When Someone Leaves

The day Dad left, you were in school. There was a quiz competition and you, in Primary 5, were representing your school.

You made it to the last round with one other child. A girl with huge glasses that looked like a genius. You had both gotten ten questions correct, and you had used all the facts and trivia you learned for the quiz. You were nervous, and she smiled, confident. And then she got a question wrong.

You remember walking to the podium, seeing that almost all of the hall was standing. Students from your school watched you and their eyes urged you to win. Those eyes were a weight stuffed with hope, and you carried it, and you felt small and alone.

“Jolade,” you heard the quizmaster say. “If you answer this question correctly, you’ll win this competition and go home with the first prize. Ready?”

You nodded, swallowing, hiding your sweaty palms.

“Question,” he began, “Who formed the theory of relativity? You have 30 seconds.”

You didn’t know what the theory of relativity was, and you began to panic. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

You forced yourself to think and recalled that Uncle Joel, when he still stayed with your family, used to spout science things that you never understood and he’d shout ‘Science!’, and sometimes, he would add, in a fake British accent, “Jolly, before something becomes a law in science, it is first a theory, innit?”

You always nodded, blinking blankly.

Theory was something science, and the only scientist you knew was Albert Einstein.

“10 seconds,” the quizmaster boomed.

“Albert Einstein,” you said, pronouncing it ‘Instin’.

“Final answer?” he asked. You nodded yes.

“Correct!”

The hall roared.

“Congratulations Jolade. You win the...”

The voice of the quizmaster faded into the background. Your ears buzzed. People whooped and hollered as teachers came around to congratulate you, even wicked Mrs. Adeokin. “Congratulations Jolade, you’ve made us proud,” she said. She always talked like something blocked her nostrils.

You later went to collect the 1st prize – a trophy which was almost too heavy to carry, some gift-wrapped books, and a handshake from some dignitary. In the picture, one can see you in an oversized uniform, eyes bright, teeth shining, the books clutched to your body,

You looked happy, and you felt that way too.

You wouldn’t feel that way for a long time afterward.

*****

Mom came to pick you up after school. She hugged you tighter than usual when you ran to her.

“Mummy! I won the quiz...”

The words tumbled over themselves as you narrated. Usually, whenever you told Mom about your exploits in school, she asked you playful questions and made encouraging noises as she thanked God for giving her such a brilliant child.

That day, she was silent.

But you, in your childish excitement, didn’t notice the taut smile that stretched her lips into a severe line or the tears that brimmed in her eyes and threatened to spill over.

“The quizmaster now said ‘Correct!’ and I won!”

“Really? That’s wonderful Jolly. Good girl. I’ll make you sweet fried rice when we get home.”

“No. I want to eat jollof rice”.

“Okay. Jollof then. You’re my baby, Jolly, I’ll do anything you want,” she said and hugged you tight again.

Even then, you couldn’t help but notice that her voice shook, but you thought she was sick.

“I can’t wait to tell Daddy!”

She waited just a bit too long before she said “Okay. We’ll tell Daddy” as you walked home together.

*****

When you got home, she said Dad had travelled for work and would not be back for a long time.

“So, I can’t tell him about the quiz?”

“No, Jolly,” Mom replied.

You were crestfallen. You wanted to show him the books you won and feel his warm cheeks and scratchy beard against your face as he rubbed his against yours and said ‘Good girl Jolade my baby!’

“But I want to show him what I won.”

“You can’t, Jolly,” Mom retorted, her voice shriller than usual. “Don’t disturb me. Let me cook. Go to the parlour.”

“But can I talk to him with your phone?”

“No, Jolly!” she snapped, “Leave me alone and go!”

You ran away, spooked by Mom. Her voice was scary and a little bit crazy, and every trace of the earlier joy you felt evaporated.

You didn’t enjoy the jollof rice that day, or the bigger-than-normal meat on top of it.

*****

The day you discovered Dad had left was the next Saturday. The power was out and you were watching a movie on Mom’s laptop. Mom stood up and went to her bedroom.

You needed to pee, so you paused the movie and ran for the bathroom, stopping only when you heard Mom’s voice.

“What will I tell Jolly?” Mom was saying. She spoke Yoruba and she sounded like she was crying. I walked up to the door of the room. Her voice became clearer. She was crying.

“I told her Dami travelled for work...” There was a brief pause. You couldn’t hear what the other person was saying. You only heard Mom.

“I can’t tell her, she is...”

Pause.

“Things are tough. I’ve been trying to find work. Nothing...”

Pause.

You heard her sniffle.

“Why are you talking like that, Maami?... How could I have known he wanted to leave? He didn’t act like anything was wrong. I only discovered when he left...”

Long pause.

You backed away from the door and stumbled back to the parlour, the urge to pee forgotten.

*****

Mom trundled out of the room some minutes later.

“Jolly, have you done your homework?”

“Mummy, where is Daddy?” you asked and saw her eyes briefly fly wide open. She started to stutter, and that was when you knew.

“Didn’t I... didn’t I tell you that... that he travelled?”

“I heard you in the room. You said he left.”

The tears rolling down her face stopped further words. This was the first time you ever saw her cry.

“Jolly, come here,” she sniffed, pulling you closer and hugging tighter than ever.

“That day you won the quiz, your Daddy left. He said he didn’t want to stay with us anymore so he was going away.”

“So he’s not coming back?”

When she didn’t answer, you shook her as forcefully as you could, and you could feel yourself crying too. You cried because Mom cried; because sometimes, seeing someone cry was sadder than anything else. Crying means vulnerability, and some people shouldn’t be vulnerable, like Mom. She was the adult.

“No, Jolly,” she said, her voice grave. “He’s not coming back.”

*****

Nightmares came. Every night, Dad abandoned you in a pitch-dark place, taking away the light. You’d always wake up screaming.

The day had no respite, it was always one quarrel after the other with Mom, even on Sundays.

There was the day you wanted ice cream. She said no because there was no money. The jingling bus called to you irresistibly, and you insisted. Mom snapped, screaming that she didn’t have money, asking if you wanted her to pluck money from a tree. Everyone saw you both that day and you were so embarrassed you cried.

There was the time you had to change schools to a cheaper one because you couldn’t pay the fees. You didn’t want to. She said you had to, there was no other choice. You quarrelled for so long you both were exhausted.

There was the time you had to move houses because of rent. This was three years after. Neither of you wanted to. “Why can’t we stay then if you don’t want to leave?”

“No money, Jolly. There’s no money.”

It was the only house you knew, and the only thing that hadn’t changed after he left. You felt then a deep anger for Dad. You wanted to kill him.

You cursed him every night, and then after being jolted out of sleep by nightmares, you would feel bad for cursing him and conclude that the cursing was why he hadn't come home.

Food became smaller. Mom became more short-tempered. She tried not to show it, but you knew she always cried and cursed too. The walls in your new apartment were thin.

*****

A month after Dad left, Uncle Joel called.

“Hello?”

“Jolly, how are you nau?” he said, teasing.

“Fine.”

“School nko?”

“Fine.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice serious now. “The way you’re answering me is somehow. Are you sick?”

“No, Uncle. Daddy left. He’s not coming back.”

For the first time ever, Uncle Joel had no words.

“Hello?” you said, frantic, thinking he’d hung up, that he’d just left too. “Hello, Uncle can you hear me?”

“Yes, Jolly,” he said. His voice soothed. “When did this happen? Mummy didn’t tell me o.”

“Last month.”

“What?!”

“Uncle, can you come and stay with us? I know you have school but can you go to school from here? It’s only Mummy and me all the time now and I don’t like it. She’s always angry.”

He sighed deeply, wearied.

“Sorry, Jolly,” he said. “But I can’t come o. Mummy didn’t tell you? I’m in America now. That’s where I school.”

“So, you can’t come?”

“No, Jolly. I’ll tell Mummy to get you your own phone so I can be speaking to you every day. It’ll be like I’m there, you hear?”

“Yes,” you said, smiling. A new phone was good news, finally.

“Okay. Take care. Oya, give the phone to Mummy.”

You gave Mom the phone, excited.

You never got the phone. Mom said there was no money. You talked to Uncle Joel less and less and you both grew apart. Eventually, it was like you were strangers. This was the saddest thing to you, even more than Daddy leaving or, later, you and Mom growing apart.

*****

Five years in, Mom got a great job. You moved to a better neighbourhood and started attending a better school. But now Mom was never around. You learnt how to burn food, then learnt how to cook. You used a washing machine for the first time and shrunk half of your clothes. You got better though. You watched too much TV and had no bedtime.

On Saturdays, Mom slept in and you cleaned the house. Although you now had a phone, you didn’t call Uncle Joel to speak to him. It no longer occurred to you. You only had short, clipped conversations with him through Mom’s phone.

Mom and you quarrelled for different reasons now.

There was the time a teacher in school called her and said you hadn’t done homework throughout the term. Mom got home by 11 pm and woke me up and confronted you about it. You were annoyed she disturbed your sleep and wanted to provoke a reaction, so you said you always forgot to do homework. The truth was that you didn’t know a lot of the questions and you had no one to ask. Mom snapped, and you screamed back. You didn’t speak to each other for days after that.

There was the time you slept off and didn’t wash plates. Mom came home and woke you up about the plates. You said you were busy. “Go and wash those plates my friend!” She’d stopped calling you Jolly a long time ago. Now it was ‘my friend’.

As you angrily washed, you complained loudly, and Mom came out and told you to keep your dirty mouth shut and let her sleep. You began to consider running away.

Once, results came out and you performed woefully. Mom saw, and she flew into a rage, saying that you were wasting the money she worked so long and late for. You screamed things back at her. It was one of the most intense spats you had, all quivering noses, bulging veins, and clenched fists. You didn’t talk to each other for weeks.

You got angry at each other every day, but no one was crying anymore. Hot anger had burned the tears away.

*****

You’re sprawled out on the sofa now, 15 years later, watching a movie. The air is cool and the rain is a drizzle. The earth has that heavenly smell it always has when the rain comes after a long time. The atmosphere is one of languidness.

The doorbell softly dings and you get up and half-shuffle, half-run to the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Jolade,” a voice answers. “It’s me. Open the door.”

There an underlying squeak in the baritone, as though the voice is cracking from disuse. It is unfamiliar, and yet you instantly recognise it.

You swing the door open. It’s him.

He looks smaller, shrunken. Wrinkles have joined the laugh lines that were always around his eyes. They criss-cross his face in irregular patterns. Those laughing eyes you remember look sad. The light has gone out of them.

Anger simmers in your head and you block his path.

“You. What do you want?”

“At least let me enter first, Jolade,” he replies, flashing a wry smile. “It’s freezing outside here.”

His eyes dart around, avoiding your face. You allow him in, and then turn around.

“Why are you here?”

“Jolade,” he says. His eyes are still settling everywhere apart from your face. When times were good, he never called you Jolly like others. It was always Jolade, and it sounded regal and important whenever he said it.

“I came to apologize for...” he begins, but he doesn’t finish, because a volcano has erupted inside you, and you’re screaming at him.

“Just shut up. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving. You just left. I won a quiz that day and I wanted to show you I was making you proud. Did you know that?”

“Jolade, please,” he says, penitent. “I’m always proud of you. I just wanted...”

“You just left!” you yell. “I thought you were coming back, but you never did. Do you know I cried and cursed you every night for a long time? Mom too. Do you know that?”

Your father is looking at you. He sees the clenched fist and he sees something in your eyes, and despite the cool weather, beads of sweat begin forming on his forehead. He wipes it with his arm.

“Jolade, I was wrong,” he says. “I shouldn’t have left. I was foolish. I’m here to apologize and I hope to be part of your lives again.”

What he says brings back everything you felt then. You felt abandoned, and you hated yourself because you were sure he left because of you.

“No,” you say. “Why now? Were you there when I first bled all over the floor and it felt like someone was digging out my stomach with a shovel and I couldn’t move for hours because of the pain until Mummy came back? Or did you know of all the times me and Mom argued and said hurtful things to ourselves and nearly killed each other?”

“Jolade, I...”

“No, you don’t,” you say. The anger has left, replaced by sorrow and deep regret for the life you lost because he left. Sad that because of him, you lost a lot of Mom too. "Do you know how much I hate myself for the things I said to her?”

“Jolade, please...”

“Please leave.”

“Jolade...”

“Get. Out,” you say, putting all the bile into those two words.

His head sinks dejectedly to his chest, and he slowly shuffles out the door. You slam the door behind him. The tears fall for the first time in a long time.

You turn to go back to the room, and you notice a big scrap of paper on the floor. You pick it up and see Dad’s familiar, elegant scrawl. “Jolade, I’m sorry for everything. Please forgive me. Daddy.”

There’s a phone number written overleaf.

You resist the urge to shred it, stashing it between some paperbacks instead. Then you rush to the bathroom and turn on the shower to cover up the sound of your sobbing. You cry for everything you lost.

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