As we drove past the
Orphanage, I smiled. It wasn’t a
happy smile, neither sad, simply
nostalgic. I could never pass an
Orphanage without
remembering. The bus driver
slowed down for a speed bump
and I got a clearer look. Through
the metal bars of the gate, I could
see children playing. A few boys
were playing ‘three-aside soccer’
with a tattered ball; some girls
had gathered together, by the
look of things they were listening
with rapt attention to a girl of
about eight, as she gesticulated,
no doubt telling them an
incredulous story. The others
were preoccupied with climbing
the mango tree or riding the
shiny red bicycle; most probably
a recent donation. I shuddered
as my heart filled with emotion I
didn’t realise I still carried. That
feeling of depending on
strangers for sustenance was
not one I’d wish on anybody.
Deep down, I still felt the same
fear I’d felt that fateful morning.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I
feigned tiredness. A quick yawn
should dispel anyone’s
suspicions. As the bus moved
along leaving the orphanage
behind it seemed as though the
hurt, pain and fear were also
being left behind. I took a deep
breath as I settled in my seat
more comfortably, with the
resolve to enjoy the bus ride, as
much as anyone can possibly
enjoy a commercial one; and for
the first time in decades, I cast
my mind back to that dreadful
morning.
*******
“David, David, wake up!”
I heard my brother’s half-
frantic whisper. In my half-sleepy
state I was still deciding on
whether to give him a knock on
the head or a slap when the next
words cleared any vestige of
sleep from my eyes.
“There are strange men in
the house!”
I jerked up immediately,
shoving him aside. Part of me
was mortified. I was the “man”
of the house yet it took my
younger brother to let me know
we had not just strangers but
male strangers in the house.
Since I had no Father the onus of
defending our family fell on me.
Whether my Mother was a
divorcee, a widower or an
‘outside wife’ I had no idea. The
kind of environment I was born
in did not leave room for being
inquisitive, most especially about
‘such issues’. I walked to the
sitting room of our room-and-
parlour apartment and there I
saw a sight I would never forget.
My mother still in her wrapper
and faded t-shirt, on her knees,
crying silently as she rubbed her
palms together in a manner not
unlike African women, begging
the two ‘thugs’ in the room.
Transfixed by fear and
embarrassment I watched as one
by one, the thugs threw our
meagre belongings out of our
house.
My Mother’s pleading
didn’t help, even the tear-stained
faces of Ayo and I did nothing to
move the thugs. The Landlord’s
orders were clear. Our rent was
six months overdue and he was
tired of hearing
‘tomorrow….tomorrow’. By
afternoon Ayo and I had stacked
our property in a corner of a
sympathetic neighbour’s
compound.
“I’ll find a way” Mother
said as she got ready to leave in
a quest to find a solution. We
waited for her for hours, feeling
the hostile glares of the gardener
and the house-help as they went
around their errands. Didn’t they
know we weren’t interested in
usurping them? They could keep
their filthy jobs! By evening,
Mother returned looking five
years older. Tears filled my eyes.
She waved to us and went
straight to the main house to see
“Oga”. A few minutes later she
came out with a weary smile, the
best she could muster I was
certain. Holding each our hands
she said confidently:
“You’re going to
Paradise.” She gave us a look that
said ‘no questions allowed’ and
we followed her obediently, like
lambs to the slaughter. Soon
enough we were at ‘Paradise’,
literally. It was a recently opened
orphanage with air-conditioning,
toys and even a bus to take the
children to school. There was
also the option for parents who
couldn’t take care of their
children to leave them and visit
once a week. This, Mother did for
a year. It was only years later,
when I was graduating from
University that she decided to
open up as to what she did
during that year. She had taken
the job I had despised and
offered her services to all as a
“House help”.
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