my friend. The cold was too much for my lips. I told her I did not want. But she..."

My mother went on like she did not hear me.

"I gba wo ni oge ta le o. When did your peacock start to grow wings. Is it because you have started growing small breasts, tuntunlu thing, is that why you are now beginning to do ako. Or are the boys now already calling you? See, let me tell you. Once they see that your under is already growing hard, they will call you. Your father also called me like that, he danced for me, sang for me. He called me fine names, Ololufe, Shade mi owon, My sweetie potato...But once he got what he wanted, once he entered me, o fe re fe. He ran away, four forty. Now see you, fatherless. The shameless oniranu, he left you to marry all those lepa girls. You better think of your life."

She swung her hands asymmetrically, causing her slippery breasts to turn to silk, moving in the direction of the breeze. She made as if to go outside, then she turned back as if she left her wrinkles behind,

"And you know what used to pain me. We say we are Christians. We carry bible almost everyday and go to a Bible-believing church. In fact, in this whole street of Aganga ooo, we are the one that carry church on our head most. But see us, we are not cooperating in the Lord; we are not working together to destroy the works of the devil. Anytime we pray, somebody will rise to harass and hinder our prayers. If it is not you yielding to worldliness, then it will be your brother doing his 'ijongbon', his headstrong stubbornness. You people should fear God ooo, fear God ooo. Omo to sope Iya re ko ni sun, owun no ko ni sun."

Mother flung herself outside, leaving me perturbed. Given, she was a drama queen but it makes no sense that she had to perform a drama for this. I had honestly just lent the lipstick because, well, my lips,....

Mother was right, though. There was actually a boy, who thought I looked nice. Chris. But he wasn't as bad as mother painted him to be. And I knew me; I would never listen to him. He might stroll into my life and flash me one of those endearing smiles, the same one he reserves for Tinuke and Tope. He might pretend to buy something from the shop and make a transaction into a lullaby, just so he can talk about gibberish about my hair is kinky enough to pass for his sponge; how my porecelainic eyes can do for his china plates, ad how blue looks gorgeous on me just as a shiny lipstick on my lips.

He might say all these special things, but I am not shifting my stance, because I know what he wants. And no true believer falls for a prank like that. I picked up the things Mother had scattered all over the floor, threw it in the bag and mused on how late I was for work. But even more than that, I needed a diversion, something that won't make me dwell on the fact that Chris might be right; he just might love me mote than my mom. My mind did a little, wary search and then, it finally settled on the grainy image of a soap opera I recently watched, my best scene. It was the part where Juan Miguel finally gets to tell Angel that he loved her. And then, the kiss- complete in many unfinished ways. I dwelt on the kiss a split second more. And this was when I felt a wet, sticky flush wash all over my vagina. I knew what it meant, what it could mean.

I knew, there and then, that the morning wasn't looking up for me anymore...

Friends, really sorry for this lull. But how about we finish this tomorrow. My hands are tired of typing on a phone that isn't worth a cent. Hope you followed through with this part. I would really like to know what you think. And for everyone always commenting and upvoting, I will say thanks for making my day. Hope we can also make this post immortal through our votes and comments. Thank y'all.