Saturday Story - Battered

Sometime in 2012, little Mary came to live with her
Aunty in Somolu.
Mummy just died and there was no other person
to stay with than Aunty Esther.
But the real truth is that little Mary wouldn’t have
needed to make the long journey from Ekiti, her
birthplace, to Aunty Esther’s house in Lagos if
Daddy hadn’t taken up drinking.
Most nights he came home very drunk, and when
Mary complained of hunger, he’d pass her a
sachet of dry gin.
Feeding only on gin and water and fruits nearby
trees were generous enough to share, 9-year-old
Mary grew thinner and thinner by the day.
At Aunty Esther’s house that late evening she
arrived Lagos, confused and tired, thick-bodied
and fair-skinned Esther stared at her,
expressionless.
Mary bowed again and repeated, ‘Good evening,
Aunty.’
Esther was silent still, just staring.
Mary made to sit on the couch.
Finally Esther came alive, harsh and mean. ‘ Joko
sile nle —sit down on the floor!’
Mary, startled, dropped to the carpet at once.
‘ Epele, Aunty,’ she said.
Luckily, her cousins weren’t as cold. They
welcomed her well, played with her, and even
called her sister.
Because they were older and all boys, it had been
easy for them to take to her.
She was an adorable young girl, after all.
Malnourished, yet very pretty.
Deprived, yet so gentle.
Full of smiles even in her shabby clothes.
She ate last, after the rest of the family had all
eaten, and she had washed all their plates.
Esther always served her food herself, a single
spoon of whatever that was made.
Whatever she made.
At 9, there was nothing she couldn’t cook.
There was no type of clothing she couldn’t wash.
She was perfect at scrubbing too.
Yet Esther hardly found any of these satisfactory.
She barked often at her, called her stupid girl,
foolish girl and nonsense girl.
Most nights, you’d find Mary folded up beside the
kitchen cabinet, crying.
Her tears come not from Aunty Esther’s harsh
voice or name-calling, but because of a precious
time long ago that she so very missed.
The time Mummy was still alive and called her
Ayomipo. The times she ate apple and wafers and
meat.
The times she could ask for more food if she
wasn’t full.
Luckily, the sadness usually went away with the
night and mornings were calm and better.
Often, she sang and hummed to a popular poem
she loved as she washed, scrubbed and cooked.
Once, she’d finished all chores by early afternoon,
the fastest she’d ever finished before.
She spread an old carton in the corridor to sleep.
But Esther returned earlier than usual that day, and
the next minute Mary was outside again with a
new bundle of clothes to wash.
Sometimes, she found some that had not been
used since their last washing.
Once, she’d taken in a green wrapper and in quiet,
fear-hushed voice, said to Esther, ‘Aunty, this one
is still clean.’
Esther held her by the ear and pulled her out of the
room. ‘Wash them all!’ she barked.
It was a bright Saturday morning, that kind of
morning you wake up to blinding sunlight and
wonder if the clock is deceiving you.
Esther handed Mary a bowl. It contained meat—
uncooked, bloody lumps of beef.
She’d use them to make soup in the afternoon
when she returned with the boys, she told Mary.
Little Mary might have wondered why Aunty
suddenly wanted to prepare soup herself.
She walked into the kitchen with the bowl.
All she needed to do with the meat was boil them
in salt and onions to keep them good till Aunty
returned.
This she did before moving outside to finish with
the laundry.
It was now almost 3 in the afternoon; neither
Esther nor any of her three sons had returned.
There was not a single thing to eat in the house.
At around 4, her stomach churning badly from
worm attack, Mary walked into the kitchen and
took a lump of boiled meat from the pot.
She cut a piece from it and then dropped back the
bigger piece.
But she still came later and ate the other part too.
Esther returned at around 7.
Still in her iro and buba, she walked straight into
the kitchen. She opened the pot of boiled meat and
brought a spoon.
One by one, with great attention, she counted the
boiled lumps of meat.
Unknown to little Mary, Aunty Esther had counted
the meat in the morning before handing her the
bowl.
Discovering a lump has gone missing, Esther
swallowed a huge amount of air and let it out.
She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to throw
things.
‘Mary!’ Her voice resounded round the house.
‘Mary!’ She came out to the sitting room a raging
mess.
‘Maaary!!!’
‘Yes, Aunty!’ Mary appeared from the adjacent
door.
‘How many pieces of meat did you remove from
the pot?’
Mary’s heart began to pound.
‘Answer me!’
‘Ju…jus…just one, Aunty.’
Esther’s right palm crashed into the little girl’s
face.
Mary clutched her warm cheek.
Esther untied her wrapper to retie it well. Then she
descended on the little girl.
‘Aunty please! Aunty please!’ Mary struggled
underneath the raging woman.
Esther was unrelenting.
She kept on slapping, knocking, scratching, till
Mary’s scream turned into a muffled groaning.
Finally she freed the girl.
Bruised and battered, little Mary squirmed round
on the carpet.
Esther opened the door and kicked her out of the
house.
When her sons came back, they asked her where
their young sister was.
She said nothing.
Two days gone, nobody has heard a word about
little Mary.
A concerned neighbour reported.
It wasn’t till the uniformed men came to her shop
to arrest her that Esther realized the gravity of the
evil she had committed.
Incarcerated for over four months now, she had
finally came to understand the other part of life.
The part that isn’t so smooth and blissful.
The pain and anguish she so generously showed a
little girl that once came to live with her she now
lives with day and night.
__based on a real life story.


[DNBSTORIES]