BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL - EPISODE 1

'Papa dey come oh!' Terror was written all over Chinedu's countenance. Papa was back, we didn't need to confirm it. Only papa's presence could strike such fear in our hearts; my siblings and I.

We broke up our small play party and scampered for the safety of our one room apartment. Papa's haggard frame appeared at the entrance to the compound, his face weather beaten and sunburned with a curved scar resting across his left cheek. He was drunk again and his right hand was clutching a new stick of cane.

'Where is your mother?' He shouted in my face. His breath reeked of alcohol. Papa once had a huge frame which he lost to too much consumption of alcohol and too little consumption of decent meals. I was barely up to his waist.
'She...she...went....' I stuttered.

My father hated clumsiness. He had a short temper and my stuttering was drawing that temper to a grind.
'I said el'ebe nne gi nò? Where is your mother?'

'She...sh...sh..'
Wham! He brought the cane down on the very square of my head, my big head. The pain from the hit seared through my body, coursed a path down my spines and gave me a lurch in the stomach. I saw angels playing bugles right before my eyes, I heard tiny birds whistling before my eyes, twinkling stars glowed effervescently, lighting up my head and it went on until the boom of my father's voice broke the ecstasy.

'Where is ya mother?' His hand clutched around the cane was raised, still poised at cracking my skull.
Tears, hot as coal, welled in my eyes, almost condemning me to permanent blindness. My throat was burning with fury.
Crack! The cane landed again. This time, I didn't wait for my fantasy. I grabbed my throbbing head and ran for dear life. My siblings simply looked on, unable to react. They would face papa's wrath if they as much as cried in my defence and it would be my fury should they laugh at my predicament. Our neighbours were the more passive. They just stared, hands folded, aware of the terrible nature of my father's temper.

'Ogini k'ineme êba? What are you doing here?' It was mama's calm, confident voice. I turned to face her. She was bearing a large basket of oranges on her head with Ify our baby sister strapped to her back.
'Papa beat me' I stifled the tears burning to erupt.

'Again?' She sighed; the sigh that simply explained that we had to put up with papa till things got better. That sigh that said, without words, 'Ogadinma. E go better'.

My mother was beautiful. Despite the scars of childbirth and of my father's cruel beatings, her dark skin still glowed in the sun. Her hair was thick and jet black and she had tied it into a bun to save money. Her eyes were pale and watery like she would burst into tears any minute. But my mother was a strong woman; she never cried. She didn't cry the day papa came home drunk and puked into the pot of soup she had scraped and saved to cook. She simply washed away the soup and poured a small amount of garri into a large bowl of water, allowed it to soak and dinner was served. My mother did not cry when her father, the only relation she had, died. She simply muttered a silent "lan'udo. Go in peace". She did not cry when my papa thrashed her mercilessly with his Aba made leather belt. And now, she didn't cry. She simply walked up to me, put her arm around my neck and whispered reassuringly 'Ogadinma Okparam. It will be fine my son.'

....to be continued...