It was almost like you were invincible; like your presence wasn't felt, like you...
"Don't just stand there." Mercy's voice came, calm and gentle as always.
Apparently, you were not invincible. You were just generally ignored. You were only good for serving food, cleaning floors, and wiping the figurines. You did it more often now the Christmas breeze hung heavy with dust. And most times, your shoulder gets cried on, and your body gets forcefully explored, but that's by the way.
"Do you want to tell me something?" Mr. Chika looked up from his plate. His wife held your gaze too.
You stammered but didn't make actual words. You stormed off to the kitchen, embarrassed. You pressed your ear to the door to eavesdrop, and as expected, Mercy commented, "What is wrong with her?" Mr. Chika didn't reply. You never called her Mercy. It was always, yes ma'am, yes madam. But when you are alone pondering about your life, and the characters amid, you refer her as Mercy.
She wasn't the type of madam one would hate. She was kind, and her heart was as soft as a soaked foam; but like a soaked foam, it was always dripping- even without pressure.
Most times she enters the kitchen with a bottle of red wine, visibly tipsy. Especially on Thursdays, her off day from the hospital; when she wore nothing but Mr. Chika's oversized black polo. She would lean on the island, and start spilling personal matters to you: How her husband slept around, or how he doesn't do this, or do that on bed. The whole time you would be by the sink rinsing the plates or arranging the shelves. Last week Thursday she asked, "Have you ever slept with my husband?" your heart momentarily ached, and the plate almost slipped off your hand. You were quick to answer, but you lied. Or so.
Now you wished you told her the truth. The whole truth. But it was obviously too late.
For long minutes you heard nothing but fork hitting the ceramic plate. Your heart sank when you heard your name. It was never said with the same energy as Mercy's.
When Mr. Chika called his wife, there was this familiarity, not particularly love or anything, but this...you couldn't comprehend. But when he says that same name with a different tone to his voice, your heart sinks.
You tiptoed backward, then made sure your slippers slapped the tiles as you paced to answer.
"Have you eaten?" Mr. Chika asked.
"I will sir...when you and madam finish." You answered, biting a nail and moving your legs nervously. Mr. Chika held your gaze a while longer before he nodded and faced his food. You pondered what was going through his mind. Wasn't he seeing the worries conveyed through your eyes?
"What is the problem?" your gaze moved to Mercy. "You are acting strange." you felt Chika's gaze on you but it was momentarily.
"Nothing ma'am." You shook your head. "Nothing..." the lie slipped through your lips again.
Just then, Mr. Chika pushed his chair back and went upstairs. Your eyes followed him as he did so. You turned and Mercy was staring at you.
"Mercy what is the problem?" she asked again.
There was silence, in which you used to make up your mind. "Ma'am," Tears began to cloud your eyes. "Ma'am..."
"What is the problem? Why are you crying?" she scrutinized your face for answers.
You pointed toward the stairs, where the undressed Christmas tree was mounted, where Mr. Chika just ascended, whilst wiping your eyes with the left.
"What? Who?" You didn't see the confusion in her eyes, but you saw it now as you raised your gaze to her and said, "Mr. Chika...he rapes me!" Your voice as low as whispers. Shock widened in her eyes, and her fork slipped and fell on the plate. Her voice seized. You could tell she wanted to speak but couldn't. "When?" she managed to utter.
"Every night... Most nights...and I... I.. And I am pregnant. I don't know what to do..." Your tears rolled freely now. You noticed a shift in her face after you said past pregnant. She tilted to the undressed Christmas tree by the stairs.
"Pregnant? For Emeka?" She was still looking at the tree. Her tone made you uncertain.
"Yes.." You trailed off.
"And he rapes you every night?" she turned her gaze at you after her question. Your heart sank.
You didn't answer immediately, and she didn't wait for an answer. "And you didn't tell me all these while?" she paused again but not barely enough space for the question to be answered before continuing. "You were sleeping with my husband all these while?"
"No ma'am..." You trailed off. "He forces himself on me." uncertainty laced in your voice.
"And you never mentioned it to me or was it evident on your face. Why today? Don't you know tomorrow is our anniversary?" she placed her forehead in her palm and wept. You fell into perplexion, contemplating if to offer your shoulder to be wept on, or not. "You never told me all these while?" her watery eyes focused on you.
"Ma'am you are always talking about yourself. The spotlight is always on you, following you as you drunkenly ramble the kitchen, spilling red wine on the white tiles, and breaking things that I would later be blamed for." All these went through your head but your lips were sealed.
"When did this..." she shook her head. "When did it start?"
Sadness was already embodied in your voice, so you guessed it wasn't evident when you began to speak. It was like reliving it. "One year exactly today," you started but couldn't hold her gaze, because her facade was void of emotions, so you focused on your fingers that you twisted nervously. "That night was quiet, and the cool breeze heralded the heavy rain that fell. It became so cold that I had to peel out my bed sheet for cover. I couldn't sleep, I coul-"
"Mercy!" She hits the table. "That's not what I am asking!" she was breathing heavily like one suppressing anger. "Sorry... I am sorry. Continue."
You kept quiet for a while, then before you could speak, a loud scream came from upstairs. It's was Mr. Chika's voice. Your heart leaped. You were shocked and it was also evident in Mercy's eyes. The loud scream echoed again. Mercy stood up with a force that pushed the chair backward. You didn't follow her until she scaled the stairs, her lunging steps echoing around the house until it stopped. It was quite for a while and it extended unusually before your slapping steps on the tiles broke the silence.
Your heart slammed as you ascended the stairs, not sure what you were going to see, but your uncertainty didn't slow your pace. The door was slightly open. Without touching it, you protruded your head to view the black blended room. Everything was black; tiles, curtains, bedding, and furniture. All black.
"Madam!" You called, noticing neither of them in the room. After a while though, you heard muffled cries from the toilet. You could feel the pain embodied in it. Your legs began to move before you could think to. The room was so alien; you have never been, and your feet sank into the soft rug. You slowly pushed the door to view the unexpected. The sight of blood jumped you out of your skin, but you stood there looking at Mercy prop her husband in her arms. Soaked in the pool of blood was the knife with black hilt, which you used to slice vegetables that afternoon.
"Ma'am," that was all you could utter. You were loss of words.
She didn't respond, but her tears flowed like the wine for the palm tree. "Is he dead?" you asked. "Should we call the police?" you wanted to at least move to comfort her or something, but your feet felt clipped to the tiles.
"Would they bring him back?" her voice was cracked, but she didn't sound as sad as you had expected. "Would they bring him back?"
Was this your fault? Maybe he eavesdropped on your conversation with Mercy and found it too humiliating to face his wife after such knowledge of him. Or had had it in mind before dinner, to kill himself, for reasons known to him, on the eve of their anniversary.
He was probably in his right senses that night he slipped into your room. It was raining. Your fear turned into reality. The way he gazed at your back each time you wiped the figurines, or when you were by the sink doing the dishes. You didn't catch his eyes but you felt it; that pause when he enters the kitchen, before proceeding to the fridge, or his audible breath when you are bent cleaning the floors.
One morning, he was watching a live match, and you had to wipe the figurines. As usual, you carried the basin of soapy water to the TV stand, soaked your towel, picked one of the tiny sculpture and wiped.
When You were done and adverted your gaze to him, you saw the outline on his sweatpants which he didn't try to hide. Your heart pulsed rapidly as you hurried out, the water in the basin swirled and some splashed on the floor. You would still come back to clean it, but now, torrent of thoughts spiraled through your head.
you liked it but equally hated it. No, maybe you were scared. Yes, you were scared. Scared of those big black nothing you saw in his eyes. There was a way it was meant to be. There was that aura one was meant to instantly notice in cases like this; that caring, seductive aura, that aura that made one feel comfortable. You wanted to feel comfortable. Right? Because you liked what you saw. You liked it. But that aura was missing.
It happened a few more times before it developed to 'accidentally' scuffing your boobs with his elbow, or the way he gazed into your shirt when you are bent over dropping his meal.
All these quivered you, and when he entered uninvited to your room that rainy day, your fears confronted you. His lust was decorated on his face, and his first move of grabbing your breast left you utterly appalled. Before a word could slip through your lips, he turned you roughly, raised your nightgown, viewing your bare buttocks. Without warning, you felt his thickness slide-like a beast-inside you. You dug your head in a pillow and your tears diffused on it.
Wordlessly he left the room, leaving you in the same position he violated you.
The next time he came to you, you wanted to talk but he held a finger across his lips and your voice instantly seized. He rough handled you and left you like nothing happened.
He doesn't even spare you a second glace when he is on the couch, a pillow clutched to his chest, seeing a movie or seating at the edge watching a football game, and calls for water or a glass of juice. But one day, you noticed he did when you wore singlet without bra. Throughout that day, you incubated the idea of wearing singlet without bra more often. You wanted him to notice you, maybe show you a little affection. It was safe to say you were hungry for affection.
You were like a tool for the agency. Mercy Scott-your alleged name-you are to work at 87 tatada. That was all you had to see on your contract. Your bags would be packed and the company car would drop you off at the alleged address. That was how you ended up at Mr. Chika's house. Now his wife is holding him in a pool of his blood, crying.
"Ma'am I am sorry." That was all you could say. It wasn't your fault and she thought so too because she said, "It's not your fault," she sniffled, "So what are you planning to do with the baby?" she lets her husband lie carefully in his blood. Your legs quivered as she moved closer to you, hands stained with blood. "Do you want to have the baby?" she asked.
Did you want to have the baby? "Yes ma'am." You nodded.
She took a deep breath that wasn't necessary. "Okay I will see that it is taken care of." her shoulder scuffed yours as she walked past the door to the phone by the nightstand.
"Madam...Who are you calling?" you asked, legs still shivering.
"His brothers, but the police first."
The room fell dead silent. The phone was pressed to Mercy's ear, and her gaze was locked on you. What was going through her mind?
The last time she staggered into the kitchen with an almost empty bottle of wine, she probably ditched the glass, broken, somewhere. As usual, you were blamed for it the next morning, but she said, "Mercy what do you think about God?"
You never replied her because she kept talking, and her range of topics was miles and miles wide. One day she said, "There are white and black cats." She repeated the colors from different perspectives before she finally said, "there are also white and black humans." Without much significance to what she said, the alcohol refracted her topic. Now, however, she was looking at you, visibly unfazed with the blood on her hand.
Two months later, Mr. Emeka was buried and the house crawled with sympathizers, but as the months went by they became scantier and scantier, and by the seventh month when your stomach was as round as a globe, the visitors stopped.
The doorbell went off. You sat in an armchair in the parlor, watching TV. There was a new housemaid. Her name is Chibu. Mercy had said, "Mercy please feel at home." You were just trying to live up to her kindness. The bell went off again.
"Chibu!" Your voice was moderate. "Chibu!" You were about to call her again but you remembered how the shoe she wore, fitted. It was not long ago you unbuckled them for her.
You took a deep breath, gathering your strength to stand. Slowly, with your hands akimbo, you walked to the door and swung it open.
The familiar visage of Amaka was smiling at you. "Mercy," she reached for your forearm, "How are you?" she asked.
You nodded. She stepped inside. "Is my friend in?" You nodded again. She smiled, "Take it easy." Her perfume waft the vicinity. Her general countenance screamed affluence. From her black wage shoe to her black pencil skirt, up-to her red blazer, and well-packed bun was so intimidating. She guided you back to the couch and your gaze followed her as she clacked up the stairs.
The sympathizers had stopped coming, but Amaka never stopped. She was here at least once every two weeks. You wondered what they always discussed since they spent hours and hours together. Your mind crawled in an immoral direction, but you were quick to withdraw.
You felt a light tap on your arm and you jolted. You zoned out again. It happened more often now. You caused inwardly.
"Sorry ma," it's was chibu. "I didn't mean to disturb." Her English wasn't that good, but that was what she meant. "Madam wants to see you." She pointed to the dining where Mercy and Amaka sat across each other.
Chibu extended her hand for support, you grabbed it and moved to the dinning. Amaka was smiling while nursing orange juice in a wine glass. "Sit down Mercy." Mercy gestured to the chair next to her. Chibu reached for it before you could, and drew it out.
"Thank you Chibu." You flashed her a tired smile.
"And leave us." Mercy added and she scurried away.
Two doors closed behind Chibu before Mercy spoke. "Mercy you know Mrs. Amaka?" you tilted to the smiling face in question, her black lipstick made her teeth look flawless. "She wants to adopt your baby when it is born."
Adopt? "Adopt?" you asked unbelievably.
"You would get paid of course," Amaka added when she saw the curves on your face.
How did that make it better? "You want me to sell my baby?"
The duo didn't answer. And for a while, the whirling fan above grabbed the spotlight in the utter silence.
"Think about it," Mercy reached for your arm. "You are just starting your life. How old are you?" Mercy asked.
"Twenty-one." You said offhandedly but in a low tone, as if you weren't sure anymore.
"There is a lot you can archive at twenty-one," Amaka's black lips spoke again, and you couldn't help but notice how confident she sounded. Why were her legs crossed that way? Why was she just trailing her index around the rim of her glass without sipping her juice? "With the money I would give you," she continued, "you can start up a business and take care of yourself. Taking care of a child isn't what you want to start doing at twenty-one." As Amaka spoke she tried as much to hold Your gaze. "You won't have to work here anymore." She gestured her free hand to cover the house. "What do you say?"
No, I don't want to sell my baby! That was what you were meant to say. "But..." your voice seized in your throat.
"But what?" Amaka followed up, and her tone demanded immediate response.
"But...but this is my family." You stammered.
Amaka gazed at Mercy whose eyes were locked on you, probably as appalled as you were. Where did that come from? Was that how you really felt? Was that why you wanted to be comfortable with Mr. Chika?
"I don't know anybody," you continued, "or anyone to go to. What about the company-"
Amaka held up her index, and you instantly seized speaking. "That is taken care of." She said casually, and her finger traveled back to the rim of her glass. And round and round it went. Slowly. "What do you say, Ms. Mercy Scott?"
You got the message and said nothing else. You sat back, your head craned in a thoughtful manner, and your fingers massaged your temple gently. You pondered. From the look on Amaka's face, she purposely let the silence hang. Maybe she read your eyes and saw that you were actually considering the offer.
"What do you say?" she pressed on.
"Who needs the baby?" you asked abruptly like you didn't hear Mercy at first.
Silence. Mercy and Amaka looked at each other.
"I need..." "I need.." They said in unison.
"I need the baby." Mercy said firmly. "I need it because all this," she gestured around to accommodate the house. "Could be taken from me by my wicked in-laws. I need the child." As she spoke tears clouded her eyes.
In that instance, you saw an opportunity, one which was about to be bought from you.
"Okay I will think about it." you said, then squeezed your face as if in discomfort.
"Are you okay?" Mercy enquired.
"Yes, I just need to rest." You lied.
"It's not as if we want an answer now," Amaka stated, "Take your time and decide carefully."
Mercy supported you until you laid on your bed. Before she left, she said over her shoulder, "if you need anything, please..." Leaving her range of favors wide.
You nodded and she left the room. Immediately the door shut behind her, your thought exploded. This was your chance to get into the family, you thought. Or better still, have a better settlement for the child. You robbed your stomach, "About you and you are not even born yet." You hoped the baby could hear you.
There was only one way to put your leg into the family circle. You had to break it to uncle Dan, Mr. Chika's brother when next he comes. Your mind was made up and sealed. You drifted to sleep but it wasn't a comfortable one, as you kept drifting in and out of it. You suddenly woke up again, sweating. For instance, you forgot you were pregnant. Awake now, you thought of your decision and it's negative impact on Mercy. She has tasted comfort, you told yourself. You couldn't get yourself to sleep and remained wide awake through the night. Your heart sank when you heard the horn at the gate. Exactly like Mr. Chika's, but you knew it wasn't him. Speak of the devil. You gazed at the clock above the door, and it was six-thirty a.m. You noticed a slight movement at the door and your eyes swept down. When it fully swung open, Mercy slipped through.
"You are awake," she stopped directly above the threshold. "Okay, please stay inside." she said whilst hastily buttoning her nightshirt.
You knew the reason for all the panic. Uncle Dan, as he was formally called by Mercy, just arrived. He has been driving Mr. Chika's Mercedes for a while now. Mercy was hiding you from him. It was understandable, but it ends today.
After a while, you gently slid down the bed, fitted your swollen legs in crooks, and left the room. With the support of the wall and your right hand on your hip, you strode the hallway. When the spiral stairs came in sight, your heart leaped. You were really doing this. Too late to retreat, you were already at the head of the spiral staircase. You held the banister as you descended. Muffled voice became audible, and it seemed as if Mercy was crying. You didn't stop, but almost lost footing as your gaze came in contact with uncle Dan; hair covered with gray strands, and stomach protruded on red polo.
"Who are you?" his froggy voice asked, "Mercy?" he furrowed his brows, trying to get a clearer picture of you. "Mercy is that you?" he stepped in (as it seems he was about to leave) and closed the door. His expression perplexed as one that had seen a ghost. He craned to Mercy by the dinning and your eyes followed. Her hair was rough, and shirt wrinkled as one that had been in a fight. Perspiration was also shining on uncle Dan's skin. With no space to further your thinking, his voice came and stole your concentration. "Mercy I thought you told me the maid left?!" He craned back to you, "yet here she is...and pregnant!" He paused and stared intently on you. "And you, whose child is that?" he was pointing to you, taking long strides.
Your heart sank and you instinctively withdrew your steps. Uncle Dan was now standing two steps below you. His plumped face, and small eyes brushing from your stomach to your face, and back again. "Is that my brother's child?" he said looking toward the dinning. You had retreated up the stairs and could no longer see Mercy. Uncle Dan hastily followed you, making attempts to grip your forearm. He was quite slow, pulled down by his weight. He grabbed your arm, and you reflexively shook his grip off. He lost balance, slipped, and rolled down the stairs like a bag stuffed with clothes. He hit the ground. Thub! He was crying. "(Spoke in another dialect!)" His weight was on his fat hand, and right leg twisted in a painful way. You could sense the pain echoing around his body.
You were still frozen in the same shocked posture. Your mouth ajar, and hands stretched like you tried to hold him. You were still like that when mercy materialized with a knife in her hand. She kicked him by his side while saying, "You... Think...you... Can... Come here... and tell me what to do?" she gave a final one with added effort. "No!" she screamed in his face then fell to her knees, holding the knife above him like one about to make sacrifice. To your utter appal, she began to stab him incessantly. The minimal effort from her slender hands didn't push the knife deep, but it was lethal. She didn't stop until he began to chock on his own blood. Just then, you heard footsteps shuffling. Chibu! Your heart sank. Was she watching?
Mercy heard it and chased after with the knife in her grip. At your fastest pace, you stepped down the stairs. It took you a while before you reached the foot. Dan was still choking on his blood. You tiptoed around the blood, making sure it didn't stain your slippers. Abruptly, you retched and vomited on the floor.
Chibu locked herself inside the kitchen store, and Mercy was pushing and banging on the door. "Chibu open up, I won't hurt you! I promise!"
Chibu didn't respond.
"Madam drop the knife!" You said when you reached the door, one foot past the threshold, ready to close and lock the door if she lunged at you.
"Okay," she left the knife and it bounced on the tiles. "I have put the knife down." she was still pushing the door with her shoulder.
"Ma'am! Stop! You are scaring me!" You yelled.
She stopped. "Mercy you don't understand," she strode toward you and your heart sank. This was the second time she was comfortably stained with blood.
"Peter (Mr. Chika's second brother) is coming very soon." Mercy said, looking terrified. "Don't panic, I won't tell him what you did." what you did? She placed her bloody hands on your shoulder. "He doesn't have to know..." she tried to convey the remaining message with her eyes.
"Kill him?" you said in whispers "But I can't..."
"Shh," she crossed a bloody finger across your lips. Over her shoulder, you saw the store door open and Chibu protruded her head, listening. "It's all your fault," she continued. "If you had stayed inside none of this would have happened. But it's alright. It's good that it happened. Now we can finish what we started. Just one more and you, Chibu, and I can have all this." She gestured to cover the whole house, and probably other things that weren't within sight.
You didn't think, you nodded.
"Good. Now just go to the front, sit and act like everything is alright. Once he arrives and talks to you," she placed her bloody finger on your lips again. "Say nothing. This is a story about nothing."
With fear controlling your pulsing, you moved outside as directed. How did it get to this? You were just the maid.
****
One can only guess why Mr. Chika killed himself. Suicide is awful, especially when there is no note explaining your decision.
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