Sister’s Act

25 Aug 2011 71 Comments

by creamandcoffee in Coffee, Cream Tags: #shortstory

Hi. Hello. Enjoy

I was 8 years old when my uncle took me and my sister to Fantasy Land for an impromptu afternoon trip. It was a Sunday; I remember this because I was wearing my blue church dress and my shiny black shoes. Uncle Bode told me he loved the flowers on my dress and when I was older he would take me to Paris and show me beautiful parks where I could pick as many flowers as I wanted. I didn’t understand what he meant back then because I was half listening to his sweaty promises and half listening to my sister’s hyperactive babble. When the car stopped in front of the amusement park, my sister flew out of the backseat and I tried to leave but Uncle Bode’s hand was clamped on my thigh. My 8 year old thigh. I looked at him with a half smile on my face almost asking him why he was not releasing me. I thought he was going to give me extra money like he always did but there were no wallets or generous gestures. He leaned closer and I could taste the last cigarette he smoked before he picked us up from our house. I looked outside the car window and watched my sister bite into a candy floss cone- I sighed wistfully and ignored my uncle’s heavy breathing. Before he unlocked the door, Uncle Bode told me that some secrets will be buried with us when we die and there was no way we could stop that from happening.

My sister is dating Abdul again. He is a banker and his suits smell like trapped dust and Air Conditioning. He is a Muslim and he lets me play with his prayer beads when he stops by to visit. He also brings a bag of Taffy’s with him and I am always too busy sorting through my favorite flavors to notice his hands snaking up Wande’s skirt. My mother smiles when she sees him but it never quite reaches her eyes; she stands there with a tray of lukewarm juice, two glasses and an insincere smile. At night, my father tells her to stop smiling and take Wande to church for deliverance, my mother screams at him and curses the day she met him. You got me pregnant, her voice is always bitter with unapologetic anger, she’s your daughter too! I am tired of talking to her. If she wants to date a terrorist, she can go right ahead. Sometimes when the screaming gets too loud, Wande slips into my room and squeezes herself next to me on my narrow bed. Her wet cheeks dampen my pillow and by the next morning, the tear streaks on her face look like jagged tire tracks.

Wande never stops talking about Abdul. She tells me about the flowers and the chocolate boxes and the lingerie. I ask her what lunjayray means and she giggles and tells me to go and bring her makeup bag. Her makeup bag is like my own personal candy store. When she leaves for work, I sneak into her room and try on different lipsticks that don’t taste as nice as they look. I stare in the mirror and will myself to look as beautiful as Wande, but all I see are my too small eyes and my bushy eyebrows. I give my sister her mascara and she smiles a pretty smile at me. Her hair has pink rollers in them and they hang around her shoulders like beaded curtains. I stroke the blonde streaks in her hair and I remember the day she came home after she dyed it- my mother had laughed hysterically, marched out of the living room and did not talk to her for three days. My father threatened to disown her and send her to the village if she did not stop acting like a stupid American girl. Wande returned to her boring brown hair and dyed it again when she met Abdul.

On my 13^th birthday, Wande picked me up from school with a mischievous glint in her eyes. I ignored it until I noticed she drove past the street that led to our house.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked with as much curiosity as I could muster.

“It’s a surprise,’ she said in a high sing song voice that really annoyed me. I shrugged and thought maybe she was taking me to see a movie or do something she was so certain I would enjoy. When the car eased into the growing traffic, I looked outside the window and admired the hawkers and beggars. A young boy pressed his small carton of goods against my window and made a silent plea with his eyes. I gave him N100 and bought a pack of N10 gum. Wande called me a Good Samaritan and started drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Tap tap tap tap tap tap. The traffic eventually cleared and we drove for a few more minutes before the car slowed down outside Fantasy Land. I glanced at my sister and shook my head. No no no no. I can’t remember if I said it in my head or out loud.

“Are you silly? Why are you shaking your head? My friend, get out of the car!” I remembered Uncle Bode’s hands and suddenly the smell of cigarette smoke settled in the car. I started to cough and Wande unbuckled her seat belt and reached over to rub my back.

“Moyo! What’s wrong?” I quieted down and begged her to take me back home.

“I thought you loved Fantasy Land! Don’t you remember when Uncle brought us here?”

“I want to go home!” Wande pushed my head and called me an ungrateful, spoiled brat.

“Abdul is in there waiting for us and all you can do is sit here and cough. Stupid little girl! I planned this nice surprise for you and this is how you repay me? Rubbish!” She sucked her teeth, pulled out her phone and called who I believed was Abdul. I heard her yell a few angry words into it before she started the car and drove away.

When we got home, Wande locked herself in her room and pretended not to hear me even though I knocked on her door every hour. I was reading my bible and getting ready for bed when she walked into my room and demanded an explanation for the way I acted that afternoon. I told her that some secrets were better off inside our heads. She sat on my bed and crossed her heart and promised not to tell mummy or daddy. I closed my eyes and whispered Uncle Bode’s sins between quiet sobs and loud hiccups. Wande sat and listened until I was done, then she stumbled out of my room without a word. I woke up the next morning and found her curled up next to me, but this time the tire track tear streaks were on my face.

I like Abdul and his wide gap tooth; the first time I met him, I asked him if I could push my coin through the gap, he laughed as Wande shrieked and pulled me out of the room. I snuck back to the door way and watched him tickle her mouth with his tongue, his large hand resting on her thighs. I went back to my room and practiced kissing with my teddy bear but all I could see was Abdul’s smiling face so I stopped and stared at the ceiling until my eyes watered. I tell my friends about Abdul and they blush and giggle and ask me if I have a crush on him. I wave their questions away and remind them that I am fourteen years old and he is much older than I am. They exchange knowing glances and taunt me all day until I cry with anger and push them away as we walk back home from school. I know I don’t have a crush on Abdul because of Wale. Wale is a handsome boy in my class with a birthmark on his right cheek that everyone teases him about. They call him eczema boy behind his back and sometimes in front of him, but he never gets angry, instead he tells them he will visit them at night and rub his face on their bodies when they are asleep; they scream and stop making fun of him for a week or two. I like Wale because he smiles when I lend him my eraser and he tells me I have beautiful cheekbones. He says they are high like mountains and they make me look like a true African queen. He kissed me once behind the classroom block during our short break, I was telling him about the color of my new room and he leaned in, cutting me off with a short kiss. I pulled away first and ran back to the class, my face burning with embarrassment. I told Wande about the kiss when I got back home and she said me I was too young to have a boyfriend, I replied that he was not my boyfriend and she made me promise to stay away from him. You are too young to be kissing boys! Do you hear me Moyo? Too young! I nodded and swore not to talk to Wale again.

I help her remove the rollers from her hair and listen to her hum and sing love songs. She sprays her favorite perfume and I breathe in her happiness with envy.

“So, where is he taking you today?”

“Pearl Garden. He knows how much I love Chinese food.” She winks at me and slips into her shoes. I have always been jealous of her tiny feet; I stare at the chipped nail polish on my long toes and kiss my teeth. She turns to look at me and I notice she’s wearing her contacts, the blue ones that make her eyes look bigger.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m jealous of your feet. They are so ladylike.” I think about the times my mother has begged me to act like a lady: Moyo! Sit up straight! Stop burping like a man! Why can’t you be more like your sister?  I stare at the invisible bump on Wande’s stomach and I know that I don’t want to be like my sister at all.

“Moyo,’ she says as she touches her face, “I wish I had your cheekbones. Mine are so flat and they make my face look fat.”

“Fat? Are you crazy?” I scoff and toss the pillow on my lap at her, it misses her by an inch and she sticks her tongue out at me. Wande acts like a little girl around me and sometimes, I forget that she is twenty five years old.

“Maybe I am crazy little sis.” She twirls around in her little black dress. “I’m crazy in love.” I groan and walk over to her. She stands still and lets me finger the multicolored sequins on her dress; I sweep my eyes over her and sigh with approval.

“You look beautiful.” She shrugs her shoulders and presses her lips to my forehead.

“Thank you.” I want to ask her if she went to the doctor’s today but I stop myself and shoo her out of the room instead. She blows me a kiss and reminds me to tell mummy and daddy that she is going for a business dinner.

“You are going to have to tell them soon.” I say when she gets into the car.

“I will tell them after the doctor tells me what’s wrong okay? See you soon.” She drives off and her secrets weigh heavy on my teenage shoulders.

 Later tonight, I will tell my parents that Wande and Abdul have been seeing each other for close to five years. I will watch my mother clap her hands over her mouth with shock and I will watch my father lean back into his chair and shake his left leg repeatedly. I will also tell them that Wande had an abortion when she was twenty-one; my mother will jump out of her seat and scream questions at me until her voice is hoarse. My father will lunge at me and grab the front of my shirt and shake me until answers drop out of my mouth like shiny coins. I will confess that Wande is still trying to have a baby and I will cry with my mother and yell at my father with my new found confidence. Wande will come back home brimming with secrets to tell me and she will find our parents in her room, their hands rummaging through her medicine closet like homeless people in garbage cans. She will call my name over and over again and I will whisper quiet, funeral service apologies. I will cry myself to sleep and wake up the next morning to find Wande pulling hurriedly packed suitcases out of the house. I will beg and plead but she will shake her head and call my name over and over again until she leaves.