It is often said that the person you love the most hurts you the deepest. I loved our church. I liked that I could wear full gowns lined with satin, cotton socks with romantic lace on its cuff and shiny black shoes with miniscule block heels. Asides the Cabin biscuit and Fanta, I loved the cake the most. Always in the form of a Princess who I named "Angel" for her enchanting blue, sometimes pink ball gown, the relishing triumph of sugar on my tongue made the dull sermons pass by quickly.

First Sundays were a different affair entirely. They were Thanksgiving Sundays which meant a lot of "hallelujah!!" and rice. It also meant 'and Co.' for my mother and I. On the Fridays before such Sundays, we would go to Mama Ehimen's design palace from school. We would try our Ankara dresses with my mother making sure Mama Ehimen made the right fit.

There was a particular first Sunday that also doubled as the Women's Group/ General Thanksgiving. To me, it was another 'and Co.' Sunday and I was excited. 'And Co.' meant that my mother and I would wear the same attire. Depending on how you looked at it, I was the mini version of my mother or my Mama was the bigger version of me. I already believed we were sisters and the mirroring of each other's appearance was a testament to this fact. This trivial piece of evidence was necessary because I was aware that others did not know. Our dressing was incomplete without our scarves. She tied her red asooke scarf while her watched her standing few inches behind through the mirror. She held each end firmly such that the stubborn vertical frays had no choice but to be obedient and observe with me. She criss-crossed the ends delicately making her once parallel arms almost meet. Then about a fraction of a quarter distance from each other, the ends were interposed such that an upside down V was in the centre of her forehead. She went ahead to secure her wrapping with a knot or two or sometimes a tuck in here or there. 

Although, she never said it but I could tell that the tying of her scarf was a rehearsal for my own. 

After reciting Galatians 5:16, our homely for protection, we stepped outside to flag down an okada. The motorcycle rider was Friday, the man who usually brought me home from school. I constantly wondered why he shared a name with a day of the week. Seated at the front, the rush of air from both sides of the motorcycle was exhilarating. Its momentum on that windy day was so high that it drowned the conversation that my Mama was having with Friday. When we walked into the church I knew immediately that something was amiss. The usher welcomed us in a neck high top of the same Ankara my Mama and I were in. As we took our seats, I noticed that nearly every female was dressed like us. I was mortified. 

The Banga and Starch meal we had that afternoon was nothing short of sumptuous. Although, I had resolved to starve until Mama apologised, I figured that the meal was an apology and as long as it was 'yellow-yellow', the event of that morning never happened. 

During our afternoon siesta, something strange happened. From our mat, I heard Mama make vomit sounds. I reckoned that it was a version of the deep throaty cough which she sometimes did to clear her chest. The prolonged sound dictated otherwise so I got up from the mat to observe her closely. She stopped vomiting and asked that I bring her water. After she relaxed, I looked at her wide-eyed wondering what was wrong with her. She diverted her gaze and instead got us ready to go some place. It was Mama Mama's house. I do not know why people called Osaro, Mama but I know I never liked her. She always looked at me as if I stole her toy. Mama and Osaro's Mama went into a corner and spoke in low tones. At the end of their whispering, Mama Mama came to me all smiles saying "Your father is a sharp shooter!" a hundred times. The last time I saw Dada was two weeks ago so I wondered what he had to do with Mama's sickness. 

Mama joked that I was going to have a sister soon and I laughed because that is what you do when someone says a joke right? But as the months passed, Mama's belly protruded. Why was she eating so much? Did she hit her nose on the wall when I wasn't looking? These questions and more ran through my tender mind. Daily, my feeling of foreboding grew just as large as her body. Then one day, the worst happened. 

I came home from school to meet an empty house. I was still in thought when Mama Mama raised me and said "You now have a sister". I smiled because Mama Osaro could not possibly know what she was saying. I have always had a sister so what was she talking about? We went to the hospital because Mama Mama, who was really getting on my nerves wanted to show me my sister. The only thing that kept me from dragging her Isi Owu was that I knew that it was the root of her madness. 

Ward A3 was where they kept my sister. As I clambered down to hug my sister, with a tired smile, she pointed at the iron crib beside her. Lo and behold, in it was a spitting image of my Mama curled up in sleep. How could Mama do this to me?