Everything Good Will Come Read Free Page A

and hopped
the rest of the way to my bedroom. God was already
punishing me.
    My suitcase was under my bed. It was a fake leather one,
large enough to accommodate me if I curled up tight, but now
it was full. I dragged it out. I had two weeks to go before
leaving home, and had started packing the contents a month
early: a mosquito net, bed sheets, flip-flops, a flashlight. The
props for my make-believe television adverts: bathing soap,
toothpaste, a bag of sanitary towels. I wondered what I would
do with those.
    As I stood before my mirror, I traced the grooves around
my plaits. Sheri’s afro was so fluffy, it moved as she talked. I
grabbed a comb from my table and began to undo my plaits.
My arms ached by the time I finished and my hair flopped
over my face. From my top drawer, I took a red marker and
painted my lips. At least my cheeks were smooth, unlike hers.
She had a spray of rashes and was so fair-skinned. People her
color got called “Yellow Pawpaw” or “Yellow Banana” in
school.
    In school you were teased for being yellow or fat; for
being Moslem or for being dumb; for stuttering or wearing a
bra and for being Igbo, because it meant that you were
Biafran or knew people who were. I was painting my finger
nails with the marker pen, recalling other teasable offenses,
when my mother walked in. She was wearing her white
church gown.
    â€œYou’re here?” she said.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    In her church gowns I always thought my mother
resembled a column. She stood tall and squared her
shoulders, even as a child, she said. She would not play rough,
or slump around, so why did I? Her question often prompted
me to walk with my back straight until I forgot.
    â€œI thought you would be outside,” she said.
    I patted my hair down. Her own hair was in two neat
cornrows and she narrowed her eyes as if there were sunlight
in my room.
    â€œAh-ah? What is this? You’re wearing lipstick?”
    I placed my pen down, more embarrassed than scared.
    She beckoned. “Let me see.”
    Her voice softened when she saw the red ink. “You
shouldn’t be coloring your mouth at your age. I see you’re also
packing your suitcase again. Maybe you’re ready to leave this
house.”
    My gaze reached the ceiling.
    â€œWhere is your father?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDid he say when he will be back?”
    â€œNo.”
    She surveyed the rest of my room. “Clean this place up.”
    â€œYes, Mummy.”
    â€œAnd come and help me in the kitchen afterward. I want
to speak to you later on tonight. Make sure you wash your
mouth before you come.”
    I pretended to be preoccupied with the contents of my
dressing table until she left. Using a pair of scissors, I scraped
the red ink from my nails. What did she want to speak to me
about? Baba couldn’t have told.
    Â 

    My mother never had a conversation with me; she talked and
knew that I was listening. I always was. The mere sound of
her footsteps made me breathe faster. She hardly raised a
hand to me, unlike most mothers I knew, who beat their
children with tree branches, but she didn’t have to. I’d been
caned before, for daydreaming in class, with the side of a
ruler, on my knuckles, and wondered if it wasn’t an easier
punishment than having my mother look at me as if she’d
caught me playing with my own poop. Her looks were hard to
forget. At least caning welts eventually disappeared.
    Holy people had to be unhappy or strict, or a mixture of
both, I’d decided. My mother and her church friends, their
priest with his expression as if he was sniffing something bad.
There wasn’t a choir mistress I’d seen with a friendly face, and
even in our old Anglican church people had generally looked
miserable as they prayed. I’d come to terms with these people
as I’d come to terms with my own natural sinfulness. How
many mornings had I got up vowing to be holy, only to