Goats. Everyone is running like goats.
Papa wants to give me a sip of his whiskey. Mama says no. I’m glad she does. I already tasted it while he was away, and the bitterness on my tongue made me imagine green virus curling over all my organs. Mama swats at Papa’s head and he chuckles. They’re both chuckling.
I go inside and sit by the help. Her tongue seems to have curled in her mouth, leaving no space for words to roll out. I pick the radio up and listen to some news; random words I can’t make out are filling the room. I hear something I like: Major General Aguiyi Ironsi. I like the way it sounds, posh, shiny. I make up my mind to be Major General Aguiyi Ironsi when I play with Cheta tomorrow. Papa snatches the radio and asks me to go to bed. Until my bed feels like clouds and the room starts to spin in drowsiness, I mutter that name over and over.
It’s morning and everything feels rushed. It looks like the people are walking faster, the breeze is blowing harder, and the sun is hotter, way hotter than I’ve ever known. The dozens of men, including Papa, sitting in front of the yard give me a gloomy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Cheta cannot come and play anymore.
The days continue like this. Something scary is going on outside and no one will tell me. When I eat, the soup is thinner than the day before. Ola looks like she’s sorry for me. Mama is constantly praying, her knees white with dust. Sometimes, when she lets me, I draw numbers and letters on her knees, my hands already wet. Papa is frequently vexed. The old TV, which was just for decorating the parlor, is no longer there because Papa kicked it. It smashed.
The radio says many names now, and many big words too. I try to spell them, like front-liners and brigade and coup. Ola smiles when I spell them correctly. The door is being pushed open. I’m trying to swallow the red sand-like thing I see when I close my eyes. Mama pushes me outside. We run towards a pit. Papa pushes us in. There’s a blast, and another. My eyes are shut. Mama is screaming. I open my eyes. I see pink. It’s thick, heavy, pink everywhere. And then darkness.
We are going to the village. Enugu isn’t safe anymore. That’s the only thing Mama says. Papa died. He was pink. He’s far now, very far from us. Mama and Ola are packing things in a hurry. I don’t join them. I feel a sense of weakness that I cannot explain. It’s like I can’t even breathe. I try to count to ten but the numbers are jumbled up in my head. They can’t form a straight order to my lips. There’s a ringing in my head. It gets louder as my environment quiets.
The road is filled with people, heads balancing baskets, children tied to backs, everybody moving. Some children look strange, big bellies like swollen drums, their arms thin like broomsticks. Mama says the sickness is called kwashiorkor. It’s another word I try to spell. I count Red Cross trucks passing, white with red crosses painted on their sides. I want to climb in.
At the checkpoint, everything becomes confusing. Soldiers are shouting, people crying, some fall to their knees begging. Mama holds my hand, her wrapper slipping, and then suddenly the crowd is pulling, shoving, and pushing. I hold tight but my hand slips.
Mama is screaming my name and then someone else’s name and then there are different names going up into the air. I’m screaming for Mama and then the crowd swallows her. Ola grabs me before I can run back. She shakes her head, pulling me away. Her eyes tell me we cannot find her now, but they promise we will. I’m looking at the surging crowds. I think she’s lying. My chest feels hollow, like it is filled with nothing but wind.
We are walking now. My legs ache really bad and the soles of my feet feel peppery. We walk and walk until we get to some refugee center. I think we will be safe now. I think of Mama, and of Papa too, balloons and Red Cross. The camp is wide. There are grasses and woods, plastic plates littered everywhere, and fireplaces scattered around. We can stay here as long as we want, some short, speckled man says.
It’s the afternoon of the seventh day here. I think we are going to die. The sky is raining bombs. Ola is afraid, I can tell. Her eyes constantly twitch and the movement of an overhead bird leaves her gasping in fear. Yet she holds me, my head buried in her breasts, and she tells me it’s just thunder, “Thunder only, atụla ụjọ”. She tells me not to fear. I’m surprised because she’s speaking, but I’m too scared to dwell on it. She rubs my ringworm-infested head and keeps muttering nothing is happening.
We have to run now. I am afraid, so very much afraid. I’m even more afraid of being lost, of wandering this scorching earth with no one holding my hands, offering me water, and rubbing my itching head. This fear is what makes me hold on tight to Ola’s dress, and when she rolls off the hill, I tumble after her, tumbling and tumbling until her limp body holds me back. I close her eyes and begin to loosen her braids.
I think it’s my birthday today. It’s around those times that the harmattan is heavy in the air. My nose is hot, like I shoved mint into it. I hold four stones, for Papa, who is far, far away; Mama too, she’s far away too, across the horizon. I imagine her in a vast, vast ocean. Ola. I’m crying now, huge, shoulder-shaking sobs. She’s gone too. Wide skies, tears, burning yams. Goodbye.