Glitter in my veins

My mother and my elder sister were arguing about something again. Most of the things they argued about were very insignificant but probably as a result of the emotional stress inflicted on us by the economy, coupled with deaply seated anger and frustration, temper easily fled across the walls of our small bungalow, tantrums were blown at the slightest chances and before you say Jack Robinson, something that started out as a harmless banter had turned into a full fledged argument. I wondered what they were arguing about this time as I pulled on my uniform skirt, ignoring the clearly mapped out lines from being crisply folded in the rack for too long. Normally our school was overly fastidious about neatness particularly when it comes to ironing our uniforms but there hasn't been power supply for weeks now and even if there had been, the power was disconnected months back for "trespassing" and we were asked to pay a ridiculous amount of money which we may never be able to pay. And whatever chances we stood to get NEPA light again had been abolished when my sister slapped one of the NEPA men for insulting her, a resounding slap that recocheted across our ten flat yard and made the man stagger to a fall.

Charity was sitting on the only sofa in the sitting room with a wrapper tied over her night dress as she ran a comb through Dorcas's short hair, carefully placing one palm in front while she pulled the comb through bits and bits of tufts. Dorcas had had to cut her hair full, thick hair, short because my sister had always complained about how difficult it was making a plait and the women that made her hair were always charging more money than was expected. Dorcas was my elder sister's last child, her other two children being Solomon and Elijah who were nine and seven respectively. 

Charity was one of my elder brother Lucky's love escapades during his final year in the University and she'd showed up one crisp morning, a few shades of darkness away from dawn, at our house looking morose. Apparently, my elder brother had abandoned her when she got pregnant after their little affair and her parents had sent her packing when the cat was let out of the basket. So many dust was raised that day but today, almost five months later, it seems Charity has always been present in the organogram of our family. 

I didn't get the fine details of the argument but I figured it had something to do with the refrigerator which had suddenly developed a fault over the weekend when my mother traveled to the other side of town to purchase fresh crabs. She ran a cold room business, as such the refrigerator was always stacked to the brim with fresh food items, mostly seafood and consumables which she carries in coolers every morning during the weekdays, and most recently due to increasing financial demands, during weekends too, to her shop which towered around the outskirts of the town market. Apparently, most of the items had gone bad and my mother had flipped. My sister as usual got the blame and was beginning to blow a fuss. The neighbours' unceremonious booming morning playlist filtered into the sitting room, shaking the window panes and drowning their voices. Rita, my elder sister has always been doggedly stubborn even before she got married, and as such was always at loggerhead with my mother, intentionally disobeying orders and sparking controversies unnecessarily. I never intrude whenever they have their arguments, none of us did because they both shared the habit of transferring their aggression and no one would like to be the proverbial grass that suffers when two elephants fight. 

In as much as my sister had her short comings, I wasn't oblivious to her pain. Her husband was very abusive plus his dogged indulgence in the infamous pipeline vandalism business was an added burden. Once, one of her husband's escapades had gone south and the police had been involved. He had only escaped by a hair's breath and even that, they'd nearly gone bankrupt. But she had a good job at the state University that paid quite handsomely so she had mastered the art of dutifully ignoring his guiles and concentrating on training her three children without bothering him. Honestly, I understand she was only enduring this burden of a marriage because she was trying to save her children the agony of a broken home, same agony we had all grown in, but everything went south when the government stopped to pay and the lecturers had embarked on an indefinite strike action against the government which will go on until they paid up their three months salary. I guess reality finally dawned on her since her only source of solace had been thrashed and she was left in chronic despair. She came here to stay with us only weeks back, after a heated scuffle with her husband in which she had nearly lost her sight. 

Their raucous voices coupled with the blatant reggae and country cacophony of a competition the neighbors had ensued racked across my ears as I packed up my bag pack, solemnly and did same for my sister's children, stopping momentarily to cross check their homeworks. Inside one of Solomon's notebook, I found a letter asking to meet with his parent because of his "disturbingly poor performance" in the unflattering handwriting of his class teacher. It was dated over two weeks ago and I wondered what lie Solomon had told again that his teacher had let him off the hook. I sighed then. Children were only a reflection of the activities that go on around their immediate environment. 

I went over to my mother's room which was demarcated from ours with a wispy curtain, to search for the shoe polish when I stumbled upon one of dad's pictures lying under piles of dirty mattresses. Had mom been missing him? I could never tell. No one talked about him since he left. Even when he was around, he was merely a peripheral figure in the house that left very early in the morning and came home late in the night with spicy, sweet-smelling suya wrapped in old newspapers until one day he left and didn't return. No one will tell me where he was or why he left. Did he not love us? I'd often wonder. But deep down I knew he did. I could see it in his eyes, how they'll crinkle lovingly when I come home with my trophies from our racing and football competitions in school. He'd tell me they call him Roberto Carlos back in the days, and that I took after him. My memories of him and mum were only the fondest but I overheard my elder sister once talk shabbily about that "other woman" and his other children. I was only six then and I can't tell if I'd heard correctly. Since he left, my mother had singlehandedly catered for all four of us, seeing Rita and Lucky through the university, and me and Tammy, my younger brother who was in boarding school. Sometimes I wonder how she did it because she had no proper job nor did she have a proper education and she didn't rely on the Government for pay but somehow she did. When I hear people say "not all heroes wear capes" , I think about my mother.

I heard some voices coming few feet away from the window and I peeked outside to see my friends ambling towards the front door. 

"Judith! Judith!!" They called out and that was my cue to suspend my thoughts once again. Aside the upcoming interhouse sport games, school wasn't exactly something I looked forward to but I get to leave home for a while and I was thankful for that.