Echoes Of Silence 

Tobechukwu Onwubiko

A Stranger Comes to Town

Biedima

As Biedima got off the bus, she squealed in her heart, thankful that her body could move. The ride from Benin to Lagos had her squashed between Aunt Cynthia and a thick man like akara, the popular Nigerian bean cake, sandwiched between two halves of a bread loaf. The man’s breath had been bearable for her when they left the bus park in Uselu; it smelt of local gin, and she was used to it because some public transport bus conductors in Benin smelt like it. After they left Ore, a city in Ondo State, where many buses going to Lagos stopped to allow passengers to stretch their legs and eat, Biedima had to keep her head away from the man because he wouldn’t stop talking with the driver. It was as if each word carried an odious smell that intensified with each utterance. She didn’t see the thick man eating in the restaurant where she and Aunt Cynthia had eaten, but she suspected he might have eaten something with fish as his breath carried the fishy odour that Biedima was familiar with. One of her neighbours in Benin was a fishmonger, and so her flat often smelt like fish. As soon as they got off the bus at the Berger bus park in Lagos, Biedima welcomed the air like a choked person desperate for it. It was filled with a smell that spoke of the city’s congestion, but at least she could move her neck whenever she wanted to and not be nauseated. Still, Biedima wished the comfort she found in being able to move her body could reach her heart as anxiety wove around it at the thought of meeting her new family.

  Aunt Cynthia told her to wait in the bus park with her luggage while she got them a taxi. Biedima watched as her aunt mixed with the busy crowd of Lagos. Her steps were like those of one whose weight was supported by a frail cane, a reflection of her grieving heart. Aunt Cynthia stopped by a woman selling apples, bananas, oranges, and pineapples and listened as the fruit seller spoke and pointed with her index finger to a place Biedima couldn’t see. Aunt Cynthia had hardly conversed with Biedima since they left Edo State; Biedima interpreted her silence as grief, but she also felt there was more. Their world, once anchored by Biedima’s mother’s presence, now floated like a paper boat on a capricious river. On account of her passing, they navigated the currents of grief, each ripple a reminder of their fragile vessel. They both needed to overcome the loss, but Biedima feared she might not be able to do it with her father’s family. She needed someone as lost as she was to face the uncertainty that lurked in her future, but Aunt Cynthia’s path was set for the familiar rhythm of her life in Canada. 

Biedima’s mother’s burial had been a simple ceremony, yet it bore the weight of the space her absence had created in Biedima’s life. It was as if she’d been abandoned on a battlefield with no weapon to fight, surrendering her life to what others made of it. Biedima’s mother’s colleagues at the bank, where she’d worked as the head of customer services, had made all the arrangements, and even though her mother didn’t believe in God, Edafe’s father blessed the corpse before she was buried. Biedima had thought the casket would open at that moment, and her mother would yell at Edafe’s father for praying for her. She thought it would have been a sight, but she also realised that day that when a person died, they couldn’t control what happened to their body. The picture of Biedima pouring that red sand on the casket emerged in her consciousness again, like a scene she’d mastered in a drama, the action expanding the hole her mother’s absence had created. She wished she hadn’t been allowed to; it was like affirming a truth she’d wished wasn’t, but Aunt Cynthia had said that was how it was done. Biedima couldn’t object because it would seem rude for a child her age to question the circumstances, particularly her father's insistence on her presence in Lagos. The more she pondered, the more she wanted to know why he hadn’t met her until now, leaving her with a sense of unease. 

Her thoughts lingered on her mother, overshadowing the sounds of the bustling park. Biedima pictured her mother in the casket and wondered if she felt the cold when it rained or the heat when the sun shone brightly on Benin’s soil. It had rained the day after the burial, and Biedima had been so cold that she’d had to shut the louvres of the window in her bedroom. She’d wondered how her mum had felt; her mother was easily cold whenever it rained. Unknown to Biedima, these thoughts she harboured were preparing her spirit for the flood of contemplation that would drown her heart in her father’s mansion.

There were no refreshments when those who attended the burial returned to where Biedima and her mother lived on Ekehuan Road after they left Paradise Park Cemetery on Federal Road. Biedima had witnessed some burials on the street where she lived and noticed refreshments and music after the family returned from the cemetery. In some cases, the dead person was buried in the same compound he had lived in, especially if he owned it or was a child of the owner. Her mother didn’t own the compound where they lived, and so she was buried in a cemetery. The lack of refreshments was Aunt Cynthia’s decision. Edafe’s mother openly disagreed with it, but it didn’t change anything. Edafe’s mother and Aunt Cynthia argued about many things, like co-wives seeking their husband’s sole attention. If Biedima didn’t know better, she would have thought that Edafe’s mother had become close to her mother before she died, because the woman wanted to be involved in every aspect of the planning. Edafe’s mother wanted her church members to come and have a service of songs, which Biedima thought would be great because the church choir sang very well. It would have been like a brief solace amidst the distressing tones of sympathies and consolations, but Aunt Cynthia refused. Her mother’s best friend had said that the service of songs would lead to unnecessary spending as those who would attend would have to be fed. Aunt Cynthia didn’t think wasting a person’s hard-earned money on feeding those who didn’t work for it made sense. 

Biedima thought of how she sat in their small sitting room, receiving speech after speech on how great her mother was, words that were both sad and beautiful. She didn’t need to be reminded; her mother was the best human she’d known. Though unmarried to her father, Biedima saw her mother live her life to the fullest. She wasn’t ashamed to be called a single mum. Biedima remembered the first time she and her mother were at the Girls’ College in Warri. Mrs. Patrick, the principal, had asked where Biedima’s father was, and her mother boldly responded that she was a single mother and that Biedima’s father was alive but absent at that moment. Biedima had watched the principal try to hide her surprise at her mother’s boldness. During her days in elementary school, her mother attended all the events the school organised for fathers and men. She would usually introduce herself as Ms Omoze Osifo, Biedima’s mother. When called  ‘Mrs’, her mother would correct the speaker stating she was ‘Ms’. Although she bore a different surname from her mother’s, Biedima grew up seeing her mother ensure that whenever Biedima wrote her name, she must add that she was a Clark. The name carved on her being, as inerasable as a birthmark, now determined the new reality that Biedima feared. Biedima wished her mother got married; it was one question she never brought herself to ask her mother. Still, she wondered if the man her mother would have married would have treated her as his own child. She was also worried about meeting her father’s wife, who would be her stepmother.

Aunt Cynthia had been on edge since the burial; she yelled on the phone a lot and cried whenever she was in Biedima’s mother’s bedroom. On the night Biedima’s mother was buried, Biedima had laid in her bed, willing her tears to fall, but they wouldn’t. Her tears seemed to be confined within the deepest part of her grief. Her aunt must have thought she was asleep, but Biedima repeatedly heard her crying and calling her mother’s name, Omoze. Biedima understood how Aunt Cynthia felt, as if a part of her had been forcibly taken from her. She couldn’t even imagine what she’d do if Edafe died. Even though she didn’t know when she’d see Edafe again, Biedima hoped that she and her friend lived long enough to enjoy the friendship death’s hands had severed them from. Biedima wanted to console Aunt Cynthia that night but didn’t know how to, so she stayed in her room. Eventually, sleep carried her to the only place where she could see her mother: in her dreams. Aunt Cynthia had moved Biedima’s and her mother’s belongings to her parents’ house in Ugbowo, where the great University of Benin is located. She gave the key to the apartment to Edafe’s father, who would return it to the landlord.  They had spent the night before in a hotel in Ugbowo, and Aunt Cynthia looked even more withdrawn now that they were in Lagos. She was beginning to look like a stranger to Biedima, which made Biedima even more anxious about her future with her father’s family. 

Biedima’s thoughts drifted back to the crowded city before her, alive with the relentless thrumming of urban life. She’d heard of the city as busy and could see it was. From where she stood, it teemed with people moving about their businesses; some stopping to buy items by the roadside, others picking things from a hawker's basket. The New Benin market in Benin City was also busy – she’d visited it occasionally with her mother – but Lagos looked busier. It was as if the people were paid to be on the move. Biedima looked on while her mind tried to keep up with them. The sun was hot. Biedima didn’t feel its direct intensity as she stood under a shade, but the sweat and frowns on people’s faces gave her the impression that they were burning.  

Her legs were tired, and her throat was as dry as a desert. She needed a drink, but she didn’t have any money on her. A young girl about Biedima’s age walked past her with a bowl of different sodas on her head. The drinks looked cold, which only made Biedima thirstier. As Biedima looked at the drinks, well arranged to attract even a hydrated person, she wondered how heavy the bowl must be for the girl. Just then, a man approached the girl and spoke a language Biedima didn’t understand, but recognised as the Yoruba language. She watched the man block the girl as she tried to move, his voice growing louder and more aggressive. The girl's voice matched his in intensity, her eyes filled with the same defiance that Biedima had seen in Edafe. Biedima saw people walking past them and wondered why no one intervened. It was as if the man and the girl were invisible to everyone else except Biedima. The man looked young, but he could harm the girl if she continued to yell at him. The girl gave the man a fifty naira note while the man handed her a small piece of paper, which looked like a ticket. It was then that the man allowed the girl to move. Biedima would later learn that many hawkers in Lagos bought tickets, without which they wouldn’t be permitted to hawk in a particular area. She felt pity for the girl and worried about her safety. How would the girl fight big boys who might harass her? Biedima wondered if she might have ended up hawking on the streets if her mother didn’t have a friend like Aunt Cynthia or if her family in Lagos didn’t want her. Thoughts of the girl made Biedima think of her family. While Biedima felt they would change her life, her young mind didn’t imagine the change she’d bring to the Clarks.

Aunt Cynthia had told Biedima to start thinking about her new family and to be open to getting used to them; her flourishing into the brilliant lady her mother hoped she’d become would rely on their acceptance. Biedima would soon realise she needed more than the Clarks’ acceptance to blossom in her new world. She had refused to think of anything since her mother’s burial, but now that she and her aunt were on their way to meet the Clarks, a surname she had been called all her life, she felt a wave of conflicting emotions. Biedima remembered asking her mother why she had a different surname, and her mother told her it was her father’s surname. She’d asked her where her father was, and her mum had said he was alive and well. She’d asked when she could meet him, and her mother had said when the time was right. Biedima didn’t think that it would have to take her mother’s death to meet her father’s family. More than the need to know her father, Biedima couldn’t deny the discomfort she’d concealed behind the façade of her bright-eyed youth, why had her father not met her until now? The ineffable feeling wrapped her senses like a cold breeze during harmattan, evoking a tension that sprang from the depths of her stomach. She wished Edafe was with her to make her feel better.

Since Biedima left Edafe, she’d woken up every morning with thoughts of her best friend. It made grieving her mother harder. Edafe would have played a trick on a senior, disobeyed a rule, and made her laugh with silly jokes. Edafe would have made the burden Biedima carried in her heart lighter. Biedima would have been able to tell her friend how she felt even if no one had asked her if she was okay. They had all assumed that she wouldn’t be, but Biedima wished they had asked, and then she would have told them that she missed her mother and best friend. She’d have told them that her body was confined to a space too small for her because her mother’s absence had shrunk her world. She missed Edafe’s small lips that thinned when she smiled, her round eyes that looked scary when she was angry, her small hands that fit Biedima’s hands perfectly, and her yelling when she wanted Biedima to wake up.

A yellow car with lines on the sides approached Biedima, pulling her thoughts away from Edafe. She saw Aunt Cynthia seated inside it beside the driver. The car parked, and the driver stepped out to put Biedima’s luggage in the boot. Aunt Cynthia had her backpack with her. Biedima hadn’t asked her why she didn’t bring a travelling box. She thought Aunt Cynthia might be spending the night at her sister’s, who she’d mentioned lived in the Surulere area of Lagos. Biedima had assumed they would go there first, but it seemed as if Aunt Cynthia couldn’t wait to hand her over to her new family, like a tired nanny closing for the day’s job. Biedima knew she reminded her aunt of the loss of a sister and a friend, and it hurt to see her aunt so broken, but Biedima also felt she shouldn’t be pushed away as a result of her mother’s death. She didn’t know how best to let her aunt know that she dreaded the reality she was forced to face. She wanted to ask for water, but Aunt Cynthia’s lips were thinned, and her brow furrowed, not in anger, but in solemn contemplation as she carried out Biedima’s father’s request, pondering the fragile balance between right and wrong, and oblivious to Biedima’s inner turmoil. Biedima used her saliva to wet her dry throat. Meeting her new family was more important than the wetness that her throat craved. She got behind the driver while her aunt remained in front. 

The ride was quiet, and Biedima liked it. As the car moved through the highways of Lagos, the air felt lighter, each mile emptying the heaviness Biedima had felt while she stood at the bus park. She hoped to see the much-talked-about Third Mainland Bridge. It was the longest bridge in Nigeria and the second longest in Africa, connecting the island of Lagos to the mainland. As it was her first time in Lagos, Biedima wanted to ask her aunt to show her the bridge, but Aunt Cynthia was typing away on her phone. Whenever her aunt looked up, Biedima noticed a frown, thicker with each look, which made her cringe back into the safety of her thoughts. Did her family not want her? Biedima thought of what might happen if they rejected her. Her mind returned to the girl she’d seen hawking cold drinks, and Biedima wondered if she might end up like that. She didn’t think a girl’s mother would send her to hawk in the sun; the girl might be an orphan or didn’t have a mother. Aunt Cynthia’s frown could mean so many things, but Biedima was convinced it had to do with her. She wanted to think of the possibility of being rejected, but she felt powerless to embrace such thoughts, or she didn’t want to imagine being rejected by the father she’d always wanted as a part of her life. Biedima closed her eyes. She felt the air become more relaxed and looked out the window. They were on the Third Mainland Bridge; the lagoon was on either side of it, just as Biedima had seen in advertisements on television. Biedima saw a collection of similar houses built from wood on her right; it looked like a shanty town. She imagined the picture of the place on a painting might help hide how dirty it looked. She saw canoes and young children in them; they looked happy, and Biedima wished she could have a slice of their happiness. The ride was slow. It felt like a deliberate passage into a reality Biedima knew would confine the freedom she’d enjoyed. Biedima felt the car might be faulty because other cars and buses sped past them, but she was happy to take her mind off her apprehension and enjoy the view. She thought of Edafe, who had always wanted to see this bridge. Biedima wished she could make a video and send it to her, but she’d need a smartphone to do that, and neither she nor Edafe had ever owned a mobile phone. Her mother had told her she would get one for her sweet sixteen. She’d felt then that everyone in the world would have gotten a phone before she did, but now that she thought of it, she wouldn’t mind waiting, as long as she had her mother beside her.

‘Do you have any questions, B?’ Aunt Cynthia asked.

‘B’ was Biedima’s nickname, although only her mother and Aunt Cynthia called her that. Biedima wanted to say ‘yes’ but changed her mind. She’d keep what she thought of the bridge to herself. Since her mother’s death, Biedima had schooled her thoughts to remain unvoiced, and there was also the thought that she’d no longer have a say over her life. The thought lingered, stuck and wouldn’t go away. She wasn’t surprised by her aunt’s question. Those who knew her well knew that she was curious and observant, and Aunt Cynthia might feel concerned that she would have questions, but Biedima didn’t think her aunt wanted her to ask any questions. They’d hardly spoken since they left Benin, and Aunt Cynthia’s silence was a testament to her fears for Biedima’s future.

As the car descended the bridge, Biedima felt isolated from everything she’d known. The view was long enough for her to absorb the new world that awaited her – a world where her resilience would be tested. The descent from the bridge felt like a transition into a space that should be large enough for her spirit, yet her spirit quivered at the expectations of this new realm. Expectations that her naïve mind would need a strength beyond her to meet. The buildings in Biedima’s new world were taller, as high as the perfection she’d be groomed into as a Clark. Seeing a different side of the country she’d lived in all her life, Biedima wondered if those who lived in the neighbourhood were fearless and radical like the people she’d known in Benin. Life in her new realm would soon open Biedima’s eyes to social gaps, much like the expanse of lands that divided Lagos and Benin. The houses she saw as she looked out the window were magnificent and neat. She looked at the tarred streets, hoping to find the red soil she was used to on the edges of the roads in Benin, but she was disappointed. The streets in her neighbourhood in Benin were tarred, but the red soil that the ancient city of Benin was known for was always visible on the edges, giving the dust in the air the same colour. Biedima concluded that the part of Lagos she was in might have been built for the wealthy, which aggravated her anxiety about being with her father’s family.

They finally reached a gate, where a security man asked them to provide a code for access. Aunt Cynthia gave him six numbers, which he typed into a machine that raised the barrier across the wide gate and allowed them access to the estate. The taxi soon stopped at another gate and Biedima wondered if the same code would be requested for them to gain access. A man dressed in a red shirt and black pants approached the driver.

‘What house are you going to?’

The driver pointed at Aunt Cynthia.

‘Clarks’ mansion,’ she answered.

The driver was granted access, and Biedima was in awe of how things worked differently from where she used to live. Her father’s family name must be so important. Biedima could hear her throbbing heart, a confirmation of her increased anxiety, and she tried to quiet it, but it wouldn’t stop. 

For the last two weeks, she had felt like a character in a novel; the adults in her life were the authors determining her fate. She still felt as if she had heard the news of her mother’s death just the day before; she hadn’t had time to cry as much as she wanted to. There was a heavy emptiness in her, and it reached the depths of her stomach. Biedima felt somewhat powerless, as if she was in a dream. Adults kept interfering, with their sympathies for her and eulogies of her mother, repeating the same condolence speech over and over again and depriving her of finding any relief in being able to mourn her mother. One would think that she should feel loved, but she felt helpless. She couldn’t tell them to stop visiting or ask them to stop talking. She had no control anymore; she lost it when her mother died, leaving her to the care of a family she knew nothing about. Things were going to change. Biedima knew. Aunt Cynthia had said it, too. She had told Biedima that her life would be better; her father’s family was wealthy and well-admired in society. It would be like the story of Cinderella, except in her case, she didn’t need to lose a glass slipper, and her father was the Prince Charming who would change her life.