Block 66

The last box in the room was the old noodles carton, eaten up by mites and whatnot. She sighed and shuffled across the room. Squatting in front of the box, her knees gave a loud crack. She sighed. Picked the box up. Walked back to the table. Dropped it. Musty dust rose to her face. She coughed and swiped at it. Useless. She kept coughing. 

The books in there. Too old. Decades old. A Selection of African Poetry. West African Verse. Chinua Achebe's 'Anthills of the Savannah'. Hammer on the Cock, with the author's name neatly eaten off. Charles Dickens' 'Oliver Twist'. She stopped coughing. A sudden thought occurred to her. The last day she'd read Oliver Twist. She was ten, or thereabouts. Mum had been frying chinchin in the kitchen. The aroma of nutmeg and flour hung thickly in the air. She salivated, until the point where the boy Oliver had asked for more. She remembered thinking that at his age, she had more than enough. He didn't even have up to less than enough. She swiped at her tears. She had done it then, and did it again. 

She picked up the book. Numbly, she turned the brown pages, dog-eared and weakened with age. Dead roaches' eggs were stamped on the corner of the pages. The typewritten fonts seemed smaller than ever. They had changed from black to brown. She strained her eyes, looking for the page where the boy Oliver had asked for more. Something fell out of the page. 

Bending to pick it, she realised that it was a vintage photo, one of afro-haired mum, looking stylish in a bright suit, smiling in an embrace. The hands encircling her waist were definitely masculine, but what was chilling was the fact that the man had been trimmed out of the photo. Her best guess was with a pair of scissors. She turned the photo, squinting. 

Something was scribbled in black ink that was now smudged. But she could make out the faint outline of the handwriting. It was mum's handwriting. It read, "the cafeteria at block 66, Alison Way. Me and Johnson. 29/4/72." The 'Me and Johnson' was nestled inside a not-so-perfect heart shape. She laughed as she thought of mum, all high and mighty, as a young lady in love, and only a few decades ago. Who was this man? Was he her father? Why had he been trimmed out of the photograph? Did they break up? Did he hurt her? Did he die?

She turned the photo and studied the features of mum's face. She looked young, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. About the same age as she was, presently. Someone else would have thought she was even the one in the photo. The resemblance was all too clear in the bridge of her nose, and in the flare of her nostrils. Sadness suddenly wrapped itself around her. How come mum never talked about him? 

She pocketed the photograph and took the box, with the old books intact, to the back of the house, where a fire she'd started was slowly dying out. She flung the box among the trash pile, and watched the dying flames lick at the ancient papers. Mum would have strangled her for 'print mutilation', as she called it. It brought a wistful smile to her face. She dusted her hands and went back into the house. 

It was now empty. Totally empty. She'd done a good job of removing everything - the curtains, the sheets, the rugs, the mirrors - and leaving them by the old Mission House, whose roof had been blown off by a downpour, where, by night fall, she was sure people disguised in old clothes and headwarmers, would come out in their numbers, foraging for useful things. She'd burned all the clothes, and mattresses, and shoes. She would call those women, those ones who sat under the bridge, day and night, saying, "sister mi, let me wash your clothes for you, and sweep your house, my child is hungry." She would call them to sweep the house clean. Then she would hang "To Let" on the gate, so that anyone interested in renting the place would contact her. 

She went to her car, parked just outside the gate. One last look at the home she'd grown up in. The only place she'd ever known as home. Where the soft, warm hug of mum awaited her after school hours, along with a glass of milk laced with sugar. The tears flowed freely from her eyes. 

As she placed her foot on the clutch, she switched on the radio and blinked as a classic filled the air. She drove smoothly, stopping at red lights, moving at green lights. She admired the changes that had taken over the roads. Tarred roads. Street lights. Policemen. She thought of the cafeteria at block 66, Alison Way. Where is Alison Way? She thought of all the 'Ways' she knew in Lagos. Would 'Alison Way' still be in existence, forty-odd years after? Would 'the cafeteria' still be standing there, or had it become a victim of demolition, like all those buildings - those houses, offices, hotels, banks - the government pulled down, in order to construct roads and bridges? 

She hit the accelerator and laughed heartily. Movies had actually done a lot of damage to humans' psyche. She could only imagine a young lady like her, setting out on an adventure, a whole plan to fill the gap, to answer the questions about the trimmed-out man in the picture. She laughed again as Bob Marley's voice filled the air. "... don't worry...'bout a thing... cuz every lil' thing's gon' be alright..."

She sang along to the timeless lyrics, filled with nostalgia. She was driving to start a new life. But where exactly? She had no idea. She decided to drive around town. Twice. Maybe three times. Or four. She just needed to be as far from home as possible. And the cemetery. She would take the longer route to avoid driving past the cemetery, else she was sure she would see a faint outline of mum, smiling and embracing an unknown man.