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1.

Apart from being the church accountant, your mother is also a counsellor at Grace Life Church, the church founded by Pastor Goodness and his wife, Shola. Her role as counsellor entails welcoming new members and advising them on ways to live a victorious Christian life. She has been doing this for so long a time – ten years – that the words have plastered themselves against the roof of her mouth: “Welcome to Grace Life Church. Coming here today was not by accident. Jesus loves you and ordered your steps to this church, and he would love to have a personal relationship with you. Please fill out the forms that have been given to you by the ushers so we can contact you and check up on your spiritual growth.” Rinse and repeat. These words roll off her tongue every Sunday, laden with graciousness and warmth.

One Easter Sunday, you are in her office – a small, angular room carved out with yellow cardboard that smells like old books – while she is meeting and greeting the visitors. The service has been long and exhausting, so she is doing her best to attend to the newcomers quickly so she can go home to rest. Then a man who looks like he is in his early fifties is the next person to speak to her. He is dark, the colour of soot. He keeps a well combed afro that seems to leap from his scalp. He has an aquiline nose, sharp jaws, and an immaculately white set of teeth that flashes when he speaks. He is smiling sheepishly at her, and his dreamy eyes dart often from her to you, trying to reconcile the resemblance on your faces.

“Welcome to Grace Life Church. Coming here today was…was…was not…” Your mother stutters and pauses mid-sentence, gawking at this man. In all your seventeen years of sitting in her office, she has never forgotten her lines. Sometimes, she says these words while inputting their data in her desktop computer. At other times, she holds their gazes while she speaks. But she has never stuttered or forgotten these words. Who is this swarthy man in a navy-blue suit making her stutter?

“Thank you very much, Mrs Theresa. My name is Sam. I have filled out the form and I look forward to coming back next Sunday,” he replies, his gritty baritone booming and filling the room. He pats his afro, still smiling.

Your mother’s lips stretch into a wide smile like they have suddenly become elastic. She says she is expecting him next Sunday. Her hands dither as she gives him the church flyers, and when she eventually gives them to him and bids him goodbye with a handshake, she holds on to his hand a little too long. Her eyes linger on him as he walks confidently toward the exit, leaving his rich, heady cologne to pervade the room in his wake. And there, in that very moment, your mother’s transformation begins.

2.

Your mother calls first-timers only on weekends, but she now calls Sam every day to enquire about his spiritual growth. For the first two weeks, her voice retains the religious composure of a pastor checking up on her new convert. She asks him if he is reading his bible alongside the daily devotional book she gifted him on his second visit to the church (he is the only first-timer she has ever gifted a daily devotional), if he prays for long hours, if he has made up his mind to become faithful in his tithing. 

After two weeks, the religious composure in her voice cracks and affection seeps in, warming her throat and making her giggle. She would sit at the dining table, her right hand plastering the Samsung to her ears, her left hand fiddling with the auburn curtains draping over the window, a soft light dancing in her eyes as she speaks to Sam. Then the crack becomes a gaping hole and affection gushes in with the ferocity of a broken dam. She stops asking him about his spiritual growth and begins to ask about his life. That is how she knows he is a banker who has just been transferred from Asaba to Calabar. That his wife and only child died ten years ago in a mysterious fire that engulfed his house while he was away at work. This makes your mother’s burgeoning love for him grow even stronger. She is a single parent who lost her husband in a gas explosion, he is a widower who lost his wife and daughter in a fire. She must be intrigued by how their losses share something in common: immolation.

*

She now goes to his house from her office in the evenings, spends four to five hours, and brings home cookies and malt drinks for you. When he calls her and says he is coming to visit on Independence Day, which is two days away, she immediately makes you clean the house, room after room. On Independence Day, she walks about inspecting the house with her nose scrunched up, like an artist who is dissatisfied with the work she has done on her canvas.

“Have you mopped these parlour tiles?” she asks as she slides her bare feet over the tiles.

“Yes Mummy. You asked me to mop it yesterday,” you reply from the sofa where you huddle, watching The Johnsons show on cable television.

“But they are not sparkling and do not feel smooth under my feet. Please come and mop it again. This time ensure that the detergent lathers properly,” she says.

“But the detergent I used lathered well…”

“Must you complain over everything? Just do it. A visitor is coming,” she snaps, her voice bearing mild irritation. Then she sprays the house for the umpteenth time with a lavender air freshener.

Sam shows up in the evening in blue jeans and an orange long sleeve shirt. His beards are fuller than the last time you saw him at the church. His cologne caresses your nostrils and solidifies his presence. You stare at his feet and avoid his gaze. He notices your unease and makes small talk about how pretty you are, to put you at ease. But your mother does not notice your nervousness. She has worries of her own. She is waiting for him to compliment her on how nice the house smells.  She watches him shower praises on you while stroking her wispy hair, something she only does when she is nervous.

“Theresa, your place is nice and smells so good,” he says, switching his attention from you to her, winking and flashing her a smile.

For the first time since his arrival, she rests her back on the sofa and smiles with the relief of a child whose parents have just said his report card is not that bad.

Nibbling on the fluffy pancakes made with great care by your mother, he asks you about your forthcoming WAEC examinations. About what you want to do in the future. You want to be a medical doctor? That’s really cool! You tell him about your dream to become just like Ben Carson. To live in America and become the first black medical doctor to do something in medicine and surgery that nobody has ever done. That’s awesome! Your dreams are so lofty and admirable.

He tells you that his daughter was just as precocious as you are. That, like you, she had grandiose ambitions that scared him and made his heart flutter in excitement. That, like you, she was ready to take on the world and unravel the seams of what was impossible. Until the fire that burned it all to the ground. I am so sorry for your loss, Uncle Sam. You had such a great family. He politely waves away your condolences and assures you that they are in a happy and better place.

Your mother observes your conversation with Sam in silence, pride glowing in her eyes, impressed by your ability to captivate him with intelligent talk and measured humour. You are her trophy, and now that she finally has the opportunity to display you before Sam, she is grateful that you are as glittering as she told him you would be. You excuse yourself and say you want to attend to some schoolwork. But it is really because you want your mother to get along with Sam. Your presence makes her giddy and shy, like a teenage girl who cannot look her crush in the eye.

When Sam leaves, she walks into your room and searches your eyes. “What do you think?”

You furrow a brow. “Think about what?”

She smacks you playfully on the shoulder. “You know what I’m talking about. What do you think about Sam?”

“Oh. I think he’s really nice. I like him.”

“Do you think he likes me?” There is a glint of desire in her eyes.

“Everything he does suggests he likes you,” you say.

Your mother closes her eyes and exhales. Relief floods her face, and she blushes.

*

Once they start seeing each other, your mother becomes quizzical about her body. She would spend hours in front of the foggy dressing mirror in her room, staring at her bare breasts, cupping them in her hands, massaging them. She would scour her face with her fingers in search of rashes and pimples. When she finds a pimple, she would squeeze it with her right thumb and index finger, and wince when it bursts open and splashes whitish pus on her face. Before Sam came into the picture, she visited Mama Nkechi’s saloon once a month to wash her hair. Now, she goes there every two weeks. And now she does not just wash, she also makes Mama Nkechi add something to her hair that gives it a sheen as it cascades down her shoulders.

You enter her room one Saturday morning to serve her tea and find her sitting in front of the mirror, contorting her face and puckering her lips. As you drop the tea on the small wooden table beside her and make to leave, she gestures for you to drag a chair and sit beside her.

“Is my face sagging?” she asks, looking at you in the mirror.

“Mummy, your face is alright,” you say, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes Ma. Your face is fine.”

But she furrows her brows, and you know she is not buying it. She knows you are just trying to make her feel good. Your smile melds with the vapour of the tea and vanishes into the air. It is then you realise that mirrors are unkind, shiny things. They show us all of ourselves with unerring accuracy, even the parts we hope they can hide behind their glitter.

3.                                                                

The next day is Sunday, and you follow your mother to Pastor Goodness’ house in the evening. As you sit at the mahogany dining table having dinner with his wife and two chubby sons, wolfing down a bowl of steamy fried rice, you notice that your mother is eating rather slowly. She is staring at Mrs Shola’s face from across the table. Your mother and Mrs Shola are the same age – forty-nine – but Mrs Shola looks like a woman in her late twenties. She is light skinned, her skin supple and pebble-smooth, her face taut and oval, and her eyes so white you’d think she has not shed a single tear all her life. She still has full hips and buttocks that show no signs of slacking, and she has the gait of a twenty-year-old beauty queen. She notices your mother looking at her in between intermittent spoonfuls of rice, so she starts a conversation about how awesome the morning service was, to which everyone affirms with their own reasons.

Your mother is done submitting the counselling reports to Pastor Goodness and it is time to leave. Mrs Shola walks you to the gate, her flipflops slapping hard against her soles.

“Theresa, is there a problem? I noticed the way you were looking at me at dinner,” she says, trying to speak in a hushed tone so that you would not hear. But her voice is sonorous and syrupy, like a chirping bird, making it impossible for her to whisper.

“Oh! No problem. I was admiring your zigzag cornrows. Your hair stylist really loves you o! It’s so fine!” your mother says, smiling and smoothing down Mrs Shola’s hair.

“Thank you, dear. My Yemisi is a wonderful stylist!” Mrs Shola gushes, tracing her finger through the zigzag of a cornrow.

“Ehen. Ma, what products do you use on your skin?” your mother asks. Pain is creeping into her voice.

“Nothing serious o! I use only coconut oil. I don’t trust the chemicals in creams and lotions,” Mrs Shola says, shaking her head for emphasis. You reach the gate, and she hugs you and your mother and bids you goodbye.

4.                                 

Your mother buys a five-litre gallon of coconut oil on her way home from work. She places the gallon on the centre table and sits back in the sofa to admire this gallon of hope that would hide the things mirrors are too insensitive to care about.

“Sam said I should greet you,” she says, looking up from the gallon and smiling at you.

The coconut oil fails. After five months she marches with the gallon to the backyard, empties the liquid on the bitter leaf plant whose stem has just become stout, and crashes the gallon against the fence. Her breasts heave as she looks down at the gallon in contempt.

Someone at her workplace gives her a glimmer of hope. Tells her about a man who makes the best organic skincare products in Calabar. Tells her that his products have an amazing transformative power. Your mother’s interest piques and her eyes shimmer with belief again.

“His name is The Delicious Man,” she says as she dishes out afang soup from the pot into plastic bowls for the fridge. Her voice bears feverish excitement.

“Ehn? What kind of name is that?” you ask, giggling as you lean against the fridge.

“I think it is just a name he uses to sell his products. But Victoria assured me that he is an underrated genius, that I should not be bothered about his physical appearance. His products have done wonders on her skin.” She passes the filled bowls to you, and you arrange them in rows inside the fridge.

“Such a funny name. Sounds like someone who should be selling fast-food instead of skincare products,” you say.

Your mother laughs heartily. “My dear, I even laughed when I heard the name for the first time. Anyway, I am going to see him on Saturday. I hear his shop is on Atimbo road, which is not far from here. You should come. He should have products for those black spots on your legs.”

*

His ‘office’ is the first shop in a row of over fifteen shops in the market area of Atimbo road. It is a small provision shop that doubles as a drugstore. Rows of sachet powdered milk and detergent hang from rusty nails dinned into the wall. Sugar cubes are arranged inside a transparent plastic jar. The jar is placed atop a large glass showcase that contains packets of drugs. Resting against the showcase on the cement floor are cartons of biscuits and locally made washing soap.

There is nothing visually delicious about him. He is a dark man with a funnel-like nose whose flare twitches like it would suction in you and your mother. His forehead is oily and wide, and the ashen light from the fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling ricochets off it. His eyes are bulbous and his ears fan out against his face. He sits at a desk that is chipped at the edges, picking his teeth with a toothpick.    

“Ello, wetinuna wan buy?” he asks, standing up lazily and stretching his spare frame.

“Hi. Please we are looking for The Delicious Man. We were told this is his office,” your mother says.

Like a bad engine revving up, he adjusts his frame smartly, smiles, and switches seamlessly to English.

“Oh, that’s me! Welcome! Please sit. How may I help you?” He gives up his plastic chair for your mother and apologises to you with his eyes for not having another chair to offer you. You nod in understanding.

After listening to her keenly while hugging himself and batting away mosquitoes, he smiles and says, “You don’t have to worry anymore. You have come to the right place.”

He looks around his shop, rubbing his palms together like a sorcerer looking to gather all his magic ingredients. He squats at his desk, pulls out a drawer, and produces a bottle of whitish lotion on whose body is branded Delicious Organic Skin Paradise. He instructs your mother to generously apply the lotion on her skin every evening after she takes a bath. He also gives you some tablets that look like orange seeds for the spots on your legs.

Your mother leaves his shop exuding more happiness than she has shown in the past five months. She does not apply the lotion by herself for fear of not doing it well. As you massage the lotion into her skin, she looks at the bottle the way a mother who has been barren for a long time would look at her new-born – with full belief in its redemptive qualities.

It does not work. Her skin reacts badly and black patches form under her eyes. Rashes and acne invade her skin in irritating clusters, working their way up from her legs till they crowd her face. When you return from school one evening and cannot find the lotion in her room, you know she has done worse things to it than what she did to that gallon of coconut oil. You try to persuade her to go back to The Delicious Man and demand a refund. She does not respond.

*

You return home from your sewing classes to the sight of your mother huddled in a corner of the living room and sobbing, arms folded across her breasts. You throw your bag on the floor and run to her.

You hold her quivering shoulders until she quietens down, and then she speaks to you in whispers, with a voice weak from too much crying. “Sam has finished me.”

Your heart thuds against your chest. “Uncle Sam? Is he alright? Has something bad happened to him?”

“I went to his house and found him with another woman. How can Sam do this to me?” She begins to sob again.

You squeeze her shoulders gently until she is calm again. “That’s quite strange. Very unlike Uncle Sam. Please stop crying.”

She stands up and paces the living room. “This woman – well, girl because she looks twenty-five – was wearing his shirt and moving so comfortably, like she was in her husband’s house. I asked Sam what she was doing in his house, but he was silent and wouldn’t meet my glare. I continued shouting and the girl asked him to choose between her and ‘this mad woman’. Inem, that girl called your mother mad! That was not even the painful part. It was that Sam looked me in the eye and asked me to leave his house. He chose that girl over me. Is it because I am not twenty-five? Am I not beautiful enough?”

Anger rises from the pit of your stomach and floods your chest. You want to set Sam’s afro on fire for this wicked thing he has done to your mother. You want to strangle him. You want to break his bones. Sam, who makes your mother cradle his marriage promises like a newborn baby. Sam, on whom your mother showers all her affection. Sam, who said he would never leave her.

5.

You cannot quite believe it when Sam rings your doorbell one week later. You open the door to the sight of him clutching a bouquet of crimson rose flowers in one hand and a hamper bearing an assortment of gifts in the other. Claps of thunder rip through the sky as the sun slinks away and gives way to greying clouds. A damp, violent wind begins to blow, dismantling awnings and makeshift stalls across the street. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Your voice is flat and cold, shorn of all the affection and admiration it once held for him.

“Hi Inem. How are you? Please I am here to see your mother,” he says. He knows it is quite bad when you now call him Sam, no longer Uncle Sam.

“What makes you think she wants to see you? Well, she doesn’t want to see you. Please leave.”

He dithers at the doormat, and you are about to slam the door in his face when your mother places a gentle arm around your shoulder. You now realise that she has been standing behind the door all along, listening to your exchanges with Sam.

“Let me take it from here,” she says.

You roll your eyes and step aside, sure that any discussion between them will end with her rejecting his gifts and apology and turning him away. No sooner do you step aside than she accepts the gifts from him and invites him to come in and take a seat. Bile rises from your stomach and threatens to shoot out of your mouth. You shoot her a murderous glare, but she knows to avoid eye contact. You ask yourself why people in love seem to imbibe foolishness like it is a relationship requirement. Why can’t they see their partners for the hot mess that they are? Why do they all seem to have a humiliation kink? Where is your mother’s dignity now that she is supposed to deal with the man who treated her like trash?

Your mother walks into your room long after he is gone, plops herself on your bed, and stays silent. Power is restored and the whirring of the ceiling fan pricks the uncomfortable silence stretching over the room. Your mother heaves and clears her throat, as if the restoration of power is her cue to speak.

“Inem, I know how bad it looks. But he said he is sorry, that it was the work of the devil. He said he will never do it again.”