Four boys gather to watch ants on a Saturday evening. The sun is starting to turn orange, splashing its colour on clumps of grey clouds that drift like wingless birds across the face of the sky. They are under a mango tree, unaware of the phenomenon above.
They are Jide, Tolu, Bosun, and Kunle. Jide is a happy boy with a cruel mouth. He’s also the youngest of the clique. But not the shortest. He’s 8, a little taller than Kunle, the clique’s figure of fun. Kunle, 9, is round, armed with sufficient flesh to cushion the impact of the meanest joke. He is always ready with a smile for his jesters. Bosun is the tallest and oldest of the group. He’s 10. His size and age put him at a significant advantage in the group. But he’s not the one with the greatest influence. Tolu, 9, is the clique’s core. He’s wiry, and his head, like an inflated apple, looks too huge for his body. His opinions are always given earnest consideration. He commands the respect of the group simply because he always has stories to tell. He whips fantasies as one drinks water. Easy and smooth. Jide, convinced of his ability, once joked that God filled his head with so many stories that it became too big.
Ant-watching is a game Tolu designed for the group. On days they are not playing football or rolling tyres across the streets or playing hide and seek, they gather to watch ants and speculate on their existence. The other boys ask Tolu why they watch ants. Tolu tells them King Solomon, the wisest king to ever rule Israel, watched ants in his leisure and became prudent. Kunle nods his head that the flesh on his face jiggles like a seal. Jide’s eyes shine like neon light. Bosun cups his chin in his hands, listening to Tolu’s narration.
An army of ants march towards and away from a freshly eaten mango. Tolu tells them the orderliness of the military is an adaptation of ants’ sense of order. Ants march, soldiers march too. Ants understand camaraderie, soldiers do too. Ants work for the common good, soldiers do too.
The boys watch with rapt attention. Kunle spots a group of ants moving a thread of flesh from the mango. A giant headed ant joins the group. Jide looks at it with amusement, then looks at Tolu’s head and chuckles. The boys ask why he is laughing. He shakes his head and laughs more.
Bosun asks why the ant is bigger than the rest. “Can’t you think?” Jide jeered. Bosun shot him a glare. He then tells Kunle that the ant is bigger because it cheats the group of their food. Kunle looks to Tolu, expecting something fascinating.
“It carries heavy things. It has bigger muscles,” Tolu said in a confident tone. The boys nodded their understanding.
This continues for some time. Suddenly, a sharp, loud voice travels to the company of the boys. “Tolu!” it screams. There was a short pause, and it rings again. This time, with more power that it snatches the boys forcefully from their fun.
Tolu jerks violently and bounces with a force inconceivable for his lanky frame. “Ma,” he responded. His voice shrill in its attempt to travel beyond its power.
He dashes in a particular direction, disappearing from the sight of the boys. Seeing the figure of Tolu fade into the distance, the other boys quickly lose interest in the game and go their separate ways.
Tolu is back at home. He’s panting. He bends and rests his palms on his knees, fighting to catch his breath.
A young woman appears in his line of sight. Small-bodied, brown-skinned, dark of eyes, with an odd air of solemnity. She is in a cream sleeveless shirt made of chiffon material and a multicoloured patterned wrapper. A head is concealed in a satin scarf. An infant, Tolu’s only sibling, deep in its sleep, is tied to her back.
“I’m here, Mummy,” Tolu says.
“Sorry my boy,” she replies.
“I need to prepare dinner. Go and buy ugwu from Mummy Grace. Your dad will be back anytime from now.”
She hands him a dirty hundred naira note.
Tolu receives it and looks at his mum. He’s affected by the gravity in her expression.
He nods and hastens to the kitchen, flings a shelf open, and picks a plastic bag. He is out of the house in the next minute. He picks a direction and starts walking briskly.
He is at his destination a few minutes later. It is a shop where food items are sold. The air is thick with the smell of dried fish and dried pepper. Tolu wrinkles his nose at the pungency of the air.
He sees a young woman and greets. Her face is bright and fair like golden melon. Her frame swells majestically in her dress.
“How are you, Tolu?” A thick Igbo accent flourishes within the words.
“How your mama? Your brother nko?”
“Fine. Thank you, Ma. I want to buy ugwu. Hundred naira.”
She grabs a bunch of green vegetables, picks the leaves, and starts to chop them on a wooden tray. She asks Tolu questions that would be improper for a person who minds their business.
Tolu waits and answers patiently.
She is done in no time. Tolu receives the vegetables and thanks her. Chopped vegetables packed in a black nylon in hand, Tolu dashes back home.
He enters the kitchen. It is hot. His mother sits on a stool and stirs semo in a pot held tight between her feet. A film of sweat covers her face and back. He considers it a domestic battle. His mother is made to duel some white semi-solid food in a pot, in a cramped sweltering space, in the audience of spoons, knives, and pots.
She doesn’t look up. “You’re back. Thank you,” she says.
Tolu drops the nylon containing the vegetables in a kitchen bowl. He is stepping out of the kitchen when a shrill cry tears through the house.
“Your baby brother is crying. Go and check him for me,” his mother urges.
He enters his parents’ bedroom. His brother, Akande, two months old, lies in his bed, crying and thrashing about. He carries him and looks at him with interest. He is amused at his pink, smooth skin, at his littleness, at his bright eyes polished beneath a film of tears. He holds him to his chest and pats him gently on the back. The infant’s cry subsided like the backpedalling of the sea from the shore. He sings him lullabies, trying to put him to sleep to no avail.
When he steps out of the bedroom with his brother in his arms, his mother is done preparing dinner.
He is served his food in a tiny white bowl. Tolu doesn’t eat any food that isn’t served in his tiny white bowl. His fixation on eating only from a small bowl worries his mother, as it’s too small to contain the portion adequate for him.
Tolu, usually an obedient child, isn’t available to be reasoned with in this matter. His mother indulges him, too.
As he eats, he watches his mother eat her food in big mouthfuls as she suckles Akande. She wasn’t like that until Akande’s birth. She had taught and exemplified proper table manners. Her hands are full, but she’s full of nothing. She can’t enjoy her food. She can’t attend to her baby as she would.
A pang of pity stings Tolu in the chest. He wonders why she has to do all these by herself.
She finishes her meal, while he’s still halfway into his.
Baby in hand, she packs her plate to the kitchen.
Then, she attends to the baby in her hand.
It is night already, some minutes to nine. There is a knock on the door. Tolu attends to it. A man walks in, his steps slightly unsteady. A strong smell of alcohol gushes from him, pushing Tolu a few steps back. His nose scrunches, and he greets.
“Welcome, Daddy.”
“Why are you still awake?” A grating voice fires at him.
“We are waiting for you,” Tolu replies, his voice uncertain.
“Who asked you?” Where is your mummy?”
Without waiting for a response, he makes his way into the house.
He finds his wife, with their infant, in the living room. His face under the fluorescent light lacks human gentleness, only contempt drowned by debauchery.
She kneels to greet him. Her body stiffens with fear. “Welcome, my dear,” she greets.
“Go and get me my food,” an order rings out. His alcoholic breath fills the room. Tolu walks in behind them and feels the tension in the room shoot up like a reed.
His mother hastens to lay the sleeping baby in his bed and makes for the kitchen.
He retreats into his room. The lesson he had learnt on one such night is still with him. His dad had come home that night, oozing alcohol and malice. His had unleashed on his wife and child cold anger. His wife had to wear heavy make-up for weeks to hide the details of that night. Tolu had patterns flogged into his back.
Now, he’s in his room, trembling, hoping things don’t turn ugly.
Back in the living room, his mum is back with a tray of food, which she places in front of her husband.
He doesn’t thank her. He opens his food to find two pieces of fish.
“Why not meat?” he asks, a strong venom palpable in his voice.
“Things are expensive now. The money you…”
She doesn’t finish when a hard slap hits her square in the face.
She staggers and falls backward. While still trying to catch herself, a rush of blows rain on her.
She holds her hands up to block the assault.
She pleads. She weeps.
“Kolade, please. It won’t happen again.”
He doesn’t stop. He pulls out his belt and whips her with much virulence.
In his room, Tolu is terrified. He hears the cry for help, the sound of leather hitting skin with great vim, the pleas falling on deaf ears. His head explodes with terror. Memories flood in.
This isn’t the father he had always known. His dad had always been a good man till he turned six, and his mum still hadn’t produced a second child. He went from being a loving husband and good father to a violent, irresponsible husband and dad. The image of his father as an honourable man crumbled bit by bit like an anthill, but the loss of his reputable image didn’t deter his monstrous metamorphosis.
First, it was the way he began to snap at his wife and child at the slightest offence. He started finding fault in everything. His words became mean & caustic. Then, he stopped buying them gifts and reduced their allowance. Then, he started returning from work later than usual, with the smell of alcohol all over him. He also started hitting his wife and child. The first time he had hit his wife, Tolu was stunned into shock. He felt a momentary disconnect between his brain and his eyes. But it soon became the norm.
And when Akande came, a shard of light seemed to have fallen into the home again.
Nothing engenders hope in a Nigerian home like the arrival of a newborn. Beyond the joy and satisfaction that a mother has put to bed, is the tacit belief life will become more colourful.
Tolu saw how different his mother looked with his brother in her hand. She was filled with complete assurance, convinced of her place in her husband’s house. She looked forward to more attention from her husband. She had hoped he would scold her less, that his fits of anger would be less frequent, that he would no longer keep mistresses, that he would no longer give her panda eyes from time to time.
His dad, too, seemed to have changed. He had become less cynical. He was pleased with himself. And he thought to himself that he has now sired a second child, and his fortunes are about to get better. He had hoped he would have enough money for his home and his mistresses. He had hoped his child would offer the mother a source of joy and she would annoy him less, that it would distract her from considering his infidelity.
And Tolu had, at the time, rejoiced at the change in his dad’s behaviour. He was sweet to his mother in the first few days post-partum. He always paid attention to her needs. On the day Akande was christened, he stood beside her before the priest, not only like a father to the child, but like an enduring pillar of support to his wife. They smiled like a happy couple. The cameraman was quick to capture the moment, which had become a sore spot for him in the family photo album, for its rarity and its fakeness.
He was encouraged. He imagined a continued peace between his parents. Their mum wouldn’t have to apply heavy make-up to hide the marks, she wouldn’t have to cry into her pillow at night, she would have kind words for his dad.
But hope rewards nothing greater than itself.
It was a sharp cry that brought him back from his train of thoughts. His head, massive and looking like a pot on a pole, now aches from the commotion. The noise has woken Akande. He’s crying, as if to protest his mother’s suffering.
It has some effect. The beating stops. But the cries continue. A baby and his mother weeping in a burning house with no visible fire. And no one is there to save them.
Tolu, crippled with mortal fear, is trembling, his bones quaking in their flesh, his heart almost bursting through its bony cage. He is now curled up in bed. He feels his eyes sting. His cheeks suddenly become warm and wet. His pillow will be soaked tonight again.
And that makes him think of the boys and the stories he tells them.
The next story he tells them is a horror movie, in which his father is the antagonist. He wonders what their reaction would be. And that carries him to sleep.
