Ally of roaches

The insecticide lingered all through the night but didn’t manage to defeat the squad of disrespectful cockroaches that tormented us in the kitchen. Knowing what to expect, I tiptoed through the court yard with my brown flip flops tightly gripped in my fingers, ready to smash the first few unassuming pests to catch my glance. I used the side of my hip to push the door open. I tried to be as gentle as possible but the rusty bolts had its way of betraying me; my other hand was too busy hoisting the kerosene lamp so I had no choice. My shoulders were slanted a little bit upwards while my elbows stretched out as far as it could go to keep the rising smoke as far from my eyes as possible. I hated using the lamp. It had a mind of its own. It shone when it wanted to and went dim when it felt like. On good days, there would be no smoke, other times I’d have to carry my baby out of the room to stop his provocative coughing. This day was one of those days. The lamp went dim as I entered the kitchen. I could feel the quick nibbling legs of the roaches as they scribbled across my feet, but any miscalculated strike would hit me instead. I would have liked to risk that if I hadn’t scalded my feet a few days ago. The wounds were healing but they still felt sore. 

The shy sun wasn’t up, so I had to rely on my sleepy eyes and the fluctuating lamp which had retired to giving out more smoke than light. The smoke was irritating, almost as irritating as the smell of marijuana that came from behind the fence whenever the hooligans gathered at the ungodly hours. Mother was highly suspicious of them. She would refuse to spread out her ‘expensive’ lace wears on the communal drying lines for fear of the unknown. No matter how dripping wet it was, it’ll still be found airing out on the old broken dining chair that rested on passage. Thank God she didn’t wash it too often these days. It never got dirty because there was almost nowhere to wear it to. The invitations to the big weddings reduced after Paa died; Mother consoled herself with the thought that people are more reluctant to invite widows to weddings because of the nostalgia it may bring to them. Well, I knew it was because her pocket has gone dry. Most couples usually saw poor guests as liabilities and wealthy guests as priority for a marriage ceremony, an honor that had departed from her. At least, she still got a few more invitations to other events, but when I got pregnant it all vanished. If someone wanted to describe her, they wouldn’t say “the woman who started the finest hair salon in the area”, they’d say “the woman whose young daughter got pregnant”: an identity that successfully transferred the stigma and belittled our social status. Last month when her shop got broken into, she sat devastated on the floor. Was she crying or not? I didn’t care much. Actually almost no one cared. Burglary was a casual occurrence, bound to happen to everyone that worked in the market. When you complain that you got robbed there are only two kinds of answers. The first, “me too” then your case is shrugged off like fart, obvious but never to be spoken off. The second response is even worse and costs more than the initial lose; Your owed tax and debts are reopened and whatever you have left gets confiscated until you pay every dime. Of course, the poor have no right to complain, how could we forget that when it rang like a bell in our heads, heart and every breathe that found its way to our lungs. Mother still sat there. The broken padlock she had used to secure her shop was now dangling from her middle finger. Whenever she shook her breasts in despair, her lazy gypsy earrings would dance to the rhythm of her voluminous body. I watched as I always did. Then I noticed a hooligan walk across her path with his discolored head warmer which complemented his beard but was a little too big for his skinny bald head. I was a very far distance away but my eyes could smell him as he approached mum. Not because we shared a soul, but because of what people like him always smelled of: dirt. His shoes were laughing, literally. They hung open while his toes stuck out, scrapping against the gravel. I thought it would be better if he just paraded barefoot, but that didn’t matter to him. He walked proudly as though he wore a shoe worth a million dollars. But the world isn’t that blind; we can see the pig even though it’s covered in turkey feathers. Paa used to say that those who don’t go to school would end up in poverty. 

“If you want to be rich, face your studies.” 

I used to get tired of hearing that. Although I couldn’t imagine breaking the ritual of assembly bells and lesson notes, a part of me drew to the possibility that school might not be so vital after all. “Mum didn’t go to school but she was comfortable because she had a husband to cater for all her needs and finances,” I thought. But a lot of things has changed since then and his words now stung me with guilt as I recalled every bit of it. He was right. If mum had gone to school, maybe we wouldn’t suffer this much. Maybe the hooligan didn’t go to school either. What was his story? Was it anything like mine? What if I end up like him, since I’m already on that path? The fear was crippling, but time seems to have grown extra running limbs as months quickly turned to years.  

Mother still sat there. With time, she became aware of the hooligan. The market women grabbed their roaming kids and dragged them closer to their shops. I knew mother would have ran too if her wrapper hadn’t loosened from her waist, putting her at risk of stripping herself naked. So, she just sat there and watched the crowded street gradually ease up with his presence. We were all poor but those who were poorer were treated as plagues, avoided. Although his arm swung through the air, recklessly rubbing the sides of his ripped jeans, he walked calmly. Slowing his pace as he got closer to mum, he bent over and offered her his half-smoked stick of cigar. It was a worthless consolation. Mother didn’t smoke, at least I had never seen her do that before, and it wouldn’t replace her stolen goods either. But I knew it meant a lot to her. Not only did she love gifts, it was the only thing she got that morning. She was shocked. Very shocked, but I wasn’t. Nothing seemed to surprise me anymore: good or bad. Since that day mum developed a brighter point of view from people like him. He was the only one who noticed her grief, the others just acted like they cared. The sellers around her only shouted “Ndo, sorry” in a seemingly sympathetic voice from across their stalls. But as they continued with their business, they whispered prayers of thanks beneath their breaths, happy that they weren’t the victim this time. It was the same way they greeted each other. Saying “good morning”, without even looking at the others face. Saying “I hope you slept well” when deep down one wished the other was too sick to come to the shop and compete with them for the customers. There were no friends there, only frenemies. Everything was struggle, a fight, a war, an indaboski pahose. Well, Mum wasn’t so innocent of that either. When Madam Gana’s husband left her for a younger woman, Mum spent almost the entire day consoling the wailing woman in her home. But her tongue spilled all that it bore when she came home; she was finally free to take off the disguise she had managed to cope with all day. 

“Why wouldn’t he leave her when her house smells like the devil’s armpit. I couldn’t even breathe in that place.” 

“Her daughter cooked Ofe Nsala and she added only one meat for me. Can you imagine how disrespectful she is? What a big for nothing.”

It was difficult for me to control my laughter and disgust at her ingratitude. We barely ever ate meat at home. The taste of it had gradually been clouded by the insipid smoked fish that’s scattered scantily in the few lucky meals we ate. It was the cheaper and more durable option. A small plate of it could last us for weeks. Long enough to quench our hunger, but also long enough to lure the pests in. We were the ones whose home was infested with cockroaches and mice, yet she acted like another place is too dirty for her. The cockroaches that lived with us were the most entitled creatures I had ever seen, occupying every cupboard and digging on any slightly uncovered food that lay idle on the dining table. The only clue we got that showed the habitation of mice were their capsule sized feces that were occasionally littered in the store cartons, but these roaches had no barriers. And here I was, with the brown slippers still in my hand. The dawn, far from breaking and the lamp still smoking. I lock my eyes shut, but I still feel them get moist like the times I try to make onion rings with the somewhat blunt pen knife. My memory was the only tool I used to find my way out of the kitchen. My toes were more delicate as ever as it retraced every step I had taken. I shut the door louder than I intended to as I finally got out of the kitchen. It was a mix of excitement, adrenaline and disappointment. I was happy that I didn’t spill another pot of freshly warmed soup on my foot like the last time, a mistake that left us in hunger and me with red aggressive scalds on my feet and the lower regions of my thighs. And I was disappointed that I had woken up hours early just to retreat to yet another unsuccessful attempt to exterminate the annoying pests. The lamp had gradually stopped smoking; I only knew that because the air didn’t feel as stuffy as it was a few minutes ago. Again, I despised the fact that it had so much control. Or, maybe I was jealous of the lamp because I wished I had that much control over my life.