“Amara...”
It came as a soft whisper. Not commanding. Not thick. Who else called my name in its shortened form? Certainly not Papa, whose face I hadn't seen since I returned home the night before. He had gone for the burial of a distant relative, my siblings had announced last night.
If Papa was not at home, and my siblings had gone to the community school, who then, was in the dilapidated bungalow with me?
Or was Mama outside? Did they lie when they said she was gone and would never return?
I reached for my slippers and rose to my feet. Mama must be outside. She probably must be calling me to come sweep the yard. As I opened the wooden front door and peeped into the open compound, I was greeted by some singing birds up in the tree, pigeons pecking at the soil and bleating goats somewhere afar.
I moved outside. Mama was not there. I didn't find her in her usual wrapper trying to gather firewood. The voice had faded, yet her presence still felt palpable.
My mind replayed. Or was it about the bushy compound that would have been cleared by me or my siblings had Mama been here? I stood there, staring — the only thing I could do. More memories flooded my mind, memories I never wanted to resurrect.
Twelve hours ago, everything felt normal. My thoughts were stable, still as a stream, and the only domineering emotion was the joy of finally visiting home after a full session at the University.
But now...
With my eyes fixed on the growing grasses, I could hear Mama's voice calling out my name. Again.
“Amara, have you cleared the grass?”
Slowly, I turned around. There was no sight of her.
I was wrong. My thoughts were wrong. Maybe it was best I embraced reality, like I did four years ago, when the shocking news came knocking on our door.
I opened the door and stepped inside the house. Before now, this was the perfect time for the smell of ogbono soup to fill the house. Mama loved to cook early. If she were here, by now she would be tying her scarf with her warm hands, getting set for her weekly sales. Or, probably cracking her ribs at Papa's unending jokes.
I remember the way she laughed. So carefree and full of life. Even though now I'd have to accept the hurting reality, I still had something to hold on to — the memories of her pure smile. The voice that always called me “Amara”.
For the first time, my home felt different, every single object in the house reminding me of life before we lost a treasure.
Oh... Papa! I couldn't say if he hadn't gotten over the demise of his dear wife, but I could tell it to the world, I've got the strongest Father.
I was still in the standing position when the front door creaked open. I heard it clearly, but I felt my eyes pinned to my parents’ portrait so I couldn't spare a second.
“Amara my daughter!”
A voice called. It was loud this time. Yes, frail, but laced with mixed emotions.
I turned instinctively, and my eyes caught an old and greying man with wisps of white hair. His eyes shone with happiness, but his weak smile and wrinkled face gave him away.
“Papa!”
As far as I was concerned, I flew towards Papa and hugged him passionately, a pool of tears finally escaping out of my tear gland.
“Papa...” I cried some more, neglecting how much I'd grown and how much he'd aged. He was my father — no, he was both my father and my mother.
I pulled away and studied his face, taking note of his patchy, scruffy beard. Age had not done well to Papa.
“How are you?” We asked almost together.
I confessed quickly. “Papa, I've not been fine. But seeing you now, I am fine. How are you?”
He pulled me into his embrace again, caressing my locks gently. “We will be fine,” he said and paused. Then resumed immediately, “We will be fine.”
I remained in his warm embrace for as long as I could, allowing the tick-tock sound of the analog wall clock to fill my ears. If not for anything, for the memories that lingered in my heart that morning. Although Mama was no longer with us, I still saw her, smelled her, and heard her voice through Papa, as he called my name for the third time,
“Amara...”
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