WHAT SHE SAW
The Udala Tree
Photo credit: Pinterest
A long time ago, when Amaka was still teething, Aunty Chika, our neighbour, had asked Mma Uche—my Mma—out of nosy curiosity, a question.
It was about the worst thing that came with having a dysfunctional home. A home that supposedly showed the world how poorly certain mothers were in the managerial affairs of their families.
Mma didn’t answer immediately. She only shifted in her chair and turned her eyes away, looking far into the distance.
“Do you see that Udala tree?” she asked Aunty Chika, after taking a full minute to reminisce.
Aunty Chika eyed her. She thought my mother had totally lost it, as she had recently received heavy punches on her face earlier that day.
She didn't say it out loud, of course. So Aunty Chika squirmed on the crooked stool, signaling discomfort, and let out a dry chuckle.
“Are you mocking my poor eyesight, Mma Uche?”
“Oh, no. No! Tufia! I could never do such a thing. I didn’t even know you had eye problems, eziokwu!” my mother sarcastically protested, bringing her gaze back to Aunty Chika’s slim face.
“So why did you refer to what is not there? Or is there really an Udala tree that my eyes can’t see?” Aunty Chika craned her neck forward, looking sideways, struggling to lift her body, and barely managed to take a step forward.
Poor Aunty Chika!
No wonder people often mistook her for being older than my mother whenever she and Mma walked side by side, despite her not being married or bearing any child at all.
Aunty Chika stretched to hold the railing of the third floor for support.
The third floor was where we lived, in the house of Mr. Okoro Okafor. It had quite a nice view, and it was where Mma sat whenever she itched to feel gay and free from the boxing lessons with her husband, who was my dad.
The sun had gone into hiding, and the domestic animals were calling their babies to shelter. The children in the neighborhood were out playing, shouting, and running. Their smiles spread across their faces like the moon appearing in the sky.
If you lived on our street, you’d have thought that only happiness happened to those who occupied the houses with ‘face-me-I-slap-you’ rooms lining the dusty road.
Aunty Chika re-tied her loose wrapper. She squinted as her eyes darted from house to house. Then, she spotted a child.
“Chinonso!”
“Chinonso!”
Aunty Chika looked down at our other neighbour’s only child, whose nose was never dry.
“Yes…” Nonso grumbled, a frown on her face.
“Why didn't you answer me before? Anuofia!” Aunty Chika bent down her head more.
“Tell me. Is there an Udala tree around?”
“Ha!” Nonso laughed. She dropped on the cemented floor.
“Aunty beggi beggi, if there was any, you know how quickly it would die when you are around,” Nonso replied with her tongue in cheek, placing emphasis on her last word.
“Who are you talking to like that, you silly girl?!” Aunty Chika cursed under her breath.
Little Nonso bounced off to meet her friend who was waiting outside the gate. Nonso wiggled her bottom in the direction of Aunty Chika, and Aunty Chika wished she could quickly climb back down and slap the hell out of the little girl.
“Ntoo gii!” Nonso shook her bottom again before her friends called her to play.
“Foolish girl. Who does she think she is talking to? Nonsense! No manners! Very dirty. See her nose.” Aunty Chika lowered her body back onto the stool beside Mma and stammered.
“You—you mock me, Mma Uche. See how that nwa mba nchi, that small girl, insulted me,” Aunty Chika complained loudly, her big, hairy nostrils flaring.
She playfully pushed Mma, and Mma feigned an exaggerated fall off her chair, laughing at Aunty Chika’s childish reaction.
“Oh, I got you!” Mma burst into louder laughter. Aunty Chika hissed. She rolled her eyes, rested her chin on her tender arm, and licked her lips.
Ugh! Now that they had mentioned it, Aunty Chika began to crave Udala, African star apple. The one she never bought but always had.
Everybody knew what crazy things Udala made Aunty Chika do. She mustn’t smell it on you, unless you were ready to buy her one. If you already had one in your mouth, she’d snatch it away and run to lock her doors behind her.
The children suffered. As they innocently walked past her on their way to meet their friends, she’d beg them. She would say,
“Remain for me naw. Give me one seed. Give me two seeds.”
“CHIKA! Make you no chop winch one day! I were isapa mmuo. Longer throat! How much will it cost you to buy one Udala from Mma Ebere’s shade for yourself, ehn?” Mma would caution.
Like Mma Uche, everyone else asked her why she did that. Why she allowed the little children in the neighbourhood to disrespect her. They called her “Aunty beggi beggi.”
“Ah, you people should not mind me o. I like eating people’s things. I know I’m not a pregnant woman, but most times, I just want to share with you. It runs in our family blood,” she often said with a coy smile, then walked shamefully to her room.
That didn't mean she wouldn't beg tomorrow or the next day, because thieving people’s Udala was sweeter than buying one with her own money. She didn’t have to spend hours regretting her selection of sour ones.
“Oh, you thought there was an actual Udala tree?” Mma asked. Hahahahaha! There went the most genuine outburst on Mum’s bruised face that rarely surfaced in those days.
“Are you going to laugh your soul out or will you tell me what you meant by the Udala tree that we both know isn't there?”
Mma quit laughing. The joyous tears that gathered in her eyes soon turned to those of sorrow, pain, and realization. Her pulse had quickened fast, and her veins were all out in the open. They were green and popped on her light skin.
“It means the worst is yet to come…”
“Chai!”
“In fact, I have started bracing myself for the day that my Udala tree would mature. When it does, the sour taste will sting my tongue and I'll get a stomach ulcer. I cannot escape it. That’s for sure,” she finally answered, deadpan.
Aunty Chika repeatedly shook her head. “Well, I hope the burden will be easy for you to carry.”
“Uhm,” Mma responded, leaving them with no more words to say.
Aunty Chika, for the first time, got the clue.
“Ngbanu, bye-bye. Since you are chasing me away.”
Mma smiled. There was no trace of anger on her bruised face. After all, she was grateful for the company of a large mouth.
Mma watched as Aunty Chika dragged her slender body downstairs, and after some moments, there was a sharp cry from a child. It was Nonso’s.
“Next time, you will know that I am not your mate!” Aunty Chika’s harsh voice echoed in the passageway that led to our floor's stairs.
“I will tell my mummy for you. I will tell my mummy for you,” Nonso cried and sniffed, cried and sniffed.
My mother smirked. Chika always retaliated, no matter what.
My mother pondered on how she’d endure the event that’d happen that night between her and my father.
My mother sighed heavily, her chest heaved. The life she had hoped for was long gone. She now saw the ugly pictures of her life decisions.
“Chukwu Mazi. Only God knows.”
She quickened her step, shoved the seats from the front of the door, and gathered her remains inside, waiting and preparing to welcome her husband.