Homecoming

Home was abstract. It evoked no feelings in me: no wave of nostalgia hit me at the mere thought of home. I felt no sense of belonging nor a longing to be there. I knew that a home was not defined by its location; it was the people in it that made it a home. I was sadly never going to truly experience a home in its glory— love, laughter, happiness, and acceptance —and I was at peace with that. There is no place like home—I did not entirely agree with that statement, as there exists a place like a home, where you do not want to be found—a place I have been and did not have a place.

My parents died when I was only seven years old. My mom died during childbirth; the child passed on a few days later. My dad, overwhelmed by grief and guilt, followed suit a month later: leaving me in despair.  My maternal aunt took me in, not from a place of selflessness, but selfishness. I was never going to be treated as her child. I was nothing but a child laborer, and I was to be grateful she had taken me in when everybody dodged me like a bullet; no one wanted an extra mouth to feed, clothe, or educate with the country’s economy. At that point, I could be considered God’s least favorite child, as I was better off at a government-owned orphanage than with my aunty. 

Who was Aunty?  She wasn’t a friend. Her heart was darker than coal, but she had a knack for concealing her darkness one would think she was the light.  She was selectively kind, extending the same liberty to her kids and herself. Her shoes of motherhood were filled and fitted on anyone but her, and I soon rose to the occasion of a child mother to her two children aged three years and six months respectively. Apart from making me stay up all night whenever the children cried, she looked for the slightest opportunity to dump them on me. One morning, in her usual successful attempts to get the kids off her hand, she hurriedly left the house with yet another made-up excuse. It wasn't good for me as I was up all night performing her motherly duties. I fell asleep while the children were playing. Aunty had returned earlier than usual to meet me snoring.  I was woken up by slaps, kicks, and blows. 

“How dare you sleep while my children are awake?  You are wicked, you are an ingrate,” she screamed.  

“Aunty, I am sorry, I was so tired”, I pleaded, but that only intensified the beating. 

Her kids cried out, reaching out to hold me—and that was her cue to stop. As punishment, she starved me for three days while making sure I duly performed all my chores, including my duties to her kids. Aunty was a germaphobe who never lifted a finger to clean but expected outrageous high standards of cleanliness from me. I was getting used to my status in her house—a means to an end. This meant that I did all the dirty work, ranging from scrubbing the floors daily to doing her laundry which included the foul-smelling underwear she soaked in water for days without changing the water. Sometimes I wondered if she was trying to ferment them. I also had to deal with blood-stained underwear. I was always disgusted by washing her underwear. One day, I used a peg to clip my nose temporarily, to save myself from vomiting while I washed. Luck was never on my side per se, as Aunty walked into the bathroom and before I could remove the peg from my nose, she charged angrily at me like a bull. She dragged me by my ears out of the bathroom and I knew it was over for me. 

“You do a good job at insulting me, you know”, she said. “But don’t worry, it will stop today.”

I went on my knees and begged for mercy, even though I was certain she was never going to send any my way. Aunty went to the market and got assorted peppers: habanero, chili, and scotch bonnets. I wondered what had put her in a good mood to prepare her special stew. Little did I know, she was preparing a feast for her enemy: me. She asked me to wash the peppers and blend them in the usual manner, with minimal water. I completed the rest of my chores and soon it was time for bed. It was a cold rainy night and I was assured of a good night’s rest— or not. I was later woken up by a whip of cane. I knew better than to scream, but since I was taken unawares, I screamed. It was followed by more whips, a cue to stop screaming. She stripped me naked and poured the blended pepper mix into my eyes and vagina. I screamed and whips of cane followed, but the louder I screamed, the harder the whip of cane. 

“This should serve as a learning curve for you, you do not bite the hand that feeds you”, she said, leaving the room. 

“I don’t want to hear a sound from you. If I do hear a sound, as loud as the drop of a pin, you will join your parents in their graves.” 

I was blinded by the maddening pain and ran from pillar to post. It took my head hitting a wall to keep me seated on the floor, whimpering.

Living with Aunty translated to living in constant fear—not of the unknown, but of the known. She was difficult to please and a fault-finder. I was never going to be enough in her eyes whether in life or death. I tried to be on my best behavior, carrying out my duties efficiently and on time but I was never going to be in her good books. Aunty had terrible mood swings and I suffered a greater deal when the episodes came. On days like that, I got beaten for merely existing in the same space as her. I would be sent to bed earlier with no food. 

As the years rolled by, my living conditions only got worse. I was to turn sixteen in a few days, but Aunty had not changed. She was still the same old insatiable Aunty, who never saw me beyond a tool, a servant, and a punching bag. The beatings got worse, with my wounds never getting a chance to fully heal, as they were reopened much faster than they healed. The running of the house slowly rested on my shoulders. I did a good job running the house; it was always clean, food was prepared on time, and clothes were washed, dried, and pressed, but I still amounted to nothing in her eyes. 

“You are useless, you don’t do anything in this house! I can’t wait to get rid of you,” she would say,  whenever I made a mistake. I soon grew a thick skin and no longer flinched or cried when she talked down to me. This made her mad, so she intensified the beatings and rolled out more punishments. The day Aunty beat me to a pulp, I had cooked beans without picking them. I was exhausted from market runs. She had sent me to a village three hours away to get food supplies. The journey was long, slow, and uncomfortable as the roads were bad, and there was an extreme heat wave. Aunty made sure I took the buses the lousy market women took, which were always full to the brim with their wares, and the car almost buried carrying weights the designers of the car never imagined they would. 

The car was suffocating, claustrophobic, and nauseating. I managed to stick my head out of the window to get some air. Upon my arrival, Aunty inspected my purchase scrutinizing, criticizing, and complaining. I had prayed to God and asked for a good night’s rest, so I hurriedly performed my chores. I served Aunty her food and proceeded to continue with my chores. I was silently doing the dishes in the kitchen when Aunty suddenly flew into the kitchen and poured her food on me. I was taken aback. What had I done again? She threw whatever utensil within her reach at me, while I dodged and ran out of the kitchen. She had locked all the doors, leaving me stuck in the living room.  She dragged me by my ears to her room. She locked the doors and got to the business of nearly beating life out of me. I had passed out. When I woke up, I was in a pool of my own blood. I laid still till it was morning. Aunty and her kids were out of the house by the time I got up.  

I knew she did not care about me, but leaving in that state like that, I got the memo quite fast. I wondered why she did not drag me out of her room. But since I was here, I made a quick decision to rifle through her things. I needed money to treat my injuries. I found some cash and ran out of the house without thought. I had never stolen from Aunty. This was the biggest crime I had committed against her, and I was going to pay dearly for it. I went to a pharmacy some blocks away from the house to tend to my wounds.  After my wounds were stitched, I put off going home immediately, as I wasn’t ready to face my fears. I was so foolish I thought! I should have taken all the money and run far away from Aunty, but now I was stuck with nowhere to turn to. I walked as slowly as I could back home, but it seemed like the fastest walk ever. I could tell that Aunty was home already. I walked into the house and was greeted by multiple slaps at the door. She pushed my head against the adjacent wall. 

“Aunty, please stop!”, I protested, blood dripping down my face. 

She dragged me to the bathroom and pushed my head inside the drum of water, soaking it for a few minutes. I struggled, but to no avail. She dragged me from the bathroom back into her room, locked the door, and left me there. She was far from being done with me. I cried myself to sleep, knowing full well I could have acted smarter. Aunty stormed back into the room, kicking me to signal me it was time for war. Kicks and blows landed on my body from different directions. I folded and groaned in pain. She did not stop until she could no longer hear any sounds from me. She poured cold water on me to revive me and continue, but I did not wake up, I lay still on the floor. She was thrown into a panic. 

Aunty carried me into the car and drove as fast as she could. She did not take me to a hospital, instead, she drove to a dump site and dumped my lifeless body there, leaving me for dead. She zoomed off, never happier to take me off her hands. The last memory I had was while I was being beaten by Aunty. 

I cried and said a prayer to God, the universe, or any deity that cared to listen, “Take me away to a place where I can find peace and rest. Take me to a place where I will be enough. I want to feel loved and accepted. I want to go home.” 

Two days after Aunty dumped me, I opened my eyes. The lights were extremely bright, I was nearly blinded. I smiled in satisfaction; I was finally in a better place. I hoped to see my parents, recognize them, and be reunited with them, as my memories had become blurred. I looked around, checking to be sure that I did not find anything that matched Aunty, not even a silhouette.  I looked around again, but this time my nose caught the deep-seated stench of the dumpsite. I was surrounded by a heap of refuse.  I let out a loud scream from my lungs. 

‘Why was I alive? Why did Aunty show me mercy by sparing my life? Why did she not finish her job?’ 

I  thought on my feet and decided I was going to end my own life, after all, I was already left for dead. I tried to stand up, but I fell back on the heap of refuse. I tried again, standing up slowly. I walked slowly. I felt dizzy with my vision blurry. I took one step at a time, falling and sinking at some point, but I kept walking till I got out of the dump site. I was determined to walk into the highway with my eyes closed and leave my fate in the hands of a speeding driver. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked onto the road, convinced that whatever I did, or whatever life threw at me or around me—I could never take the road that led me home, for there was no home to return to, Aunty had made sure of that.

Mr. and Mrs. Ajibode were high school love birds. They were young, rich, and inseparable. The way they stole glances at each other was telling of how love-struck they were. An adventurous lot they were, traveling at the drop of a hat. They were en route to a vacation destination when I walked onto the road. Mr. Ajibode quickly diverted his car, avoiding me by a hair’s breadth. I opened my eyes and fell to the ground. They alighted the car and ran to my rescue. 

“Leave me alone. I want to die”, I said amidst tears. 

They were both confused, but they dragged me out of the road and into their car. “What’s your name? What happened to you? Why are you badly battered? Who did this to you? Why are you trying to kill yourself?”, they asked me in successive turns at the same time. 

I muttered empty utterances and burst into an ending bout of tears. They allowed me to cry in silence—as they knew I needed that moment. We drove in silence and then I opened my mouth to speak. I told them everything I could remember. Mrs.  Ajibode burst into tears on hearing my story. I cried even more. 

She looked at her husband briefly and told me “It’s going to be fine,” I did not let her finish, saying “Please, don’t tell me that. Why did you not let me die? It’s not going to be fine; it actually only gets worse. 

“You did not allow me to finish,” Mrs. Ajibode stopped me. “After hearing your story, we are moved. I know it’s been less than two hours since we met, but we can’t let you go, not like this. Where will you go from here? You have nowhere to go. Just say ‘Yes’.  Let’s help you start over on a better note”, Mrs.  Ajibode said convincingly. 

I looked at them and burst into tears—tears of joy this time. I had a faraway look in my eyes, this was the nicest gesture I had ever received. This was the first good thing that had happened in my life. “ Please say yes, life is for the living—and you need your experience rewired,” they urged me. I nodded as I could not speak—overwhelmed by tears. They were so happy. I wondered why they were happy to help me when Aunty found any opportunity to gloat.  

The A’s as I fondly called them,  took me to a hospital where I had a comprehensive examination. I had fractured a few ribs, but fortunately for me, no vital organs were damaged and the fractured ribs were going to heal on their own. My wounds were examined, cleaned, and stitched up. I was admitted for a few days, to be closely monitored given the fact that I had suffered from extensive trauma. All my tests and X-rays came back clean. Soon I was discharged and the A’s took me to their home. It was as beautiful as their hearts. They showed me to my room. I sat on the floor and cried. I couldn’t sleep the first night I spent in my new home. As I was accustomed to being the latest bird to sleep and the earliest bird to rise, I woke up quite early to perform some chores around the house, but to my surprise I couldn’t find anything to do as there was always work to be done in Aunty’s house. Mrs. Ajibode came up to my room and invited me for breakfast, another culture shock. They had a housekeeper, a chef, a driver, and a security who they treated with respect, saying “thank you” after each job was well done.  I literally did not lift a finger to do anything. I wondered if I still lived on the same earth as Aunty. It was surreal. 

There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks when decades happen. My life felt like a movie with everything happening so fast. One minute I was Aunty’s machine that broke down and was abandoned, the next minute, I was the machine the A’s had repaired and put on display at a museum.  The rejected stone had indeed become the chief cornerstone. It took a while for me to adapt to living conditions with the A’s. The idea of leaving all the chores to the domestic staff never sat right with me, but I had to behave like the Romans as I was currently in Rome as it were. I lived like I was on probation,  putting on my best behavior at all times. I wanted to be in the best books of the A’s, as I never wanted to ruin the chance life gave me for a do-over. I never spoke out of turn. I never asked questions, although I had a lot of unanswered ones. I wondered why there were no kids around. I knew finances were out of the question. I felt they could not birth children and I pitied them. I imagined what their kids would look like. I was sure they were going to take Mrs. Ajibode’s eyes and Mr. Ajibode’s face. I knew they were going to be loved and cherished. I had a sudden tinge of envy which I did not feel good about.

“How could I be envious of their unborn kids? You are truly an ingrate, Aunty was right after all”, I scolded myself. I made a solemn decision to pray every night for the A’s wishing that they were granted their deepest desires. 

I couldn’t tell who was more excited to have “who” in their lives: me having the A’s in my life or the A’s having me in their lives. It felt like they were bored, and so took on as a pet project, the process of making my life better. They clothed me with the finest robes, I could barely recognize myself. I found myself randomly smiling, when I thought I would never have a cause to bring myself to a genuine smile, let alone even fake a smile. I was broken but the A’s had mended me. The A’s were jolly good fellows who found random occasions to celebrate, so it did not come as much of a surprise when they celebrated the anniversary of our meeting. In honor of that day, they had an intimate dinner planned.  They had me start on how lucky they were to have me. 

“We just wanted to let you know, we have never been happier, having you in our lives. Fate brought you to us and for that, we are eternally grateful. It is on that note, that we are kindly asking you to be our daughter.” Mr. Ajibode said softly. A lot of thoughts ran through my mind. I kept saying “Why?” “What did I do to deserve this grand gesture?” I planned to turn down the offer, they had done enough, I reasoned. 

“Please say yes, do not turn down our proposal”, Mrs. Ajibode added. 

‘I cannot do this, this is too much,” I said, running out of the restaurant. 

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, but they chased steadily behind in their car. I abruptly stopped, realizing running was only a fool’s errand. I walked towards the car and joined them inside. 

“I am sorry I ran; I just could not process your request. You have more than done enough, I can’t accept your offer. I am sorry” I said. “Listen, Mrs. Ajibode started, I can’t have children…………….” I was broken. I did not let her finish when I blurted out a loud “Yes!”

Reminiscing, I realized I had won the lottery. I was grateful to Aunty and everything that ensued, as she led me home. The A’s not only lived up to their promise of rewiring my life experiences, but they gave me everything I had always wanted—love, laughter, happiness, and acceptance. They welcomed a complete stranger in their home, clothed, fed an extra mouth, and never gloated. They reopened my heart to the possibility of love. In them, I had found solace. My deepest wounds were healed. My heart was full; my joy was complete. I was indeed home—home in the house the people had built.

Communa short story prize for “The House The People Built”

*Feature photo by Abdulrahman Abubakar