I
Every time it rained, the road to the farm became something I hated even more than usual. The grasses on both sides grew tall and wet and covered the road, making it hard for people to pass through.
Sometimes, they soaked your clothes immediately they touched you. The holes in the ground collected muddy water, and the mud always found its way onto your slippers, your ankles, and sometimes your dress if you were not careful enough.
This was the road I took every Saturday and some other days in the week, especially during the holidays.
Sometimes, I wished I could continue going to school throughout the week, even on Saturdays, just to escape these farm experiences. Sundays were an exception because nobody went to the farm on Sunday. We did not do that, even if church service did not hold. And of course, nothing would happen to church service.
My parents were the kind that never missed Sunday services or even any church activity. Not under the watch of my grandfather.
At seven, I never thought I would be squeezing myself in between wet grasses every Saturday to go to the farm. I had never even imagined mud clinging to my old slippers—the slippers I had worn for three years. Neither was I expecting myself to weed numerous ridges of cassava within a short period.
The first Saturday we visited the farm during the long vacation that year, I went with only Mama. Even though she liked spending time on the farm, I thought we would be brief because Mama had told me about the slight headache that had started the night before.
It startled me that Mama was not talking about leaving even after we had spent one hour on the farm. I kept stealing glances at this woman who had bent herself over patches of weeds for hours, gnashing her teeth and stretching repeatedly.
At some point, I couldn't count how many times I had bent down around the ridges I was weeding, placed my right cheek on my right lap, twisted weeds around my fingers, and waited for Mama to take a pitiful look at her daughter.
When Mama did not look my way, I walked up to her with a frown on my face, my nose becoming unnaturally pointed and a few drops of tears trailing from my eyes. I dragged my feet vigorously as I approached her.
“Mama, Mama,” I called in a teary voice, dragging each word.
She looked sideways, still with her head bent. Then she hurriedly pushed herself up and looked into my face. “Chika, what is it?” She looked intently at me. “Why are you crying? I thought you ate before coming. What exactly is making you cry?” Her face tightened as she pointed a finger at me.
“I'm hungry, Mama. I want to go home.”
I ignored her fearful stare while dabbing the tears on my cheeks with my left forearm.
“Get out of my face and get to work. How many ridges have you even weeded today? Oh, you want to follow the footsteps of your Papa. That lazy mouse!” She swallowed hard, placed her cutlass on the ground.
“Chisom is your close friend and your age mate for that matter, yet she doesn't behave this way whenever she goes to the farm with her parents. Have you even spent up to two hours on this farm? Yet you want to go. Please, respect yourself on this farm ooo.”
She bent down and continued weeding the weak grasses before her. My eyes continued to produce more tears uncontrollably. I gave Mama a sharp glance while fear gripped me.
Why did Mama shout at me? And she didn't even tell me to go after all the shouting? I thought about it for a while before returning to my ridge. I continued weeding the grasses, slowly this time around.
II
It was already past 12 p.m., when we got home that day. Thick clouds gathered in the sky, and the wind blew recklessly, as though it wanted to sweep away everything it touched.
I ran into my room, shivering and searching for the grey sweater I had hung on a nail on the wall. It took me some time to find it, yet I couldn't see it until I remembered my box. I moved closer to it and opened it.
There was my sweater, peacefully resting on top of my other clothes. I pulled it out and whispered under my breath, “I don't give out this sweater, so what happened to it?”
I stood in my room thinking about how to escape cooking that night. “Mama doesn't even smile at me at all,” I whispered with a painful smile on my face while shaking my head from side to side.
“Chikaaaaa!” I heard Mama screaming my name again. I was very sure our neighbours heard this one. Why would she call me out for dinner instead of allowing me to rest from the farm work?
“Mama,” I responded after delaying for some minutes, trying to decide whether I should keep silent or answer her. It was tough for me to decide because I was really tired.
I cried out of my room, bending my head from side to side as I moved towards Mama. “Come and pound this pepper. Let's cook this soup before Papa comes back,” Mama told me immediately she saw me from the back door.
I shulked to where our small, rounded mortar and short pestle were. I bent down beside the mortar and started pounding. But every raising of the pestle was full of questions. Why am I being treated this way? Can't I rest even once? Haaa!
Tears rolled down my cheeks as my head fell against my knees. Some tears dried there, while others continued falling until they reached my lap. The occasional sneezes I released made me think this was extremely serious. And it was really that serious.
As I was about to raise the pestle for the seventh time, Papa's bike screamed into the backyard as usual. “Chika, Papa gi anatagokwa. Your father is back. Is the pepper ready? You know he would want to eat now.” Mama peered into the mortar.
“I am almost done,” I responded in a low voice.
She took two steps away from the mortar, picked up the pieces of wood we had used as stakes for our yams in the farm, and put them into the blazing fire.
“Anybody at home?” Papa roared, knocking his shoulder against the wall as he staggered towards the backyard. “Chi... Chika, where is my foooood?” He thundered as he reached the door leading to the backyard.
He shifted the curtain, and immediately his right leg slipped. His buttocks hit the ground as he struggled to hold the door.
He pulled his right leg, trying to make it stand firmly on the ground. Maybe it would be easier for him to carry himself up. But his right leg twisted.
His hands sharply slipped off the door, and the back of Papa touched the ground this time. “Nobody is coming to he... help meeee? Chikaaa!” He snorted and screamed again.
“Sooooo, you... you didn't see meeee? Come and help me get out of here, osiso.” He pressed his lips together so tightly they almost disappeared.
“I... I don't blame your mother. She just gave birth to her replica, even after I told her I needed a boy. If not, why would you be here?”He said this while gnashing his teeth even more.
“Nnaaaa, why are you falling as though you have not been eating in this house?” Mama held his hand and pulled him with so much energy. He held her by the waist as he tried to stand up.
Mama dragged him to the sitting room, dropped him on our sofa, and hurriedly returned to her cooking.
The pepper went into the food, giving it that slight red color. When Mama opened the pot again, the steam carried the scent of pepper into the atmosphere, choking everyone who stayed around it.
The food was soon ready, but by that time, sleep had clogged my eyes so badly that I couldn't even sit and eat. My soft bed called me and I responded without hesitation.
III
Sunday school was always an opportunity for me.
An opportunity to meet my teachers and ask unending questions. Rigid, deep questions that made people wonder where I got them from.
That Sunday, I sneaked in through the back door at about 9:00 a.m.
Anty NK glanced at me, and her eyes widened. She moved speedily towards me before I could take a seat. She rushed to my left hand, held me tightly, and pulled me outside.
“Chika, what happened? Why were you so late today?” She peered into my squeezed face. “I noticed you have not been punctual to church lately. What really happened?”
Tears made their way down my eyes. The back of my palm became my handkerchief. I dabbed and dabbed, but still more tears poured out.
Saying a word became difficult, so Anty Oge wiped my face repeatedly with her handkerchief. Still, I didn't know how to start. I just bent my head and listened.
“Listen, Chika. I really want to hear from you, but I think I will give you some time.” She moved her head sideways. “I don't want to keep you here. I want you to join the ongoing class. We will have to talk later. I would really love to hear from you.”
She took my right hand and offered to take me to my class. I sat at the back as I should, bent my head on the desk in front of me, and cried uncontrollably until the pink flowered blouse I wore became soaked.
God, they told me that you love children and that you care for me. If you really do, why am I being treated this way at home?
I whispered as I sneezed intermittently.
I don't get enough rest, and Mama would never tell me well done. I don't even want to talk about Papa.
I sighed deeply.
They only tell me that I'm not behaving like my friends or neighbours.
My mind became flooded with so many thoughts that my mouth could not completely release.
I had almost forgotten that I was in church until Anty NK told everyone in the class to tell their neighbours that Jesus loves them.
“Touch and shake your neighbour. Let them hear it very well.” That was when I became conscious of where I was. Anty NK continued. “Look at your neighbour and tell him or her, ‘God created you for a purpose.’”
I didn't turn. I was left in a dilemma of thoughts. Purpose? What could that be? Trains of thought flooded my mind. I hesitated for a while before raising my hand to ask a question.
Anty NK didn't see me at first, and I felt delayed. Would she allow me to ask this question? Or would she shut me up? I pulled my hand halfway down.
“Yes, Chika. You were raising your hand. Do you have anything to say?” Anty NK's voice vibrated as she looked at me. Immediately I heard my name, my heart jumped into my stomach.
I quickly stood up, bent my head, and placed my fingers on the desk in front of me. “Anty, I just want to know what you mean by purpose and what it is all about.” I asked softly, turning my eyes away from the other children.
“Okay, I will explain.” Anty NK smiled. “Do you have a mortar and pestle at home?” She tried to demonstrate with her hands.
“Yes.” I nodded.
“What do you use the mortar and pestle for?”
“Emmmm... hmmmm...” That was all I could say.
The question reminded me of the way Mama used to call me out to pound pepper for dinner. “I use it to pound pepper for Mama.”
“Okay. Everything on earth serves a purpose.” Anty NK waved at me to sit down. “Just like you use that mortar and pestle to pound, there is something God wants to do with you.”
She pointed at everyone in the class. “When God was forming you in your mother's womb, He had something in mind concerning you.” “I told us about Jeremiah last week, right? You saw that God had already destined him to be a prophet to the nations.”
The whole class nodded in agreement.
“So for you, Chika, and everybody in this class, God created you for a purpose. Yes, there is something God wants to do with your life.” She continued explaining.
God created me for a purpose? What could that be? Going to the farm every day? I imagined. It could be, I concluded.
Throughout that day, “God created you for a purpose,” continued to ring in my mind.
“God, is there anything else you created me for besides going to the farm and attending to our unending house chores?” I kept questioning Him. But no clear answers came.
IV
Monday mornings were not my favourite.
They meant leaving my bed early, wearing my school uniform, looking for the socks that always disappeared whenever I needed them most, and listening to Mama remind me at least three times that I was already late.
That Monday, I was ready before she called. I don't know why. Maybe I was still thinking about what Anty NK had said the previous day. I carried my schoolbag and followed the other children to school.
By the time I got there, the school compound was already noisy. Children were running around, some were copying assignments from their friends, while others stood in small groups talking and laughing.
I went into our classroom, dropped my bag beside my desk, and hurried outside when the assembly bell rang.
Everyone gathered at the assembly ground according to their classes. The younger pupils stood in front while the older ones stayed behind.
I stood beside Chisom. The morning breeze touched my face as we sang the school anthem. After that came the prayers, the national anthem, and the usual announcements.
Then the headmaster stepped forward. He looked at us for a while before speaking. “You must learn to take yourselves seriously. Your parents are making sacrifices to send you to school. You are here to learn, and you must make good use of the opportunity.”
I looked at the children around me. Some were listening. Some were whispering. One boy at the back was struggling to keep his eyes open. I tried not to laugh.
The headmaster continued talking about good behaviour, obedience, neatness, and hard work.
After the assembly, we returned to our classrooms for the first lesson. English. Mrs. Ebere asked questions from the passage she had written on the board. I answered some correctly. When she asked another question, my hand went up.
Chisom looked at me and whispered, “You and your questions.” I ignored her. I liked asking questions. I wanted to know why things were the way they were. But sometimes, I wondered if there was something wrong with me.
Some children were good at running. Some could sing beautifully. Some drew things that looked almost real. Some were always praised for being neat and well-behaved. I wasn't sure what anyone praised me for. I was simply Chika.
And sometimes, I didn't even know what that meant. During break, Chisom and I sat under the mango tree. She opened her lunch box and looked at mine. “Beans again?” I looked at her.
“What's wrong with beans?” She laughed.
“Nothing.” We ate quietly for a while.
Then she asked, “What do you want to become when you grow up?”
I stopped eating. “I don't know.”
She looked at me strangely. “You don't know?”
I shook my head. “No.”
She started telling me what she wanted to become. She changed her mind twice before she finished speaking.
I laughed at her. But when I stopped laughing, the question remained with me. What did I want to become? I didn't know.
I knew what my parents expected from me sometimes. I knew what my teachers wanted me to do. I knew what Chisom was good at.
But what about me? What was I good at? I looked at my hands. They were the hands that weeded cassava. The hands that pounded pepper. The hands that washed plates. The hands that wrote in my schoolbooks. Were they meant for something else? The thought frightened me a little.
Later that day, during our writing lesson, Mrs. Ebere asked us to write a short composition about ourselves. I stared at the blank page.
Write about yourself. It sounded simple. But I didn't know where to begin.
My name is Chika, I wrote. I am seven years old. I stopped. Then what? I am a farmer's daughter?
I wrote it. I am a student? I wrote that too. I stared at the page again. What else? I looked around the classroom. Chisom was writing quickly. The girl in front of me was already on her second page.
I lowered my head. I knew my name. I knew my age.
I knew where I lived. I knew my parents. But did I know myself? That question stayed with me until the end of the school day. On my way home, I kicked a small stone ahead of me and watched it roll along the dusty road.
“God created me for a purpose.” I remembered Anty NK's words. But who exactly did You create me to be? I didn't know. And at seven, I didn't know that not knowing could make a person feel so small.
That evening, I looked at myself in the small mirror hanging on our wall. I looked at my face. My eyes. My nose. My hair. My old school uniform. I whispered my name. “Chika.” I waited for something inside me to answer. Nothing did.
I knew who everybody said I was. But I was beginning to wonder who I really was. And if God had truly made me for something, I wanted to know what it was. But right then I had no answer. Only questions.