The eyes that raised us

Maami, I remember back in the 90s. You enjoyed it when your oni-diri came to our compound to make you your adìmọ́lẹ̀, while we ran wild in the compound, just our pàtá, oversized aṣọ, and dusty feet. Selling imaginary rice and stew made of wet sand, pushing rusty tins, racing across the dirt. If anyone looked at you back then, as breathtaking as you were, they’d never believe you were capable of handling us the way you did. Bọ̀ọ́da and I used to think Baami was the stern one because of his quiet silence. But you, Maami? Eh! Your eyes were like a bat’s, watching every corner. You had that favorite saying: "Ọwọ́ tó bá dálẹ́ ní ẹ̀ṣù ń lò." An idle hand is the devil's workshop. So there was always work. We would sweep, fetch, scrub, sleep, and wake up to continue. Sometimes I would intentionally delay coming back from school just to dodge the endless chores. Even our friends knew better than to visit, because if they stepped foot in our house, you’d hand them a broom too, and their parents wouldn't even complain. We thought it was pure punishment. Until the day Tayo was caught stealing corn from the farmer’s land and implicated two other boys in the neighborhood. Thank God Bọ̀ọ́da and I were stuck doing chores at home that afternoon, or our names would have been in it too. But you see that trick of coming home late and lying that teacher held us back? The day you caught me, the beating and one week grounding reset my brain. When you told us, "My eyes are everywhere," we just believed. When we grew older and started noticing girls in Form 3, I met Adetoun. The girl was fine, Maami. I had even started gathering the courage to ask her out when you suddenly appeared at the stream that afternoon. Neither Adetoun nor I escaped your tongue and hand that day. I was so angry. But thank God, we later found out she was ọmọ Ìyẹmọja. Every child in the compound knew you. You didn't have time for long stories. If we did something wrong, you’d simply step into the room, look us dead in the eye, and say: "Ma rò mí lẹ́jọ́... kí ló ṣẹlẹ̀?" Bọ̀ọ́da and his friends would start confessing before you even raised a finger. I remembered that line the day I was ready to get married. I had gone to tell Baami first. He looked at me, smiled faintly, and asked, "Have you told your mother?" For three good days, I was praying and walking on eggshells around you. On the third morning, you caught me pacing. "Adétúmọ̀bí, kí ló ṣẹlẹ̀? Ara ẹ ó lẹ̀lẹ̀." I tried to deny it, but at the mention of "Ma rò mí lẹ́jọ́," my knees gave way. I spilled everything on the spot. You said nothing that morning. Two weeks later, you called me and started counseling me. Counseling ke? Next thing we knew, we were heading to ask for her hand in marriage. And when the children came, you were right there to hold my babies. Ṣadé and Ẹnitán still talk about you all the time. They miss the songs, the eré òṣùpá, and the àálọ́ stories under the moonlight. We miss you so much, Maami. Do you miss us too? They say the dead are far gone, that they don't remember they ever walked this earth. Is it true, Maami? Have you forgotten all these things? Because I haven't. I remember every single bit, and I smile every time, wishing we could go back to those black-and-white days... just to hear you adjust your wrapper and say, "Ma rò mí lẹ́jọ́, kí ló ṣẹlẹ̀?"

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