A is for Amala

Ekiti 1960

“Sabina!”

“Yes Ma.”

“Wa.”

Sabina ran across the room, down the stars, into the hallway, across the parlour and into the kitchen to find her mother sitting under the shade of the veranda by the back porch. This was not normal. 

Normal was Sabina at boarding school in Lagos. Normal was her mother at her home in Igbemo. Normal was Sabina coming home from Lagos to her elder sister’s house. 

This was not normal.

“Ma?”

“Ko le ki mi?”

Sabina tried her best to keep a straight face. She could not press her lips, nor could she huff. Her eyes, which were already small and slanted, became slightly smaller as she squinted.

“Why are you making a face? Did I lie? Did you greet me?”

Sabina shook her head, which was already aching from the journey down.

The journey hadn’t been pleasant. The scorching sun, the broken car air conditioner, the car breaking down, having to squeeze into a bus. None of it was pleasant. 

Home felt less pleasant with her mother around. Of course, she loved her mother, she was her mother after all. Sabina was used to her sister Akin being at home. She was not used to her mother being at home.

Given the age gap, most people assumed Akin was her mother. Her real mother was focused on other pursuits by the time Sabina was born. Pursuits like being a lady of leisure, feasting and hosting other mothers in the town, not rearing another child. She couldn’t deny it, that life suited her mother. She was tall and slender like a gazette, her hair perpetually braided into intricate styles, the woman imbued elegance. Sister Akin on the other hand, was a short woman. Her body was soft curves and her face harsh lines, her hair stayed on top of her head in a puff that reminded Sabina of a cloud. Their mother had made her disapproval of the ‘unkempt hair’ clear several times but Akin did as she pleased in her house.

Sabina was jealous of Akin. 

Freedom seemed so alluring. At school, her family name stripped her of the luxury of anonymity, so she couldn’t indulge in the pseudo-freedom that came with boarding school. Instead she held herself apart for the world to dissect and critique. 

“Sabina?”

“Yes Ma.”

“So gbo mi?”

“Yes Ma. E Ma binu, I’m sorry.”

Not greeting a Yoruba woman was the greatest show of disrespect. Sabina didn’t mean to ignore her mother. Honestly she didn’t think she was actually there. With the dehydration and ringing headache, she had assumed her mother was another hallucination. 

Her mother’s face screwed into a little ball of disapproval. Sabina watched her eyes flicker back and forth as she decided whether or not to ask her daughter about school, like any other mother would do.

“You can go.”

Sabina slowly nodded. Not just to keep her headache from worsening; also because she was scared that any sudden movements may place her mother back into a bad mood.

“Sabina?”

“Yes Ma.”

“Your father is in a meeting with the Oba, don’t make noise.”

Her father, the governor, chose to take meetings at Akin’s house. He did this for several reasons. Nostalgia was the main reason. Akin’s house was technically his first house, from when he initially married their mother in the 1930’s. Sometimes Sabina was surprised by its beauty and splendour, not much survived from the 1930’s. Another reason was Sabina and Akin. All her other siblings were scattered across Yorubaland, from Ibadan to Ife, Ilesha to Abeokuta. Akin and Sabina were the closest, and Akin being his favourite daughter helped as well. 

There was an air of mystery around her father’s meetings. They almost felt spurious to her, like he had to be playing pretend behind the ebony wood doors. The doors were magnificent. Tall and boastful, there were elaborate carvings in the wood of the main door and the architrave was painted cream to match the wallpaper inside. The French shutters and English chairs, it was a room of wonders, a showcase of her father’s travels far and wide. More than anything, her father’s office was an untouchable room. The peeks and glimpses she’d stolen as he walked in and out with his guests was all she had. Sister Akin told her that as a child, Sabina was the only one allowed to enter. Those memories had faded over the years to make way for newer memories like biology and English literature.

She’d paint a picture of the place in her mind's eye, imagining her father sat there by the mahogany desk, working away. The top of the desk was coated in glass, that was something she remembered for sure. Not because it was a particularly memorable sight; because she could still feel the cool of the glass under her fingers  whenever she walked by. 

“Sabina.”

Sabina turned her head back to the door of the office. Eavesdropping was second nature to her and curiosity was first. Inching closer to the door, she lent her head against the door frame, her ear balanced on the gap between the door and its hinge for maximum scooping. Her twists were pressed in the process but she’d deal with the aftermath later. 

“She is at school now, she is going to university for nursing first.”

“Why? She is a woman, she should just marry”

“Because she wants to. She is my princess and gets what she pleases.”

“Well my son is the prince and gets what he pleases.”

There were shuffles in the room. Uncomfortable shifting? Awkward moving in their seats?

“My wife has Igbemo rice and dried stock fish on the way for her. Make sure your staff cook it for her before she returns to Lagos.” 

Rice? Fish? Marriage?

Sabina stumbled.

She knew the rug was there. It was there when she ran across the room, down the stars, into the hallway, across the parlour and into the kitchen to find her mother sitting under the shade of the veranda by the back porch. It was now the same rug pressed on her cheek.

“Hello?”

If she hadn’t landed with such a thud, she would have scurried off but by the time her father opened the door she hadn’t moved much at all.

“Sabina mi.”

“Baba mi.” She was in too much pain to hear how moribund her grunt was.

“Ki lo’n sele?”

She moaned again. Her father gently picked her up, and took her to her room. “Sleep if off, ok?”

The ceiling of her room was mango yellow. The sun, low in the sky, reflected off it. The sweet aroma of plantain and fried fish filled the room. But her head was still tender and her  mouth tasted like blood. “Sabina.”

“Akin?”

“Mommy Obafemi dropped fish and Igbemo rice for you. Go thank her”

Sabina hummed. Her sister smelled woody, like a garden after rain. Her smell was cathartic, like she could finally exhale after her mother had pressed her hand on her lips earlier. Akin sat propped on the edge of the bed, which was pressed into the corner of the room. The bed was pressed under the window so Sabina could ‘wake up more naturally’, really she kept it there so she could stay up late, looking at the stars and the moon during summer. Sabina wasn’t allowed to play with the other children over summer, for fear of compromising the family status. So when she realised she could play pretend and imagine being up a tree, watching the world like everyone else, she relished the opportunity. 

Akin looked out of place on the bed. Akin would walk in and out and stand in the room. Akin commanded space and presence; on the edge of this bed she looked like a fish on dry land. Her sister's caringness wasn’t feigned like her mother. Sabina had noticed how hard her mother would try to act fond and doting when guests were present. 

Akin didn’t try.

Akin was Akin like she always was.

She loved the way she could. 

“Yes, Ma.”

“So fe simi die si?”

“No, I’ll rest later. Let me greet Mama Obafemi before Mummy gets upset.”

“Mummy is always upset.”

“I know.”

Akin leaned down to brush a curl behind Sabina’s ear. It was subconscious . The brightly coloured patterns of her bed sheets were zig-zagged like her curls. Another thing their mother did not approve of. “Why use local fabric when we have fabric imported from Great Britain?” . The bed sheets were Sabina’s rebellion.

“I’ll go.”

“Stay safe, ok?” 

“Mama Obafemi?”

“Iyawo mi.”

Sabina curtsied, eyes on a black cross on the animal skin rug. She couldn’t lose balance in front of the Olori. Her body should have been more angelic; she was well aware of the fact she resembled a grasshopper, awkward and angular, elbows poking out like a pineapple before bloom.

“Se wa dada?” She nodded, eyes planted safely on the ground. 

“Se fe ri ile wa?” Sabina sharply inhaled. The animal skin run burned a hole in her shoes.  The stiff ankara fabric rubbed at her flesh. “Yes Olori.” Of course she had to accept, the question was not an offer, Olori was going to show her the palace. 

Olori’s life must have been full of laughter and joy the way it etched lines into the sides of her full face. Even her eyes, which were gently drooping like ripe fruit, were jubilant. Her body was like a river, windy and curvy. Hips full from childbirth, teardrop breasts pushed up to her chin by the fabric she wore. The structured materials cinched in and flared out, highlighting each dip on her body. Even her skin was queenly and dignified. The roast brown glowed like a halo. She glided like an angel, sauntering around the place. Her hands were graceful as she reached out to squeeze Sabina’s shoulders. Sabina flinched.

The palace rooms were dimly lit and exuded pride. The walls and floors were adorned with traditional pieces, from drums to gourds and rugs to fans.

“And this is the dining hall. Are you hungry? We are having Amala for dinner.”

“No thank you Olori, I ate the Igbemo rice and stock fish.”

“Ah ok.”
“You are very beautiful my dear.”

Sabina smiled. As the last born, her father showered her with compliments from her father, seldom from anyone else. 

“Mama mi.”

He was tall and dark like a shadow. His glasses reminded her of water, the way they reflected the little light in the room. “Femi this is Sabina. Your betrothed.”

Betrothed? Akin had not mentioned this. Perhaps her father would have brought this up if she hadn’t all but knocked herself out, eavesdropping on his conversation with the Oba. Betrothal? Sabina was unsure about committing to one course at university, let alone committing to a man she did not know.

“Greet your betrothed.”

“Hello, what is your name?”
“Sabina.” She curtsied, eyes on the floor so help her balance.

His smile heated up the room. His eyes were round like ogbono nuts and drew her in. “Hello Sabina, my name is Femi,”

“Nice to meet you Prince Femi.”

“My name is not prince.”

Sabina smiled.

“Ah ah, are you not omoba?”

“Mummy my betrothed can call me whatever she wants.”

“If I speak... Let me go to the parlour.”

The woman glided out of the room. 

Sabina shifted her weight from one foot to the other, she fiddled with her fingers as she watched the woman leave. Femi was still, his stance reminded her of a garden fork stuck in the ground. “Sabina.”

“Femi.”

“You’re studying?”

“Yes, I will start nursing school soon.”

“Nursing school?”

“Dental nursing.”

He smiled, it was wide and white like a cloud. Most people’s teeth were stained yellow from palm oil, everything was drowned in it. Efo, jollof, yam, everything. That was the one good thing about Lagos. The food wasn’t all saturated in palm oil. Sabina could have Igbo dishes or Ghanaian dishes from her roommates.

“A kobo for your thoughts?” She blinked. 

“What about you?” she coughed, clearing her throat. “What do you do?”

“I did chemistry but now I’m going to business school?”

“Chemistry?”

“My mother thinks I’m just avoiding marriage but I actually like business.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you avoiding marriage?”

“I have no hypothetical wife to avoid.”

“Let’s say you have a hypothetical wife.”

“I wouldn’t avoid her if she was as magnificent and radiant as you.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Yes, of course. Hypothetically.”

He shuffled closer to her, not so fast to startle her but fast enough for her to know his intentions. It wasn’t an accidental, unintentional movement. It felt like he was calling her name without saying a word. It felt like a playful game of cat and mouse.

“Well, a little birdie told me something.”

Sabina licked her lips, if he wanted to play, she would play. She would dangle and then disappear- it wasn’t like she had to see him again. She would return home and tell her father she was uninterested. As wrapped around her finger as he was, he would respect her and she would go back to boarding school in Lagos and tell her friends the story for cheap entertainment.

She could.

She would miss looking at his handsome face though. And his body. His arms were large, even under his shirt they were visible and she imagined how soothing his hugs would be.

“What did this birdie tell you Sabina?”

Her name sounded exquisite when he said it. Each time better than the last,

“The birdie told me that we are betrothed.”

He hummed and ran his palm over his head, contemplating his response. “Well how do you feel about that?”

“Hypothetically, I’d feel ok if I had to spend forever with you.”

“Hypothetically forever with you by my side doesn’t sound terrible. It sounds wonderful, actually.”

“It’s a pity I would hypothetically have to say no because I’m going to study instead.”

“Are you trying to hypothetically break my heart?”

Sabina smiled. It was sly and playful.

Shrugging her shoulders, she stepped back and began walking around the room. The closer he shuffled, the hotter she felt. Her breaths were shallow and quick, she was trying to get in as much air as she could with him so near. Plus, the heat radiating from his body was enough to make her swelter. 

“The amala looks lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you.”

THE END