The day my auntie turned 50, she sat all day in a state of stunned silence and looked withered like the daffodils her former most regular gentleman guest gave her.
By Lechi Eke
The day my auntie turned 50, she sat all day in a state of stunned silence and looked withered like the daffodils her former most regular gentleman guest gave her. The day after the gift, an *akwa oche woman charged into our living room and snatched the vase holding the flowers and flung the bouquet tied together with a green ribbon on the window thinking it was open. She then threw the water on my auntie. The bouquet loosened by the force of the impact on hitting the floor, splayed out and stayed still. I too was still; the force with which the woman burst into our flat, freezing me. It was a Sunday afternoon. All our neighbours were at home. The woman thought to make a commotion and bring everyone out. My auntie ran into the nearest room which was mine and locked herself in. Me, I stood with my hands on my head in a woe-betide-me mode because my auntie had warned me several times to always ask who was knocking before I opened the door.
Uncle Biggie, the one they called ‘jailbird’ behind his back, who came to live with his brother on the same ground floor with us, jarred my nerves to pieces when he spoke behind me. My right hand flew to my mouth stifling a cry as the deranged woman poised to throw the flower vase against the flat screen TV I loved so much, then, a strange voice spoke behind me!
“If you throw that on the TV, I’ll kill you here.” If I ever heard a deadly voice, it was Uncle Biggie’s voice. I didn’t know when he came in. The irate woman left the door open when she stormed in, and I, being too stunned stood petrified. I quaked and turned on hearing a man’s voice behind me. The woman froze. “Give that to me, or I kill you and dissolve you in a bucket of acid in my flat.” Without wasting time, she handed the jar to Uncle Biggie looking like a midget before him. “Listen,” he said, “go home and talk to your husband. This girl never visited your home. If someone from your house visits her, it’s not her fault. If you molest her, I’ll kill you. Now, go home!”
The woman scampered out of our flat. I never saw the woman again nor my auntie’s regular guest who gifted the flower to her. That was in my third term primary five. And that was the first day I heard the song, I Will Survive! It was a fast song that made my auntie dance and chewed her bubble gum furiously.
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My auntie’s 50th birthday came in the second term of my primary six, on a Sunday. I loved birthdays, so I kept birthday dates. Since a month away, I kept reminding my auntie about her birthday. But when the day arrived, my auntie disappointed me, she didn’t prepare for anything, and she looked like one drenched by the rains. It was a sad situation.
I watched her as she collapsed on the settee looking like those daffodils I was afraid to throw away that fateful day of the assault. I had gathered the flowers and placed them in the glass vase, and I filled the vase with our boiled drinking water. Days later they withered – just dropped listlessly any which way they could. Later, my auntie because of the daffodils, told me I was senseless – must you put the flowers in boiled water? – She yelled at me. And the water was still warm, but no one taught me what kind of water to preserve flowers in. I just thought the flowers needed something warm after being harshly treated, thrown away. In the afternoon, my auntie danced I will survive!
Uncle Biggie slept in my auntie’s room that night to give her protection. He frightened me when he told me he would kill me and sell my body to human body eaters if I did not open the door for him when he knocked softly. And not only for that night alone did he come to protect my auntie, but for three nights on a stretch, he slipped in at near midnight to give my auntie protection; what a great defender of the defenceless! For each day following the nights of those three days, my auntie developed bowlegs and wobbled when she walked.
On the fourth day, one of her lady friends visited with two men who looked tough and mean. They disappeared into my auntie’s room and remained there until nightfall. Close to midnight, I opened the door for Uncle Biggie when he knocked softly and he went straight to my auntie’s room. After a brief while, he reappeared with the men, his two hands behind him in cuffs and his ankles in shackles, his trousers hanging on his left shoulder. He was shirtless too and his threadbare boxers held up with a rope, the kind we spread our clothes on in the compound. Walking with very short strides, my auntie behind them, we let them out of our flat and locked the door after them. Also, I had not set eyes on him since that day of the third term of my primary five until now.
Sunday morning of my auntie’s birthday, her friends came to comfort her. Although, her girlfriends, now lady friends, tried hard to amuse her, she would not be won over. Towards evening when she attempted to speak, tears filled her eyes and rained down her unmade face – no makeup ran. That day she shunned her foundation, concealer, and whatever else she used to lessen the weight of her years upon her face. Her baby girl voice was tear-stricken.
However, her older brother, my uncle, saved the day. He had four sons and a daughter and wore a white beard and a paunch under his trendy T-shirt. He was 52 and seemed to love life.
My auntie’s stomach was ironing-board flat! And so were her friends’. How my auntie and her friends tried to kill themselves for years I had been with her, over their rumen! They stretched, jumped and bent to make it remain flat. The most fascinating was going without food. I had seen my auntie ate leaves only, taking them down with water to make her stomach flat. I had held her and given her water, water and water to drink as her body trembled for food.
“Why are you not eating, Auntie?”
While her mouth uttered nothing, her eyes spoke to me, “I must remain young and beautiful.”
But I think many of her body parts conspired together to give away her age. The part of her chin under her jaw dropped a little, and her eyes were no longer soft with youthfulness though she constantly dropped liquid into them. Also, two parallel lines ran from the head of her eyes towards her cheeks, and from the sides of her nose towards her mouth, two gullies ran but disappeared when she smiled. I think she knew it because she heaped powders on them and kept her face on a permanent smile mode when male guests visited. I watched my auntie cake her face with foundation, concealer, eye-shadows, blush, spray, lipstick, and so forth. And she used sprays to give her face a fresh look. At the end, my mum, her younger sister, lagging behind with six years, always looked younger.
Although 50 took long in coming, it seemed my auntie wasn’t prepared for it.50! I think she realised that there was no more claim to being a young woman although she always dressed as one. My mum always cried that her clothes were not ‘age appropriate’. ‘Appropriate’ that was my first heavy vocabulary. I learnt it slowly, and now, I can spell it and pronounce it without stuttering. When my auntie turned 40, I think I was four. As far back as I could remember, I always heard my auntie say each time my mum and I visited her, “No, Betty, you can’t leave her with me. I’m too busy to mind a child in the name of needing company. Take her with you!” She was always firm with my mum, but my mum said she was only concerned because no one should live alone. I was 10 when she finally let me stay with her. My auntie let me stay because I could make my tea, and butter my bread, and cook indomie on the electric plate unattended.
“Awele, my child, it’s not good to stare at people the way you do,” my auntie chided me having caught me sitting at a corner watching her in utter awe. My auntie was a very beautiful woman, especially with her makeup on. Her cloven lids and dimpled cheeks and gap toothed smiles kept my eyes on her face, always. I was happy living with her. She made sure we had cakes, ice creams, chocolates and cookies. Only on weekends when she was at home, she would insist I ate eba and soup and white rice and stew with beans and plantains. Although no one said I was beautiful because I was fat and had chubby cheeks, but I was very happy and had lots of friends.
Although I was little, when my auntie turned 45, I remembered seeing lots of gentlemen come to celebrate her. They brought so many gifts. My auntie was very happy and her dimples remained on her face all day.
“Suitors,” she said to my mum.
“Pick one of them,” my mum told her.
Then I knew suitors were fallen men. My auntie had to pick them up, at least one of them to help them. Today, no suitor came. My auntie sat unhappy. I knew suitors make young women happy. But at 50, my auntie wasn’t young anymore. I felt bad and started crying with her. I decided, if any suitors came, I would help her pick them up.
My uncle said, “Cece, I remember the day you missed that plane that crashed and killed tens of people.”
“Yes – o!” my mum cried. “That’s something to thank God for.”
“Nope,” my uncle said. Everybody looked up at him in shock. “I think Cece would have loved to go that day.”
“Go where?”
“God forbid!”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Several voices descended on my Uncle in reproach.
“I think Cece would have loved that. She’s not happy being alive today. I think we should just pray she dies.”
My auntie spoke up, “God forbid, I will not die!”
“Then, be happy,” my uncle said and left the flat taking with him the cake and wine he brought. My mum called after him, “Where are you taking the cake to, brother?”
Not quite five minutes he left, he returned without the cake and wine. He said their elder brother was on the phone to speak with my auntie because her phone was switched off. My older uncle lived in Australia and said he just woke up to wish my auntie a happy birthday. While they were talking, my younger uncle went to my auntie’s music set and began to play a song that was singing something like, “Die young and stay pretty…”
“No, no, no, brother!” my mum yelled. “You can’t play that.”
“Why not?” my uncle yelled back above the loud music.
“It’s someone’s birthday!”
“Yeah, but she’s not happy. So, I think she should just kick the bucket now that she still looks good because the longer she lives, the older she becomes, and the uglier she becomes… hahaha!”
“Vin, that’s not funny!” my auntie cried.
My uncle began to dance, but my mum turned it off. Rummaging through my auntie’s CDs looking for a certain CD which she found and slipped it into the compartment and turned it on. After a while, we began to hear…”I will survive…” Oh, I how I loved that music, and I began to dance. Soon, the caterer my mum hired arrived with coolers of hot sizzling cuisine. Other people began to arrive, our relatives, my auntie’s colleagues from the office. The sitting-room filled up quickly and two ladies began to serve foods. I brought out drinks from the refrigerator and my uncle brought back the cake and the bottle of wine he took away. We drank to my auntie’s health.
After much merrymaking, eating, drinking, dancing and laughing, my mum turned off the music. She motioned that she had a speech. We all sat down to listen. She cleared her throat and said, “Let everyone of us say ten things she is grateful for.”
“Me, first!” I cried raising my hand and running out.
“Shut up and go and sit down!” my mum shouted at me.
“No, let her speak,” my auntie said.
I stood up and walked to the middle of the sitting-room and said. “1. I’m happy I live with my auntie. We always have ice-cream and cookies (people clapped), 2. I love birthdays (my mum glared at me, others laughed including my auntie), 3. I don’t like when people die, my classmate, her mummy died and we went to her house and cried with her. So, I’m happy my auntie is alive (people cheered and clapped), 4…”
“It’s okay,” my mum cried. “Go and sit down. This is adult party.”
“It’s not a party, there’s no DJ,” I protested.
My auntie’s friend stood up and came forward. She smiled at my auntie and said, “I know Cece is unhappy because of one thing that hasn’t happened in her life, two, actually – husband and children. Cece, please, be happy. I’m married and I have children, but I am not fulfilled. I’m still in search of happiness. So, what am I grateful to God for? I think, I’m grateful that I’m in good health. Good health is most important. My dad has been in hospital for close to a year with spinal cord injury. My mum is suffering from complications from sugar diabetes, a colleague of mine in the office…”
“Come on, Tessy, we got it. Let someone else speak, abeg…” another lady cried jumping out.
“I haven’t finished!” Auntie Tessy said sternly. “I wanted to add that the jailbird is someone’s child. Is the mother ha…”
“Okay, let me just say this quickly,” another of my auntie’s friends said getting up and taking the floor. “When I came here this morning, Cece’s mood made me cry. Like Tessy said husband and children don’t give happiness. You have to create your own joy…”
A voice from someone sitting down cried out, “Fulfilment is from Jehovah!”
“Hmm… Jehovah Witness people…”
“Yes, I’m proud to be a witness of Jehovah, but I’m not of the sect called Jehovah Witness, I’m just saying…”
“I think at this juncture, we should just close our eyes and raise our hands to heaven, and thank Jesus for life,” my uncle said.
“How come Vin is the only man present?” someone observed.
“Cece didn’t invite anyone. She didn’t want to celebrate her birthday…”
“Why?”
“Once men hear a lady is 50, they begin to look at you…”
“Rubbish! That’s sexism…”
There were so many voices: some praying, some thanking God and some chatting, or trying to make a point. When all the food finished and the drinks; and I had plenty dishes to wash, which I hated, and everyone except my mum had gone, we heard frantic knocks on the front door.
“Who’s that?” I cried.
“Your neighbour, Ejiro’s mum. Open the door!”
Ejiro’s mum flew into our flat and straight to the inner places without pausing. As I made to lock the door, a man charged in, it was Ejiro’s dad. My auntie stood up. “What’s the problem, Joe?”
“Ask her where she’s been? Ask her…”
“I’m tired. I say, I no marry again, shuo! Let me carry my things and go before you kill me…” Ejiro’s mum yelled from the inner recesses of our flat. Her husband charged forward to go and meet her, but my auntie blocked him. “Not in my apartment!”
*Igbo slang for uncultured woman.
The end.
