Secrets

Last night, when my mother told me I was adopted, I feigned surprise. I knew that by saying I was special and chosen, my mother really meant she was barren and desperate and adopting me was her last ditch effort at saving her dwindling credibility. “Don’t tell anyone” she said, her fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist. Before this, she was an assistant pastor at Victorious Living Church. She was effective and well-liked, but after six years into her marriage with no children, the Senior Pastor began questioning her suitability in certain areas. How could she plausibly advise a mother of a delinquent teen, or someone like herself yearning for children of their own? So he appointed Mrs Johnson to oversee marriage and family counselling, even though she frequently slept off during church services and conveniently went on toilet breaks when it was time for offering. Mrs Johnson had five children, which lent her the credibility the congregation was after. A few weeks later, the plot began. One Sunday morning, during testimony time in a Thanksgiving Service, when the church was particularly full, my parents announced they were finally pregnant. The congregation went into a frenzy. Church aunties who were familiar with the story of their childlessness flailed their arms and stared at the ceiling, thanking God. Pastor Mike dropped to his knees in silent prayer. Then Mother started wearing fake pregnancy bumps, and when in public, she walked with her feet spread apart, fanned herself in the heat, and spat in buckets. During the fifth month, my parents told senior church members about her travel plans to America to give birth. Mother delighted at Mrs Johnson’s seemingly envious reaction. “Aren’t our hospitals in Nigeria good enough?” Mrs Johnson had said. My parents went off the grid shortly after. Four months later, my adoption was finalised, and they brought me to church for baby dedication. This was the story my father told me last week. “Let’s keep this between us,” he said, kissing my cheek. The next day, he packed his bags and moved out of the house. This was more confusing than the news of my adoption. I begged him not to leave, asked him why he was leaving, but he couldn’t meet my eyes. And now, Mother was grabbing my hand, telling me something I’d already been told. I was adopted. I suppose she wanted to beat my father to it. My father left us. I suppose I had something to do with it. Four years have flown by. I’m now fifteen and with no siblings, the househelp, Mary, is the only person I talk to these days. I often join Mary to do chores. Today, we are both in the compound hanging Mother’s laundry on the clothesline. As I pick up a multicoloured ankara blouse from the basket, I see our neighbour, Emmanuel, through the barred gate, walking past our house. Mary catches my gaze. “I spoke to him yesterday, Mary says, winking. “On my way to the market.” “Really?” Emmanuel had been my neighbour for as long as I have known, but I hadn’t spoken to him since we were kids. We attended the same primary school until my parents unexpectedly transferred me to a different one. They never told me why. They only gave me one instruction: Don’t talk to Emmanuel ever again. So I avoided him, even though we were good friends, even though we were next-door neighbours. I obeyed my parents, never questioning, never regarding my feelings. Before Mary can respond, we hear my mother’s shrill voice coming from the living room. “Mary! Mary!” “Where is this girl?” “Coming, ma,” Mary says, snaking her toes into her slippers and running off. Then, I hear the inevitable sound of my mother’s palm against Mary’s cheek, her response to Mary not arriving quickly enough. Soon, a subdued Mary walks out of the house with Mother by her side. I hastily hang the last piece of clothing and meet them in front of the house. “I’m going to church.” Mother says. “Mary, open the gate and follow me.” I see the subtle irritation in Mary’s eyes. Sometimes Mother punished Mary by dragging her along to places where she didn’t need her assistance. In minutes, they are out of the house. I walk to the gate and watch the car drift out of sight. I often wonder how Mother has found the strength to attend church, almost daily, since Father left. I wonder how Mrs Johnson acted towards her. Did she show Mother pity or mercy? Does Mrs Johnson still attend Victorious Living Church? Does she even exist? I haven’t seen my father since the day he left, neither has my mother told me of his whereabouts. When the sting of his departure was still fresh, I often asked Mother why he left us. At first, was silent and would stare right through me. Other times, without warning, she threw herself into a fitful cry. After some time, her response became laced with bitterness, and she would yell, asking me what authority I had to ask her questions. Once, she threw a shoe at me. I’ve stopped asking now. My hands trace the grooves of the iron gate that enclose the house. I miss my father; my mother too — who she used to be. I miss my old life, albeit one bound by secrets. A figure appears suddenly in front of the gate. It’s Emmanuel. I step back. He was a head height taller than me, with a neatly trimmed afro and lean body, a stretched-out version of his younger self. Emmanuel smiles. “Hi,” he says. His voice makes me think of a trombone, deep and melodic. “Just going for a ride. He gestures to the bicycle by his side. I don’t say anything. His eyes fall to the ground. “I was wondering — I asked your househelp, Mary, to ask if you were interested — would you like to ride with me? I have a spare bike at home.” The words tumble out of his mouth. “No, thanks,” I say without thinking. Then a wave of guilt sweeps over me. Not just for my impulsive response, but for all the years I ignored and avoided him with no explanation. I remember how tears stood in his eyes when he saw me in a different school uniform the day after I had left our primary school. After school, he came to my house and asked me why I left. “I can’t talk to you anymore” was all I said, and walked away. Those were the last words I said. He looks away. “Okay,” he says and nods firmly. “Let me know if you change your mind. Then he places his right foot on the pedal to set off. “Wait!” I say, a little too loudly. “I’ll come. Just for a while.” His eyes light up. “Are you sure?” “Yeah, I need to get some fresh air. Besides, we have a lot of catching up to do.” He dashes to his house to pick up the spare bike and we set off. We rode around the estate for what seemed like hours. It was for, in fact, forty-seven minutes, Emmanuel pointed out when I made this over-estimation. We were now walking to a mini park afoot. Adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. I felt alive, for once, for the first time in years. We used to ride together when we were in primary school. Back then, I had my tricycle and Emmanuel had a two-wheeler. He spent every evening for a week teaching me until I learned how to ride his bicycle. We were nine at the time. I felt nine again, an age with fewer worries. “Thank you,” I say, as we sit on a bench near the park entrance. Emmanuel smiles. “You should go home,” he says. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to be right here, under the trees with this familiar stranger. “Let’s ride around the estate again,” I say. “You should go home.” “You’re not my mother,” I snap, in a voice that doesn’t seem to be mine, then immediately, I apologise. We sit in silence for a few seconds. “I’m adopted,” I blurt out. He pauses, then says, “I know,” My eyes widen. “Who told you?” “My mum. Our mothers used to be friends. That’s until my mum found out you were adopted, and she tried to convince your mum to stop hiding it from her church.” “Our parents were friends?” “Yeah. She wanted your mum to tell church members experiencing infertility that adoption was an option too. There are so many kids out there who need a home. So why not bless a child while waiting for your miracle?” Emmanuel’s voice was raised now and his eyes were fixed on the floor. I shift in my seat. “Sorry,” he says. He looks back at me, and the warmness in his eyes returns. “It’s a cause I’m passionate about.” “Why.” “I was adopted too.” I am stunned. Now it made sense why Mother forbade me from speaking to Emmanuel. God forbid he or his mother revealed the secret of my adoption at an age where she had not yet controlled my freedom of speech. Before I can respond, I hear sirens in the distance, getting louder by the second. Next, I hear the unmistakable sound of my mother, yelling my name faintly, and then louder. Why was she back from church so soon? I grab Emmanuel’s shirt. “I’m in trouble,” I say, repeating these three words like a broken record. Soon, an estate police van skids to a stop at the park entrance. Mary, my mother, and a security guard clamber out. My jelly legs move towards them. Emmanuel follows slowly behind me. “I’ve got you,” he says. As my mother approaches, I brace myself to be slapped. But she walks past me and her palm lands hard on Emmanuel’s face. “I warned you to stay away,” she says, slapping him again. “Stay away from my daughter, you and your mother.” My heart sinks as I remember moments ago when Emmanuel insisted I go home. “Thank God the church program was rescheduled,” my mother continues, turning to face me. “This is what you do when I go out, abi? “No mummy, this is the first time,” “Shut up,” she says, slapping Emmanuel’s chest. “Please stop, hit me instead,” I say, tears running down my face. But she doesn’t listen. Her slaps turn to punches. The security guard tries to separate my mother, but she’s twice his size and she easily pushes him away. Emmanuel clenches his core and blocks as many punches as he can. “You will never see this boy again, do you hear me?” At this, I look at Emmanuel. He glances at me too; a strained and subtle smile creeps on his face. For a moment, our eyes connect and we both know the unmistakable truth. If not by this trauma, we are connected still, and I will, most definitely, see him again.