You loved the little girls. They made you happy on many levels. You taught them their first word and watched them grow up into their own persons. You thought them the meaning of ‘character’; you remember this because you never knew what it was till they came one morning and you had to define it for them, how it was the beginning of so many definitions for you. You defined: love, virginity, period, boys, sex, genitals and so many other words. By teaching them how important these words were to life, you taught yourself what life was really about. You took care of these children and there was fulfilment in doing so. Life had a truer meaning for women in motherhood.
Ebikefe would never let you go and you knew it. You knew this; the day you took her to school and she asked if you would be back by three to pick her up. It was how her eyes softened at their sides and how the quiver she produced spoke wordless thoughts to your hearing—it spoke of a need to always have you beside her—teaching her the things that were important, the ones that could be placed underarm. But you did the thing—the one thing—that nanny’s never do: you committed yourself to always be there for her, for her sister too. And you recognised that today would be hard.
Today, you would talk about Itoro, the village boy you meant last Christmas. He had promised to come to make this less tough for you. He wasn’t here now. You both had decided to get married—the marriage was still in talks—before the end of the year. You loved him. He loved you back, you thought.
Mien would be easy to deal with because after she went to secondary school she lost the love for home.
Ebikefe was the reason you were thinking. She was the reason you didn’t want to marry Itoro. She was the reason leaving was difficult. This child didn’t need you anymore she had a mother now. She had someone else who bought her uniforms, school books and Christmas accessories. She had a ‘new’ everything.
As the time approached for you to leave nanny-hood, Itoro’s face was what mattered most—how he would give you children too that would make you feel something like this again. This thing, this fresh desire to want to take care of something growing—like a plant—something harmless and so full of promise. Itoro would give you your own child. This thought became health for you. It became a reason to want to say it. It became a reason to want to forgive yourself for leaving the child you had always mothered.
‘I am leaving next month,’ you said even though, Ebikefe heard you but she continued to play with her doll still silent.
‘Did you hear me? I said I am leaving.’ You spoke louder, a little higher than the norm.
‘Keffy, you hear?’ Then, she turned to face you and smiled. The six-year old dark beauty that learnt what to smile was from you nodded.
‘You heard what I said,’ it was the rush of anticipation that you didn’t expect in your chest. The bang and the pain in your tummy caused you to wheeze and panic. You began to gasp for air, for life, for Ebikefe’s voice.
She turned again but returned as if she didn’t understand what was happening.
‘Ebikefe, please say something. I need to hear your voice. Please!’
‘I heard what you said. You said you were leaving us.’ You liked that she used ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. It made it less painful. It made it seem like it was for the collective good of everyone and not her. You had a new definition for us.
‘Don’t you want to know why I am leaving?’ You asked hoping for an immediate answer.
‘No. Thank you, if it makes you happy then, I am happy.’ As she smiled, you looked into her eyes and saw the emotion—the indescribable emotion—you saw that day she asked you never to leave.
‘I have to get married. I am getting old, you know.’ Then, you laughed at yourself but it was really because you remember how easy it usually was to talk with this child, to have her on your side against everyone but yourself.
‘It’s okay. I understand.’ You looked at her eyes again. The emotion was lost. It wasn’t there anymore. The fire was absent and suddenly you felt a need to rekindle something that could flame your heart. This hunger inside of you started again to show. After a need to hear her speak, you wanted to disengage without feeling disengaged. You wanted to be needed by this child but yet you wanted to marry Itoro. The hunger confused you as you cried silent tears. It confused you again because you needed to gather your heightened senses scattered like broken tableware on a tile.
‘Sometimes, people go. Even mummy went. You can go too. It’s alright.’
You rushed to hug this child. It was the first time in six years she referred to her mother. You didn’t know she thought about her because she never really knew her. You sensed a sadness that was deserved.
But, Itoro was waiting for you. It was another thought. Itoro would not always wait for you neither would Ebikefe. So, you had to go this time. Now. Nannies had to go sometimes, you said this to her.
‘Yes, I know. One day, I too will go. I’ll go away from a person I said I’ll never go away from.’
‘Yes, one day you’ll go from daddy, all your aunties, everyone. We all go.’
‘Who would you marry?’ She asked.
‘My friend from the village, I have known him a long time. And he would come today. You would see him.’
She smiled half-heartedly.
You had a new definition for ‘go’; it meant something other than movement. It meant growth too.
Ebikefe would go too. She would go away from your heart someday, sometime, somehow.
As Nanny-dom went.
TARE ABANG 