“You’re a witch”

“ No, you are the witch”

You wizard! I had entered into another vicious spat with the 43year-old man that’s my neighbor.

Wrapper loosely tied around my waist, one leg of my slippers in my hand, the 12yr old me was ready for war. Manic energy rolled off me like a crazed woman on a full moon. The permanent scowl I always have ready for him is laced with something else today, contempt.

“I am ready for him, he has met his match today.” My body agreed with me as I practiced few moves I saw from Karate kid.

Baba Basit could have decided to enjoy his afternoon that beautiful Saturday but no! he appointed himself an unceremonious judge, protector of justice and meddled in what I call, family business.

My mother had tasked me with Saturday lessons for my younger sister, Joy because she was going out and I had gladly accepted. We were on multiplication table 10 and I was already frustrated at having to repeat myself over and over again.

I had cajoled her, beaten her, threatened her even but none of my efforts proved successful. It was as if everything I said was GIGO – garbage in, garbage out.

Joy was crying, mucus down her nose like a faulty tap and I was frustrated and irritated she’s using her hand to wipe it off. In a final attempt to calm her down, I went to my safe box, pulled out one of the crisp 20 naira notes Mr Adewale, our last night visitor gave to me and bought her digestive biscuit, her favorite.

Joy munched on the biscuit, tears and mucus mixed together oblivious to the great sacrifice I just made because of her. I mean, I never touch my safe box even if I was caught in an earthquake.

I had given Joy a break. Her brain should be settled by now. I’ve surpassed my imagination and I am proud of myself. With renewed energy, I started the chant again, Joy fervently bobbing her head while shouting at the top of her voice in a show of solidarity. I smiled.

10*1 =10

10*2 = 20

10*3 = 30

……

We were doing so well until we got to 10*10. Joy wasn’t shouting anymore. However, her lips began to quiver. In a twinkle of an eye, Joy had abandoned the recitation and started wailing. Every trick I know to pacify her didn’t work.

It was Joy's wails of woe that woke Baba Basit from his sleep. He heard her scream and had concluded I was at fault. Baba Basit forgot he has to be fair before asking what happened. Rather, he threw every obscene word in his dictionary at me and asked me why I am wicked.

I got angry, I felt cheated and I was determined to make him know he’s an agbaya.

“Wife-beater, ashawo, oloshi,” these set of words jolted me back to reality when I realized I had said them. I had said too much!

I did not need a seer to know Baba Basit will come for me. Thankfully, my ears acted faster than my sight did. Baba Basit was pounding down the stairs. He was coming for me.

Fear gripped me. My mouth stopped working but my legs were fully functional. I ran into our apartment and locked the door. Every possible entrance was blocked. Baba Basit pounded on my door with obvious hurt but no! I won’t come out.

He felt hurt. I had taken my pound of flesh. Next time, he should look before he leaps. My laughter reverberated through the walls. I was at peace.