---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Where Icarus Went” Down in the Dirt v216 (2/24) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Limits of Imagination the Down in the Dirt January - April 2024 issues collection book		get the 422 page January - April 2024 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Multiple Faces of Keke

Jessica Aike

    My Aunty once narrated a harrowing story as we sat in the back of a Keke, enveloped by worn out faux leather and hasty voices.
    ‘A mother and child were crushed to death by one reckless driver’, she relayed, as she swiped at a bead of sweat threatening to land on her saturated palms. ‘Can you imagine, the driver could not even wait to see if him kill pesin, the werey just took off. God! Some people are wicked!’
    Goose bumps sprinted down my back as we locked eyes, the melancholy smeared across her angular features almost led me to believe she had known them, personally.
    Sweat trickled down the Keke driver’s forehead, grazing his sideburns as he wiped his face, missing the droplet of water.
    His timely ‘Na wa oo’ were almost humorous, as if he feared a show of disinterest might interfere with an increase in his pay.
    At 10, I had watched the vein on my mother’s left temple pulsate as she crossed her credit limit. Taminu and I were long due for new uniform. I had grown accustomed to trousers that jumped at my lower calves and jumpers that came to a sudden halt before my wrists.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ my mother would sometimes ask, fleeting concern running across her soft face. I always struggled with the why.
    My mother was a strong woman I had grown to hate. A mule who religiously saw the best in venom, as she perched behind the guise of kindness, salivating for the appraisals. By 13 I had learnt the language of black womanhood; proud turmoil, applauded strife and encouraged suffering.
    ‘God loves a cheerful giver’ she would mumble, as her eyes jittered when my judgemental glares unsettled her.
    We were served those same jittery eyes when my mother announced one day, that we were to go on a short trip, to Nigeria. ‘It won’t be for too long, it’s only for the summer’ she said as she bundled me and Taminu into a small but functional flat in Surulere.
    A woman, introduced to us as Aunty Helen had welcomed us at the bottom of the stairwell that led to a group of flats. She was somewhere in her mid-forties.
    Her large, jagged smile reminded me of the Shark documentary we watched during Geography Class in Year 6. She was the eager type, the kind who overemphasised her yes’s, and shook vigorously when she nodded to show agreeance.
    ‘No wahala, you know I will definitely pray for you’ was her go to phrase, because how else could one show they were a noble character if not to posture, to placate, to demonstrate unwarranted servitude, to outsiders.
    Days bled into years and one day in the middle of the afternoon, Taminu said, ‘You know mums not coming back, right?’ He was longer now, his frame filling the kitchen door casing with ease. He had since reached the conclusion I had desperately tried to evade, acceptance, he knew.
    I had known then, when her eyes darted around like flies searching for an escape as we made our way into our new home. It was the way she cleared her throat, the mini rant she gave about running late for an appointment she had never previously mentioned, and the nervous shuffling of Aunty Helen, as she attempted to plump the cushions scattered on the off grey sofa, flattened by time, and life. Deep down, I had known, that I would never see her again.
    On the Sunday afternoons after church, when Aunty Helen would search for the unknown, before she rolled off my body, the disdain for a mother who stretched on for every seed but her own, brew. When the aching crippled me to my knees, I vowed no life would ever come from my loins. My lineage would cease with me.
    ‘Abeg, drop here, make I buy something quick. I go add money join your own, no worry’ my aunty said, as she quickly stepped out the Keke and headed into the makeshift stall.
    ‘Ah correct customer, no wahala’ the Keke man smiled as he tapped his fingers against the remnant steering wheel, whistling along to the Gospel song on the radio, ‘God Loves a Cheerful Giver’.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...