Why Babies Scare Me
It is not that I planned it. May be it was the harmattan that landed in Nigeria few days ago together with the cold breeze it brought with it or something, whatever, the gist here is that I created a personal embarrassing record of arriving at a Sunday service after the Liturgy of the Word (sermon) was long wrapped up.
St. Joseph’s Catholic church, Anua-Offot consists of a main building and an annex. The former is mostly filled by early morning risers while the latter proudly belongs to the Association of Late Comers (ALC), St. Joseph's parish, Uyo of which I was a distinguished member.
Amidst bristled steps and quick eye-scans, I spotted a space on the second to the last pew wide enough for my sinewy ass. There’s something about embarrassment and shame: it cloaks you with few seconds/minutes of lack of thorough awareness of your immediate environment, focusing instead on the need to appear cool and dodge the guilty glances of that pretty girl you always told your mirror you’d asked out one of these days.
Apparently the annex also played host to breast-feeding mothers with toddlers and I was unfortunate enough to be sandwiched between two of such.
That was where my Sunday service ended and an eerie nostalgic magic instead began
From Edidiong, a 3-year old albino who remained insistent on sliding off her mom’s thighs, sauntering off in drunken steps towards figures I doubt her eyes could even film well and finally stumbling on bricks, stones and pavements to Abasiama, a sweet chocolate wide eyed kid whose age seemed somewhere between a year and two and had a strange policy of wailing at every angle his mum held him except when he got to stand on her laps and stare at the backbenchers over her shoulders.
At my front, you could hear the conversation between a woman and her son who had spent all the time since my arrival running round the annexed parishioners in circles like some kind of Olympic track event.
“Come Junior will you seat down?! You are at mass and God wants you to sit down,” wailed the poor woman.
“But I don’t want to sit down,” replied a baffled Junior who absolutely didn’t get the idea of sitting down when it was no way his desire to do so.
Like the transient realm an incantation shoves you into, I found myself time travelling to the late 90s and through the lenses of my immediate environment, viewing what it would be like for Mama Leo to tend to a tiny knucklehead version of myself.
And that is all I can do: imagine. Maybe I was less of a trouble than Abasiama or more than Edidiong but given the testimonies of bigger cousins and relatives, the math suggests I’d be the latter.
Our mothers sacrifice their time and energy for the child they already suffered to carry in their wombs for nine months, taste the agony only Hell fire occupants could attest to and then spend the rest of their kids' teenage years watching, guiding and praying only for them not to have an idea of what “mumsy” went through because just because they swarm faster than other spermatozoa on the night of consummation.
How will I feel to be Edidiong’s mother 20 years from now hearing the words and sensing the unaltered thoughts:
“I hate you.”
“Why can’t this woman just accept my life decisions without asking questions?!”
“Stop making it look like you did me a favour by sponsoring my education! It’s your DUTY!”
You know those unaltered words that circus your brain each time you are pissed with your parents. These kids however took it all away from me showing instead, through their juvenile chaos, how much of a let-down I’ve been to my mama; ironically the only person in the world who would have made sure I didn’t disgrace myself with some record-breaking late coming in the first place.
They told me the story behind my mother’s loss of words as I grew older, choosing instead to pray silently and stare at me speechless from the corner of my eyes as I repeatedly broke her heart, one bad decision at a time. That is why I am scared of babies. Like an ice cold lump of truth, they simply tell me who I really am: an ungrateful little piece of sh*t.
Image Sources: Image1 Image2 Image3 Image4
Baddest writer..i love this..nice one
I "dey" with you.
It is a lesson, never you consider it as a disappointment for that day service, but see as lesson to you which gives you an experience before you become a mother or father too over others.
True words.
I have worshipped woman as the living embodiment of the spirit of service and sacrifice.
- Mahatma Gandhi
Hmmn... writing this one down.