Amaka loved the mornings when her mother's voice filled the house. The smell of freshly baked bread and akara wafted through the air as her mother, Nkem, hummed old Igbo songs. Amaka, just 8 years old, would sit on the kitchen counter, kicking her legs and laughing at her mother's jokes. Their mornings were rituals of warmth and love, a bond that felt unbreakable.
But one rainy evening in June, the unthinkable happened. Amaka was playing with her doll in the living room when the knock came at the door. It wasn't her mother's usual cheerful knock; it was hurried, frantic. Her father, Mr. Obinna, opened the door to find a neighbor, breathless and soaked, standing under the downpour.
"There's been an accident," the neighbor said, his voice trembling.
Amaka watched her father's face go pale, his strong demeanor cracking for the first time. The neighbor explained that Nkem's car had collided with a truck on her way home. She didn't survive.
The days that followed were a blur for Amaka. Family members filled their small house, speaking in hushed tones. She heard the words "gone too soon" and "God's will" over and over again, but none of it made sense to her. Her mother, the woman who braided her hair every Sunday and sang her to sleep, was gone.
Amaka tried to find comfort in her father, but he had become a shadow of himself. Mr. Obinna, once a stern but loving man, withdrew into silence. His grief transformed into coldness, and instead of comforting his daughter, he buried himself in work. When he spoke to her, it was only to issue instructions.
"Wake up by 6 a.m. every day. No excuses," he said one morning, his tone devoid of warmth.
"Stop crying. Crying won't bring her back," he snapped another day when he caught her sobbing into her pillow.
Amaka learned quickly that her tears made him angry, so she stopped crying in front of him. She stopped asking for bedtime stories. She stopped expecting hugs.
The once-vibrant home became a prison of rules and routines. Mr. Obinna implemented a strict schedule: breakfast at 7 a.m., homework by 4 p.m., lights out by 9 p.m. There was no room for play or laughter. Amaka often sat by the window, watching other children play outside, wishing she could join them. But her father forbade her from going out, saying the world was dangerous and she needed to be protected.
One day, Amaka found her mother's old scarf in a drawer. It still carried the faint scent of her perfume. She clutched it to her chest, tears streaming down her face, but she quickly hid it under her bed when she heard her father's footsteps. She couldn't let him see her cry.
"Why can't you just listen?" he barked at her one evening when she accidentally spilled water on the dining table. His voice was loud, sharp, and final, leaving no room for explanations. Amaka stared at the floor, biting her lip to keep from crying.
In the months following her mother's death, Amaka felt an ache she couldn't describe. It wasn't just the absence of her mother; it was the loss of warmth, the loss of a home that once felt safe. Her father's rules became her world, and she learned to navigate life carefully, always mindful not to upset him.
At night, she would whisper to her mother, staring at the ceiling. "Mama, I miss you. I wish you were here," she'd say, her voice trembling. But there was no response, only the sound of the ticking clock and the distant hum of the generator.
By the time Amaka turned nine, she had become a quiet, obedient child, careful not to step out of line. She carried the weight of her father's expectations and the silence of her own grief.
Deep down, she held onto a small, fragile hope that one day, her father would smile at her again, the way he used to when her mother was alive. But for now, she lived in a house filled with rules and emptiness, learning to navigate the world without the comforting presence of her mother.