There is a photograph of my mother above the bed in the room I sleep in. In that photograph, she is wearing the brightest yellow. Her eyes stare back at me with love and her smile bears so much joy. It is almost like she has never frowned.

There is another photograph of my mother, in the living room. In this one, she wears purple, the purple is the purple of an office jacket and a pink shirt. I remember ironing that shirt before that picture was made. I pressed the iron down so hard many times to get rid of the creases, yet one crease remained. My mother held it up to the light before putting it on her body and said how would they know?.

There is a photograph of my mother in my wallet. It is one of us, together, holding each other tightly and sharing a smile. We are wearing our favourite colours - green and behind us is the bright big blue sky.

There is a woman in front of me. I stare down at her and her eyes are closed, so she does not stare back. She is wearing a dull white cotton dress, she does not answer when I greet her. I want to ask her who she is and if she has seen my mother. She does not answer me.

I tell her about the photograph of my mother above the bed in the room I sleep in. I tell her they say that she is my mother but she looks nothing like the woman in the photograph. She is pale and her dress is dull. She stays still encased in her bed of cotton and wood and does not answer me.

I find my sister to ask her if she has seen my mother. And she says to me have you not seen our mother there in that coffin? I do not believe her. This woman is not my mother. Her lips are tightly closed and she is yet to answer my greeting. She is yet to call my name. How would she forget to call my name? Uyai, my precious.

My sister tells me again can you not see? That is our mother.

I move away from them. My sister and the woman of cotton and wood.

I go outside and above me is that same big bright blue sky and there is a photograph of my mother outside. It is on a table with a large book. The book is open and filled with notes. I do not have the time to read.

The photograph on the table is the one in the room I sleep in. Someone must have taken it. I shout who entered my room? No one answers. They all stare at me like I am also a photograph.

I grab the photograph off the table and I begin to walk in a straight line away from my sister, away from the woman of cotton and wood, away from my father's voice. There are people all dressed in black all around me, scattered like seeds and I am dressed in green. Even my father and sister wear black. The further I walk away, the blurrier they become each time I look back. My hands are shaking and I feel a spread of heat down my back. I do not know where my mother has gone, no one wants to tell me. I hold on to the photograph as I walk, in a straight line, out the gate and out to the road. This is when I begin to hear shouting.

Leave the road!



Fine girl, dakka ku usung o.

My father's voice faintly breaks through the noise.

Uyai, mbok. Come back! Uyai!

I am looking for my mother. I respond but I know he has not heard.

Fine girl leave the road o. Higher killer dey come o. That moto no get break.

Uyai!

My father's voice comes to me again. It is loud and sorrowful, it breaks my heart but I am looking for my mother.

A voice breaks through the screams and cries, and it is my mother's voice. She has found me.

Uyai, my precious.