WALKING ON WATERS CHAPTER 4

 

                            CHAPTER 4

"Ibidunni, here we are again, as is our tradition each year," my Dad whispered, a sigh mingling with his words. His hand gently traced the edge of my mother's tomb, nestled among the multitude in the graveyard that had cradled her remains for the past twenty-four years.

As Yadah's hands gently placed a wreath on her tomb, my gaze lingered on the inscription: 

"In Fond Remembrance of IBIDUNNI KEHINDE CARDOSO (née FILANI) - A Cherished Daughter, Sister, Wife, and Mother - 1955-1990 - Forever in Our hearts.”

A subtle smile formed as I watched the assembly donned in matching white shirts, proudly displaying the familiar phrase. Was my late mother truly forever in our hearts, or had the passage of time refined grief into a scripted sentiment?

Taking in the assembly of my family, donned in uniform white shirts, each carrying the tribute that echoed the sentiments engraved on my mother's tombstone. The familiar words of remembrance adorned my father, aunt, stepmom, and younger brother, whose bespectacled gaze mirrored our father's. Together, we stood, a living reflection of the scripted homage to my late mother.

The phrase "forever in our hearts" bears varied significance for each of us. For Molawa, who was merely four when our mother passed, the phrase might be an abstract concept. His memories of her are scant, often leaving him adrift when tales about our late mother resurface. It prompts me to consider if his deep bond with our aunt stems from her being a vivid reflection of our late mom. It seems Molawa seeks in our aunt a tangible link to the motherly figure he can no longer recall but yearns to connect with.

Near the grave, my aunt stood, adjusting her sunshade to shield her from neither tears nor sunlight. Contemplating the question, I hesitated, pondering whether her identical late sister had truly found a lasting home in her heart or if it was a facade.

A chuckle escaped me as I reminisced about her reaction when Yadah and Molawa disclosed their plan to sponsor two secondary school students' education in memory of our late mother. Her response had been a vehement rebuke. The memory unfolded vividly—the subtle tightening of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes—speaking volumes without a single laugh escaping her.

“Why squander money when there are more meaningful uses for this substantial amount?" she criticized, dismissing the charitable initiatives. She indicated the yearly food donations to the less privileged and the support given to the school library, where our mother had once taught, asserting that they were already ample.

"Kehinde's death is not a cause for celebration. Sorrowful memories should be kept at bay, not resurrected by these unnecessary charities. Her passing is not an excuse for a Santa Claus charade," she vehemently declared.

The comedic twist in this whole saga amused me deeply. Before my stepmom entered my dad's life, my aunt conveniently avoided joining us at Mom's graveside during the Death anniversary, always armed with excuses. However, the moment Dad remarried, every excuse was swiftly swept under the carpet, and she seamlessly stepped into the role of being the link to our late mother. Certainly, time holds the key to unraveling the true intentions of her heart, laying bare the motivations that currently remain shrouded in mystery.

My eyes subtly shifted towards my stepmom, positioned discreetly at the rear, a quiet presence behind my aunt.

I found myself pondering my stepmom's emotions, questioning how she truly navigates being drawn back into a past that birthed her present. A past seamlessly woven into her current reality, where she holds half of the heart of the man she loves, while the other half rests beneath six feet. Is she embraced by gratitude, or does she wrestle with a poignant mixture of appreciation and compassion for the complexities that defines her marital existence? Time alone may unfold the delicate layers of her unspoken sentiments.

To my father, no doubt, she indeed lives on in his heart. As the years passed, I came to understand that a significant part of my father descended with my mom's remains the moment she was laid to rest. Even after marrying my stepmother, the warmth in his eyes that I remembered from when my mother was alive never returned. With each passing year, the man I once knew seemed to fade further away.

In this poignant moment, the hand of my beautiful Yadah is tightly entwined with mine. Her presence beside me is a testament to her conviction that the woman beneath this grave still matters, transcending her physical absence in our earthly realm. Yadah is here because, without her, my own presence in this solemn place would lack its profound depth.

Before Yadah entered my life, the ritual of visiting my mother's graveside on her death anniversary had halted with the newfound freedom of university life. It required persistent efforts from both Yadah and my Dad to bring me back here weeks before our wedding—an essential journey for Yadah to be introduced to the essence of my late mum. And my dad had profoundly expected me to resume visiting her graveside with him and the rest of the family, just like we used to before I pulled away.

“Dad, visiting her grave won’t bring her back.” I spoke softly, watching his eyes cloud over as the anniversary of my mother’s death approached, a year after I married Yadah.

"Definitely, it won't bring her back, but it's a sign of respect, a way to show she's not forgotten, that she's always in our hearts,” my Dad said softly, his voice filled with emotion, as we sat in his study at home. I had come that day to tell him that I wouldn't be joining them for their visit to her grave on her death anniversary. 

"Dad," I began, choosing my words with care, "I understand your perspective, but I won't be going this time." I paused, meeting his gaze steadily. "You may have thought that since I took Yadah there before we got married, I would continue the annual visits as I did in the past, but things have changed.”

"Nothing has changed, young man," Dad's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a mix of frustration and hurt. "I've respected your choice to stop visiting her gravesite since you started university, but that ends now. Being married comes with responsibilities, including honoring your mother's memory together with your wife."

His words hung heavy in the air as he continued, "You seem to think visiting her grave is a burden. It pains me to have to ask your wife to persuade you to visit the woman who loved you and your brother unconditionally throughout her life.”

As I sat across from him in that room that day, I saw how his shoulders slumped slightly. The weight of my intended absence from the tradition, meant to honor my mother's memory, hung palpably in the air between us. 

In the chapters of my life when my Mum was alive, our relationship wasn't defined by friendship, nor were we sworn enemies. Her demeanor, marked by stubbornness and strictness, painted a canvas of expectations. It seemed as though, if given the chance, she would have molded me into an Albert Einstein from the moment I took my first breath. This unspoken goal came bundled with a cascade of responsibilities, typical of the burdens carried by an African first child, all of which were silently entrusted to me.

"Sebi oni oki gboran ni, I will show you what the eyes of a stubborn child always see," my mother chided, her words cutting through the air. I knelt down with my hands raised while tears streamed down my face. The scenario unfolded after I finished my school assignment and dashed out to play football with our neighbors' kids. Engrossed in the joy of dribbling the ball with Ahmed, a neighbor my age, I heard my mother's voice calling out from our living room window.

"Yele! Omoyele!" Her voice rang out, carrying an ominous tone that hinted at trouble. With the ball kicked offside, I hurried inside upon her call. My entrance was met with a painful knock on my head and a searing slap on my back. Attempting to justify my reasons for going out only fueled the intensity of her reprimand.

"Just because you finished your assignment, you think the next thing is to go out and play ball, as if there is nothing else to do. Instead of bringing out the shoes you and your brother will wear to school tomorrow, or better still, fetching your Ugo C. Ugo textbook to start solving quantitative and verbal reasoning. Do you think winning the state mathematics quiz means you've arrived? See, you will smell your yansh today!" Her words pierced the air with fury.

"Honey, I'm home." My father's arrival shattered the icy atmosphere, his suitcase in tow. Three-year-old Molawa rushed, joyously scattering his alphabet toy.

"Sweetheart, E tide, you're back, welcome. How was work today?" My mother warmly greeted, reclaiming his suitcase.

"We thank God, work was great," he replied, cradling my little brother in his arms.

"Why is Yele on his knees? What has he done wrong?" my father asked, settling onto the brown settee.

"Hmmm, Yele just wants to kill me by being mediocre, and I won't give him that chance," she said, her gaze fixed on me.

"How?" My father asked, appearing lost at the notion of a seven-year-old me wanting to harm his wife.

"You're asking me, 'How?' I'll tell you," she replied, settling beside my father, recounting the events that led to my punishment.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Sweetheart, that's all," she said, raising her hands in submission.

"Ibidunni, Omoyele cannot and will not harm you. I don't see anything wrong with the little boy playing after finishing his assignment. He's just a little boy, and all work and no play makes—"

"Baba Yele, don't just interject. You're indulging this boy. A son you should join me in reprimanding," my mother interjected.

"Forgetting that the good son is the father's pride, but the spoiled and useless one belongs to the mother. And no son of mine will be useless," she stated firmly.

"None of our children will be useless by God's grace. We just have to guide them with love and care; that's all. Just pardon and release him," my father remarked.

"I've heard you. Stand up, oh," my mother spoke in defeat.

"As you're standing up, go and bring that form you brought back from school for your father to see," she instructed as I took my leave from the living room.

"What form? What is it for?" My father's puzzled expression conveyed his confusion.

"Ehnnn, he has just been nominated by his school to represent them for the first trial of the national Bees competition. They need us to sign the form, granting permission for him to participate," she explained, her tone carrying a mix of pride and excitement for my achievement.

"Again?" My father inquired, his brows furrowing.

"Yes, again. Is there anything wrong with it?" my mother questioned, her gaze probing her husband's eyes to discern the reason for his less-than-enthusiastic response.

"Don't you think all these academic activities are getting too much for this boy, considering his tender age? I do not think his life should revolve around books alone."

"Baba Yele, don't talk like that. All these activities are not too much for him. We are just trying to make life better for him. Besides, he will be taking his common entrance examination into King's College next year. All these academic activities are just preparing him for the exams. You know, securing admission into that college is not an easy feat. Forget that I am one of their teachers. And you see, all these things we are doing for him right now, one day, he himself will come to appreciate it," she stated, her gaze holding a mix of conviction and anticipation, focused on me as I entered the living room.

Gratitude for those activities? It's hard to say. A fleeting flashback to that day left me questioning if she was already aware of her limited time with us. A sigh escaped me, the gentle breeze in the graveyard grounding me in the present moment.

“Ibidunni, everything you wanted for our boys has finally come to pass. See, Molawa has secured a full scholarship for his LL.M. at Cambridge. Here's the letter; I thought you'd like to see it," my father shared, retrieving a white paper from a brown manila envelope. A bittersweet smile played on his lips.

"I just wish you were here to see all these, my Ibidunni Akehinde," my father's voice wavered, carrying the weight of unshed tears. As those words escaped, I caught my aunt mid-smirk, exchanging a subtle glance with my stepmom, who maintained a stoic expression.

"Dad, that's enough. I'm pretty sure she's proud of us," my brother asserted, offering a reassuring pat on our father's shoulder. Following Mum's death, all her aspirations for us seamlessly transitioned into Dad's own. The one thing he refrained from was wielding the cane like Mum, but in his relentless pursuit to ensure we excelled in our studies, he gave it his best shot.

And Year after year, my dad made it a tradition to bring evidence of our achievements to Mum's gravesite on her Death Anniversary—a practice that never quite settled comfortably within me. I recalled the awkward moment when, after being featured in the Forbes 30 Under 30 list, Dad proudly framed the page and brought it to Mum's gravesite on her death anniversary. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't complain. Who was I to voice dissent when the old man beamed from ear to ear, displaying the frame beside the marble headstone?

I doubt she's proud of me, contrary to what others may think. While she was alive, I couldn't label myself as the ideal son, and even in death, my career choice still falls short. She had envisioned me as a medical doctor, following in the footsteps of Dr. Ben Carson. However, I ventured down a different path. If she could rise from the grave, I'm certain she would adamantly drag me down the corridors of the medical college.

I hate to admit it, but her passing seems to grant me an unexpected liberation to live life on my own terms. Does that make me a terrible son? Shouldn't I harbor remorse? Strangely, I don't feel the slightest pang of guilt. No tears welled up on the day she departed, nor did they fall as she descended into the pit. As she departed, her last moments entwined with the fleeting breaths of an unborn child, a scene that should have unleashed a torrent of tears. Strangely, that well of humane emotion stayed dormant, concealed in the depths of my eyes. Instead, a peculiar joy enveloped me, prompting ecstatic leaps and bounds as It marked the cessation of the caning era.

I attempted various methods to elicit tears months after her death. I remember carrying her picture after applying menthol ointment to my eyes, a method Ahmed, our neighbor's child, claimed was used by Nollywood actors to cry in movies. However, it didn't work for me; I simply drifted into sleep after my unsuccessful endeavor to shed tears. 

I only attempted to coax those emotionless tears after witnessing four-year-old Molawa's incessant weeping, his tears fueled by a relentless quest for our late mother's whereabouts.

Does that label me as a demonic child? 

The answer eludes me. What I'm certain of is the gradual erosion of her presence within me, fading like an old photograph with each passing day of life.