The roads of the housing estate are familiar. I haven’t been here in twelve years but I know the faded, moss-stained buildings, even though they are now lifeless shadows of their former selves. I’m hit by a wave of surprise as the car glides past the market stalls. I recognize the faces of the meat sellers and the women selling vegetables. I spot Daniel’s Dad in his electronics stall. I can’t believe they are all still here.
We make a right turn, and my old school looms into view. Mallam Ahmed’s candy kiosk stands open at the front of the school, just like old times, but I can’t tell if it’s him behind the counter. As we drive past the school, I am seized by a sudden urge to tell the driver to stop, and go in, but I shake it off. Quite unnecessary.
As I twist in my seat to take a last glimpse of the school, a mental image of Mama Youssef buying me candy after a School Open Day flashes through my mind, bringing back a familiar lump to my throat. A lump I’ve been grappling with since Mum informed me about Mama Youssef’s passing.
She had said it almost as an afterthought, chewing on her beloved peanuts, the crunching audible over the phone. The same way she had told me she and Dad were getting a divorce. “Oh, by the way, we’ve decided to get a divorce.” “Hold on – Did I tell you about Mama Youssef? You remember her, right? She died a few months ago. I was talking to Mama Ibrahim and she mentioned it.”
It was as if she hoped that delivering bad news in such an offhand manner would somehow lessen the shock and pain of it all. Not that there was anything shocking about the divorce; the nasty fights and arguments over the years could serve as a testament.
Unbidden, a memory of them arguing in the car the night we moved comes to mind, and I wince. Our move had been so hurried that there was barely time to say goodbyes to friends and neighbors. I’m not sure why, but Mum and Dad had seemed to prefer it that way. I had hoped to slip off and say a final goodbye to Mama Youssef, but Dad was already in such a foul mood that I didn’t dare risk it. Now I wish I had.
“We are here,” the driver announces, snapping me out of my reverie. Glancing around, I spot the large sign with the slightly faded words ‘Welcome to Zone 4’ inscribed on it. Indeed we are here.
Stepping out of the car, I take in the sight of my old neighborhood. A once familiar painting with slight alterations made to it; cruel alterations. I walk past the field, and it is deserted. Usually, by this time of day, there were always kids playing on the field. The once immaculate field of sand now has rough patches of grass peeking out from several places.
With a twinge of nostalgia, I recall Rose and I burying a dead bird we had found lying in the field one sunny afternoon. Although our hands had smelled funny afterward, earning me a scolding from Mama Youssef, the memory still makes me smile because it was one of the few times I had been allowed to go outside and play with the other kids. Usually, I stayed locked upstairs, the yells and screams of laughter from the other kids drifting through my window as I buried my head in a book.
My phone rings. It’s Mum. I tuck it away with a mixture of guilt and defiance. We haven’t spoken since the night she told me Mama Youssef was dead.
“Of course you can’t go!” she had snapped, in response to my plan to visit our old neighborhood. “I wasn’t asking, Mum.” I said through gritted teeth. “Besides, Lagos is an eight-hour journey, and you don’t even know anyone there anymore!” she continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. “I’m going Mum,” I said firmly. “Listen to me, you know very well I hate talking to your Dad, but I’ll call him right now if it would put a stop to this nonsense!” she said warningly.
I scoffed. “How do you always manage to make everything about you?” A cold silence ensued. “Najimat, don’t you use that tone with me! Why are we even arguing about this right now? You barely knew this woman. I mean, you were just a baby when we left!” she said incredulously.
“I was ten, Mum, and I felt closer to her than I do to you now.” I said bitterly. “Remember that one time I was sick in the hospital, and she was the one who sat by my bedside? Remember all those times I stayed over at her place when you and Dad were too busy for me? She even made me breakfast before school and never complained, unlike you!” I took a steady breath. “Mama Youssef never locked me upstairs, Mum. So if I want to go back for her, I will!”
The ensuing silence was deafening. When Mum finally spoke, her voice shook slightly. “Listen to me baby, we obviously have a lot to talk about, but one thing I want you to know is that, everything I’ve ever done was to protect you, the best way I knew how to, okay? So it’s really unfair for you to speak to me —” Having had enough, I scoffed and hung up the phone, ignoring the calls that followed.
Arriving at Mama Youssef’s shop, I find it’s no longer the familiar green I once knew, but now painted a jarring red. I stare wistfully at the deserted spot where her hen coop used to be, and memories flood back: of her peppery noodles, of being cocooned in one of her wrappers that smelled of talcum powder, of being nursed back to health by her.
But now, an unfamiliar woman sits inside the shop, surrounded by fine pieces of fabric as she works at a sewing machine. I hesitate, then walk in.
“Good afternoon sister,” she greets me pleasantly, a customer relations smile plastered on her face. “Good afternoon ma…” I trail off, suddenly unsure. Making the eight hour journey here had made sense, but now I’m not quite sure why I came.
The woman watches me with a puzzled expression. “Sorry, it’s just, I know the owner of this shop, and I just wanted to -” Her smile slips off her face. “I am the owner of this shop.” she says coolly, her eyes turning hard and wary. I stutter foolishly for a few seconds then give up under her cold stare. “Sorry,” I mutter, turning away. I feel her gaze boring holes into my back as I leave, and I quicken my steps without appearing to run.
As I exit the shop, I nearly collide with a girl entering. Glancing at her face, I do a double take — it’s Rose. “Hey, excuse me!” She turns to me, no sign of recognition in her eyes. “Yes?” “Hi, it’s Rose, right?” I say breathlessly. “Yeah,” she says slowly, a crease appearing on her brow, her eyes now searching. “It’s me, Najimat.” An awkward pause ensues.
“I-I used to live here.” I add. “Oh, really? That’s nice. How have you been?” she asks. “I’ve been good, how about you?” I say enthusiastically. A call from the woman inside the shop interrupts us. “Rose! What are you doing out there?” “I’m coming, Madam!” Rose shoots me an apologetic look,” “Sorry, I have to go. It was nice meeting you though. What was the name again?” “Najimat.” I say, smiling tightly.
I watch her hurry in, then turn away, suddenly angry with myself. The tears I’ve been fighting off since I passed by the school gates cascade down in victory now. Mum was right; I shouldn’t have come back here. This isn’t home anymore. Making up my mind, I start to walk away without a backward glance. Wiping my eyes, I make a mental note to buy peanuts on the way home.