Cursed Daughters by Oyinkan Braithwaite - 3

Her mother dropped the car keys into a glass bowl on the console table in the hallway, among the kobo coins, lint and someone’s bangles. The keys clinked against the glass and the ensuing echo tricked her into thinking that the house was empty. But alas, she soon made out the gentle murmuring of women talking quietly, as if intent on not waking any ghosts.

She could guess why they were here – Aunty Bunmi hadn’t attended the funeral because it was considered taboo for a mother to bury her child; and since it would have been unwise to leave a grieving mother alone, a few family members must stay with her. Ebun understood all that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing any more people, so she began to head for the stairs. ‘Ebun,’ her mother said. ‘You have to go and greet your aunt.’

She was about to make an excuse, when she noticed something was off. On the wall to the right of the console she was looking at five framed photographs, where there used to be eight. The missing photos had all featured Mo – Mo holding her university certificate, Mo beaming at the camera with the shadow of the beach in the background, Mo with one arm around Ebun’s shoulders and the other around Tolu, pulling them tightly to her.

She took a couple of steps back and scanned the wall on the left side of the console table. It was missing the picture of Mo, Tolu and their mother awkwardly posed, and the picture with Mo in her role as bridesmaid.

‘What’s happened to Mo’s pictures?’ she asked, as calmly as she could.

Her mother looked up at the wall and sighed, scratching her forehead with a long nail.

‘I … If this is what your aunt needs, maybe it’s for the best …’

Ebun could tell her mother had not been a part of the picture-removing committee, but Kemi’s words only fuelled her anger.

‘Ebun, where are you going?’

Ebun hurried through the dismal corridor to the east wing. The way was narrow and dim, not unlike walking through a tunnel. A little creativity – lowering the walls around the courtyard that divided the Falodun home into two wings, or adding windows – would have made the house a little less claustrophobic; but then again, the iroko tree at the centre of the courtyard would probably have blocked out all possibility of natural light. She opened the east living room door to meet a collection of photographs so large that they rose almost to the ceiling, with the oldest of them devoid of colour. Some dated back all the way to the matriarch – Feranmi Falodun. She searched for her cousin, but here too all trace of Monife was gone. Ebun felt a buzzing in her head. It was bad enough that Aunty Bunmi had not been there to lay her daughter to rest, but now they were pretending Mo had never existed in the first place.

She wanted to scream. She did not know what had possessed her aunt, nor did she care. She would march up to her and demand that—

‘Ebun.’ Her mother was in the doorway, blocking her exit. ‘Ebun. Today is not the day.’

Kemi was small, only five foot – the height of a child. And considering the fact that she was always on some diet, she was probably the weight of a child. It wouldn’t be hard to shove her out of the way.

‘Mummy, please. Move.’

‘Ebun.’

‘I just want to talk to her.’ A part of her was fizzing at the thought of being angry at someone other than herself, being able, just for a moment, to release the tightness in her chest.

‘Please,’ her mother said, but Ebun pushed past her and headed for the west wing. She took the shortcut, through the courtyard, past Sango. He was camouflaged by the shadows; all but the creepy eyes that followed her. She ignored him and entered the west wing corridor. Behind her, she could hear the hurried steps of her mother’s heels against the terrazzo floors.

‘Ebun. Ní sùúrù.’

She ignored her mother’s appeal for calm.

‘Aunty Bunmi!’ she shouted as she approached the west living room. ‘Aunty Bunmi!’

The door opened as she reached it, and Aunty Bunmi stood in its frame. She was dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, not unlike her headmistress garb. Her eyes were swollen and her lips trembled. She was flanked by Grand-Aunty Sayo, Grand-Aunty Ronke, Mama G and Mama G’s obscenely large breasts. Of course Mama G would be there, whispering fictions into Aunty Bunmi’s ear. Ebun dragged her eyes from the mamalawo, choosing to focus her attention on Mo’s mother. She should have curtsied for the older women before her, and she hoped they noticed she had not observed the custom.

‘Where are her pictures?’ Her voice was low, slow and deep.

‘Ebun,’ her mother pleaded, ‘this is not the time.’

‘Where are they?’ she asked again.

The corridor was narrow; Ebun was blocking the only real exit out of the west living room. The four women were essentially trapped and withering under her gaze.

Aunty Bunmi lowered her eyes. She would not give Ebun the fight she needed.

‘It is best this way,’ began Mama G. ‘Or her spirit might linger.’

So it was Mama G’s idea? She could kill her. She had no idea why her aunt thought it appropriate to have a mamalawo here at this time, but if the woman could not hold her peace, Ebun would happily bury her on the family grounds. At the very least, she would make her regret meddling in their business. And then she would find Mo’s pictures.

Ebun took three steps, aiming to close the gap between herself and the women before her, when she felt a gushing release from between her legs. She looked down at the puddle of water, bright against the floor. ‘Shit,’ she said, and then burst into tears.

‘Ebun, ṣé kò sí?’

‘I …’ But she couldn’t get the words out. She tried to breathe but couldn’t stop crying. If she could have gathered the water pooling at her feet and shoved it back up into her vagina, she would have done; because it was early yet, her baby wasn’t due for another five weeks. But her grief and her fury must have stirred the water in her womb, and now the baby was pressing against the wall that was meant to keep her safe. It was too early.

She would lose her child; and on the day she had buried her cousin. Call it fate. Call it karma. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t follow that train of thought. Her mother was shouting.

‘What?! What?! What is it? What has happened?’ asked Grand-Aunty Sayo. They were still far enough away that they hadn’t seen. Ebun placed a palm on the wall and tried to calm herself.

‘She has wet herself,’ her mother confidently informed them. Ebun tried to regulate her breathing. Her baby would be okay. She had to be.

‘She can’t have wet herself, Kemi.’

‘Are you not seeing what I am seeing?’

‘It is her water. Her water has broken.’

Aunty Bunmi’s words were firm. She touched Ebun’s arm with a cool hand, steadying her, then she pulled her into the living room, leading her to an armchair. Five sets of eyes peered at her.

‘It can’t be her water. It’s not time yet!’ her mother shouted. No, it wasn’t time yet. Perhaps Ebun was about to learn what it felt like to lose a child.

Her aunt’s sombre eyes met her own for a brief moment. Then they both looked away. Ebun thought about the anger she had felt mere moments ago. What had she really thought she could say to the woman? All she felt now was a wave of tiredness. She spotted Sango’s dark shape disappear behind the couch.

The women were debating what to do. Grand-Aunty Ronke suggested she should lie down, close her legs and the baby would relax. Her mother was pacing back and forth, speaking in tongues, and Ebun instinctively looked around to locate one of her cousins so they could share an eye-roll; and then she remembered – Mo was gone and Tolu wanted nothing to do with her.

‘Maybe Mama G can …’ began Aunty Bunmi.

Ebun shook herself. She had no intention of giving herself over to a mamalawo and the spirits she entertained. This was her child and she would fight for her soul.

‘Just get me to a hospital.’