I can still taste the substance Maami forced into my mouth, a day etched in my memory when my mother’s routine took an unexpected twist. Maami, an illiterate but a meticulous planner, adored the colour red, claiming it resonated with her spiritual essence, her “eleda”.

So when she hurriedly left our home one early morning, deviating from her meticulously planned schedule, I sensed something was amiss. You see, I had taken it upon myself to clandestinely peruse her notebook and diary, and on that fateful day, her notebook was my sole focus.

Her routines for the day were neatly outlined:

1) go iya badru place, collect my fish

2) go iya tao, iya tope, baba fatula collect my balance tipa tipa

3) go shop to check my oja and laide my sale girl to check if she don tif any of my tins

4) go oga Tisha aus to pay for bimbo lesson money, wey she go start tomorrow

5) go home, cook food for my bimbo. Sefini.

My curiosity led me to her diary, and I marvelled at how an uneducated woman could be so methodical. With the key hidden beneath her worn-out shoe, I unlocked the wooden drawer beside her bed. The room had a distinct odour, a clash of “camfo and pafoom,” which I found off-putting. I extracted her diary, and that’s when I unravelled the mystery behind my mother’s unusual behaviour.

“dayaree” she had begun “today I go to ijo kerubim and serafim early momo at orita dugbe. I meet the profet dat come to my shop and tell me say my bimbo be emere. E don long wey I b tink am but today I go confam am. I lof my bimbo, I no want make she die”.

My heart sank. It was true that my mother loved me deeply, despite having children who came before me and didn’t survive. She referred to them as “senior ones” and explained they all passed away a few days after birth. I was never given a proper name, as Maami had lost hope after my arrival, believing I too would not survive. I was just a stranger’s name shouted from across the street. I was left to cry myself to sleep from hunger, only fed reluctantly under pressure from my grandmother, Iya Agba.

What terrified me was not the tales of children being beaten or starved to death due to accusations of being “emere” or “abiku” (evil children), but my own recurring dreams. In those dreams, I found myself among a group of strangers, dressed strangely, singing unfamiliar songs. It wasn’t a nightmare, it was comforting, and it was one of the reasons I loved going to bed early. I felt warmth and belonging with those strangers, but I had never told my mother about it.

Maami returned, this time with a bottle filled with a crude oil-like substance. I sat on the dining table, awaiting her arrival, not flinching as she approached, pinched my cheeks to open my mouth, and forced the bitter, sour, salty, and sweet liquid down my throat. My eyes closed, and for a brief moment, I saw myself back with those beloved strangers. But this time, their expressions turned to disdain and rage as they pointed fingers at me. I felt a colossal hand dragging me away. I stared at the familiar red-painted nails clutching my dress, Maami’s favourite colour.

I woke up in Maami’s arms, her eyes filled with tears. I had severed my connection with my newfound family, leaving me with an aching heart. I managed a weak smile and whispered, “Maami, I’m here”.

“kaabo, kurin omo mi, wadogbo, wadagba (welcome my child, you will live long)” she said

“amin (amen)” I replied.

**** **** **** **** **** **** ****

I can still remember the taste as I savoured the moinmoin Maami prepared for me in the hospital bed. I gaze at her, now called Iya Agba by her grandsons, as she cradles my fourth child. I had persisted in my desire for a daughter, and now, I could finally rest.

“what will you name her?" Maami asks

“morenikeji” I reply

“I was thinking Rutu” she suggests, her English was better thanks to the constant tutoring by my sons.

“as in Ruth in the Bible?” I inquire

“Yes Rutu, What do you think?"

“iyen na da, that’s good, Ruth then"

Maami bursts into laughter while playing with my baby “do you hear your mother? Rutu “ she says.

I laugh heartily, my voice echoing through the hospital walls. Suddenly, I fall back onto my bed, spilling moinmoin on the floor. My sons and husband rush to my side, Maami hands Ruth over to my husband, and they all look at me with concern. I see those familiar faces again, smiling tenderly and extending their arms, welcoming me. The sound of drums and beautiful singing surrounds me. I smile and walk towards them, into their embrace.

“bimbo ah, afi igbatopapalo ( until you left me)” Maami says tearfully

“Maami take care of my boys and Ruth" I reply.

My pleas fell on deaf ears as Maami frantically rummaged through her bag. In that unfamiliar place, I glanced up at the clear blue sky, a moment of serene beauty. But suddenly, ominous dark clouds rolled in, casting a shadow over the celebration. Worry etched on the faces of both the strangers and myself.

As the torrid rain began to fall, everyone scrambled for shelter, seeking refuge from the sudden downpour. I too sought cover under one of the sheds, but I was approached by one of the unfamiliar figures.

“Leave and never return!” she yelled at me.

“Why?” I asked in confusion.

“You don’t belong here. You’re too much trouble. Leave and never return,” she repeated sternly.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I gazed up at the sky, only to see Maami’s red lipstick crack as her mouth opened.

“No, you’re going nowhere,” she declared firmly.

I was ushered out of the shelter, and my next recollection was waking up, drenched with water. Maami stood there, holding a bottle of clear liquid.

“What’s that, Maami?” I inquired.

“Holy water! You’re not going anywhere, Bimbo. Welcome, dear. Now, eat your moinmoin. You need to nourish Rutu sogbo, Bimbo. You need to feed your Morenikeji.”