Red was the colour of blood, the colour of lust and everything sinful, the colour of beauty and healthy tomatoes.
Red was also the colour of the oil that spilled down my lips the first day my father slapped his wife.
I had never had a close affinity with my mother. She was the one who birthed me, nurtured me, the whole shebang. However, that was all we had in common– after the umbilical cord was cut, our only other similarity was the almost uncanny resemblance we shared.
Mother was a beautiful woman, but she didn’t seem so beautiful when she flew at her husband gracelessly, attacking him with words I didn’t know existed, eyes bulging with rage, vocal chords screeching.
It was over before we could process it, because that same afternoon, my mother, for lunch, made the tastiest porridge, loaded with chunks of round fish and ponmo and smoked crawfish, the ones you had to chew carefully because of its pointed pincers. She laid it on the table, almost like an ironical redo of what happened earlier in the morning; the exaggerated heap of food on the tray was enough to feed all five of us in the family, let alone my dad, despite his hulking physicality. The slow, graceful walk to the table, the glint I was able to catch in my father’s eye; the one that screamed he was scared of his wife. It was something I’d never managed to mimic after my adult years to people I thought deserved it. As I got older, I would liken this episode to that part of the bible where Esau traded his birthright for pottage that Jacob made. I imagined my dad’s status as head of the family diminishing with every bite he took.
I was more similar to her than I imagined. Mother was unapproachable, she was strict, she was stern, and I didn’t like that in the least. I preferred my dad, who I looked up to with eyes covered by rose tinted glasses, either wilfully ignoring he treated me more harshly than he did my siblings, or he used me as a shield whenever mother was near. “Fiyin, come here,” he’d say in his baritone voice. I would be playing with the musical triangle we had, or fiddling with the remote control of the TV. Mum would probably be in the kitchen or around, dusting, cleaning, sweeping – the perfect wife. I would look at her with barely concealed admiration that would blend into envy.
“You’re the only girl in the house, but you don’t know how to cook. You’re almost eleven now, you’ll soon be on your way to marriage.” He would motion to my mother. “You should emulate maami more often.” I never knew why I loved and hated when he talked to me that way. I loved the attention he gave me in those moments, yet loathed it; it was reminiscent of being watched at my speech giving during valedictory service, my palms would sweat and blur the words on the paper.
We weren’t well off, but we were by no means poor. Father had always been able to take care of all five of us, and my mother was only into petty trading, so we were content. My mum would occasionally voice her discontent, saying she missed having a stable income and an organized schedule, but my dad’s responses would be noncommittal, almost dismissive.
“Your duty is to me and the kids, Sisi mi.” Father always called her Sisi mi, but this time it sounded derogatory. “Any more than that and you’d be exerting yourself. Besides, I like you better at home.”
I was sent to boarding school. My dad was strongly in favour of the idea, saying it would teach me what mother didn’t. I didn’t understand what this meant, how often he would gaze at me with something like disappointment in his eyes, until I broke out of the house. In fact, I didn’t understand anything until years later, when I would face my parents with the realization that I did not live a normal life, that maybe I was even abused. It was normal for them to lie, to shift blame on my two siblings and I. Naturally, we never got close. We had the appearance of a typical family– we would go to church, composed, demure, grinning when we were supposed to, murmuring prayers and supplications to a god I did not know nor understand, and we would go home and I wouldn’t stop seeing red. Red from the stew mother made with rice on those Sundays, red on my father’s cheeks from the scratches he received, after then we would eat the rice with stew, the oil swimming in and out of my vision.
Boarding school was a revelation for me. I knew I wasn’t extroverted, by any means, but I thought I was at least friendly, warm. I had people I talked to during Sunday School. I’d widen my eyes when looking at my classmates because somewhere I read it would make you look more trusting. Chisom, the only friend I made during my three-year stint in the hostel, asked me: “Fiyin, do you have an eye problem? There’s this way you look when you’re talking to people.”
I never widened my eyes again.
It was telling that I didn’t have anyone I called ‘friend’ other than Chisom. Sure, I had people I talked with, I played table tennis, though I didn’t like it, and we went for a team dinner once, but I had never been able to find the warmth my brothers exuded so easily. How quickly they were able to make friends was baffling to me, because the only time I tried to, I felt so intensely shunned. After that, it just didn’t make sense to want to present that vulnerable side of me, the one that was eager to be liked and wanted to trust freely, but doubted every other person’s intentions apart from my own. Chisom and I would often get into fights, ones that ended with her apologizing even when she wasn’t in the wrong, and me, terrified to lose her friendship but mistrustful that she wouldn’t break my heart further once I bared my secrets.
I’d never told her about my parents, despite her incessantly asking me why I would never spend time at her house during Christmas break,and why she couldn’t come to mine either, why she didn’t know much about my family except that they attended my academic events religiously and never spoke directly to her, never encouraged our friendship. It was a surprise to me, how we lasted throughout Junior and Senior secondary school. She said she liked my aura of mystery and how she was my only friend. Naturally, our relationship died a slow death after school; from promises– mostly from her– to call every time, then dwindling to sparse texts of ‘how are yous’ and ‘happy birthdays’, to that stage where we would only like each other’s Facebook posts. It was an indication I held fast to, one that proved that I was always right and relationships were futile, so there was no need to try. I mourned our bond, with all its faults and shortcomings. I missed having someone I could relate with, the worry on her face whenever I would tell her I had my period, because she knew how bad it could get. She had run her course in my life, and I in hers. That was all it was.
University brought a completely different reality that I was unprepared for. For all the distance I brought on myself in Secondary school, here I was forced to socialize. There were just so many activities where I had to talk to someone, or smile or do more than my usual nodding. I slowly began to impersonate my parents; the exaggerated faces I would make to show I was listening, my interjections and gesticulations, the eagerness to make people at ease at my own detriment. Slowly, I was morphing into a version of myself I didn’t recognize, nor like. I began to get exhausted at the constant ‘hello, what’s up?’ or the way my phone would ring tirelessly at all times of the day. I started to hate being needed, and I longed for my self imposed solitude. I had moved from one extreme to the other and didn’t expect the burnout. I couldn’t fathom having long conversations now, unsure how I was doing it before. I felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut abruptly and was now lying there, unresponsive. Those calls went unheard, the texts unanswered, and before long, people stopped asking and got used to my robot-like replies, the answers I would give without inflection. The boy I was going out with, Pelumi, came to the apartment I shared with another girl, the strength of his knocks increasing with his anger. Finally he gave the door a frustrated kick.
“You need help, and I hope you know that! This ‘I’m stronger and better than everyone else’ attitude you keep displaying will end up with you alone and nobody to help you. For God’s sake, Fiyin, you’re not the only one in the world with a problem. Quit blaming other people for your issues, and fucking deal with it, you coward.”
I met the eyes of my roommate, embarrassment and guilt tightening my throat, leaving me with a strangled gasp and hot, fat tears streaming from the corners of my eyes.
I tottered to the toilet, trying but failing to keep my sobs in check. He was right. I knew he was right. In a matter of minutes and with seething irascibility, he’d managed to define my entirety. Because of my emotional instability, I had managed to placate and keep everyone away from me at the same time. From the beginning of my undergraduate studies, when my dad’s communication was a constant stream of calls, emails, and prayers, my ability to shut people out had reduced him to a trickle of monthly messages and infrequent calls, as sparse as his thinning hair. Mother never even tried, but neither did I. My brothers were still in secondary school and only knew to ask me for money, which I provided as often as I could. I could count the number of times I’d gone home on one hand since I started uni, and I was in my penultimate year. Heaving painful, anxiety ridden breaths, a wave of memory washed over me.
I was suddenly back at the school library, the thick smell of dust and stale coffee assailing my senses. The group project for ENG 203 loomed over me, and as I hunched over my laptop, my tired eyes roving over the brightly lit screen, I suddenly blew out a breath and hung my head in my hands. This project was worth a significant chunk of our grade, and for such an important course, I didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. I looked around at the haphazard assortment of mates I barely spoke to, the reluctance obvious in their features.
“We’ll have to split the work,” Margaret, a cheerful middle aged woman who had appointed herself the leader of the group said, her smile doing nothing to allay the panic that was starting to settle in my gut. As I opened my mouth to offer to do it all, I convinced myself repeatedly that it was the right decision, and the surprised gasp that left Margaret’s lips, coupled with the pleased murmurs and brightening gazes affirmed that I was making the right choice.
“You’re a real one, thank you, Fiyin. Let us know if we can help.”
“No mess up, abeg. Thanks for this.”
Their gratitude was a fleeting warmth I clung to, desperate to believe I made the right choice, that I saved us all. Dad would be proud of me.
One evening, as I was hunched over my laptop in the library, my classmate, Pelumi, sat down across from me. We’d had a few brief conversations before, and I found his quiet observation oddly comforting. “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “you don’t have to do everything yourself. That’s the point of a group project.”
I shrugged, my hackles rising. He’d struck a chord, and I didn’t like it. I was reminded too much of what I was trying to escape. “It’s fine. I offered.” He nodded in understanding, but I felt his gaze on me after I’d excused myself.
The weeks passed in a flurry of sleepless nights, undereating and overworking, struggling to be active in class because I’d be running on fumes. My groupmates offered occasional
words of encouragement, which made me simmer with unexpressed irritation. After all, I was the one who offered. I had no right to be angry, or belligerent. My eyes were red with exhaustion. Red, the colour I hated. I was on the verge of burnout.
During the presentation, I stumbled and fumbled over my words and phrases, the rest of our group eyeing me with concern and fear that I would falter and stop for good. I stammered throughout the entirety of it, my palms wet, throat dry. We got high grades, and I met the grins and high-fives of the group with a weary smile, wondering why I felt so hollow.
“Great job, Fiyin. You’re a lifesaver,” Margaret beamed, giving me a friendly slap. “Hey– we’re having a party on Sunday. Come along?” She must’ve seen the growing panic on my face, because she hesitated.”You don’t have to, of course–”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be able to. Thanks for inviting me, though.” She flashed me a grin and skipped out of the lecture room, and I sagged to the closest seat, fatigue overwhelming me. I didn’t know I had fallen asleep when I was roused by a soft tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Pelumi asked. Immediately alert, I braced myself, expecting criticism for my presentation.
Instead, he said, “I’ve noticed you do this a lot.” “Do what?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Take on everything. Try to please everyone.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truth. A sudden image flashed through my mind: my parents, faces etched with disappointment, a memory I’d tried so hard to suppress. The project, the sleepless nights, the hollow praise, it all suddenly clicked. It wasn’t about the project; it was about seeking that elusive approval, a desperate echo of a childhood longing. The realization hit me like a physical blow, a wave of nausea washing over me. I felt exposed, vulnerable, stripped bare. I stood up sharply, unshed tears pricking my eyes, wondering whether to lash out or break down.
I blinked, and was back to the present. The weight of the memory left a sour taste in my mouth, and I lowered my head to my knees, unable to bear the sudden realization that had dawned on me. It wasn’t just him saying it; it was a pattern, a recurring theme in my life. I’d been trying to please everyone for so long, like I had with that project, like I had with my dad. Then I would pick and choose my friendships, ignore them and blame the other party for not trying enough, consoling myself that it was bound to end anyway, and I was only hurrying the process up. Push and pull, push and pull. I was suddenly tired of it all.
The following weeks passed in a stream of introspection and reflection, of me crying myself to sleep and waking up with blurry eyes, of trying to call home but failing, my
resolve slowly crumbling into dust. What would I even say? How would I begin? I hated them, but I loved them. Half of our fractured relationshup was my childhood, and the other half was me shutting them out; building walls so high I didn’t know where to begin breaking them down.
I wasn’t wrong to protect myself, I knew that, but then I made myself so invulnerable I was ironically fragile. Pelumi’s words kept floating in my mind, a constant reminder of the pattern I’d been trapped in.
Painstakingly I started to answer the texts I had previously ignored. I called my brothers, but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to call my parents yet. I declined invitations I would, until then, accept without hesitation, stretching myself taut. It felt… freeing. I had only begun, but there was a flicker of promise, the tiniest sense of hope I thought I had lost.
“Sisi mi,” Father called me Sisi mi now, and my chest started to flare with resentment. I quelled the feeling with some difficulty. I told them how I felt, and they vowed to make things right between us again. It would take me some time to see eye to eye with my parents, and I had started to warm up to the person I least imagined I would; Mother. It seemed there was an undercurrent of fear in the family that would take a while to dissipate– My parents were scared of each other, and I was scared of them. In a way, we were learning to know each other for the first time. I blew a breath.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t call me that, dad. Fiyin is fine.”
He sighed, but nodded. We would try. We owed each other that.
Esther Oluwajoba Okunowo
