Májẹ̀kódùnmí
Don't let it hurt…me
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Dear Bolu,
At the foot of the stairs that led to the laboratory sat your mother. I was a few steps ahead of her, in a manner of speaking and with a little neck exercise, I could see past her neat bun and make something out of the content of her phone screen. Arriving this early for a practical class was a rarity for me. I’d acquired the strange talent of getting to lecture venues just in time at the cost of the huge risk that I may be a minute too late someday. That risk never materialised, thankfully, and it meant that on most days, I didn’t have to make small talk or exchange forced pleasantries before lectures began. However, that breezy afternoon was different. The class had been moved back by half an hour, and this I only realized when I got to the venue. I sat by myself in that lonely stairway until Antou joined my fellowship of silence. But for her bun which she always wrapped so high, as if to create an illusion of height, she had an unremarkable appearance. I took to calling her bun girl for that very reason, although later I would change bun to bon, which is French for good.
Stretching slightly over her shoulders, I asked what book she was reading. Why? I’m not sure. I normally wouldn’t say anything but she seemed fully engrossed in the book with each screen swipe—which one might admittedly interpret as a subtle hint to back off—and I was curious enough to know what fountain of knowledge she was drinking from. “It’s an old English play about love, fate, and honour”, she said without taking her eyes off her phone. Before I seized my chance to respond, she raised her head and turned to face me. "I understand that when people ask about a book, they usually want to know the title but book titles can be deceiving…and I've seen my fair share of great books with terrible titles…so I tend to answer instead with details about the book and if they're interested enough, they'd ask for the title and be more likely to check it out", she said in one breath. Was she right? I didn't think so much about it then. But I concluded that what she lacked in height, she compensated for in lung capacity.
"Okaay", I responded, dragging each syllable long enough to decide on what to say next. "I'm Alloy", I continued. "I know and I can probably guess why", she replied. It's not a difficult guess, to be fair. I have a jagged birthmark the width of a meter rule that stretches the entire underside of both my arms. Also, you don't need to look too closely to see my neck and face speckled with more marks. "Although, I wonder, why is that the story you choose your name to tell?", she said in a manner that had me guessing whether she meant for me to answer the question or she just wanted an audience to watch her unearth a precious discovery. "It's what I've always been called, and the irony isn't lost on me that I'm a Materials Engineer in the making, at least", I said. She seemed to frown almost as soon as I started speaking, half disappointed in my response and in what I could only surmise was the general state of humanity. "PrettyBella, MarkTheGenius, LoladePeng, Alloy and these other names we give ourselves…they're all the same, no?", she began animatedly. This time, however, I was sure she wasn't waiting for a reply. She went on, "They tell a story we want to tell the world, whether true or not…so when this author asks what's in a name as if to say nothing's in it, I can't help but spit bile…and no, I haven't given myself a name yet but my parents called me Antou, and that has sufficed so far". Sure enough, she said all of that in one single breath.
So it goes that your mother birthed my first fascination with names just as she birthed you, my little lady. She now rests on the next floor and has refused to see anyone. The doctor said it's a case of postpartum depression, and that she'd be out of it with time. I hope he's right. I went by her room a few hours ago and she turned her face away from me the moment I stepped in. She does that when she doesn't want to talk, and I don't blame her. This is our third try, and the result is the same. "Why does my body reject them?", she asked repeatedly in a violent storm, the moment she pushed you out and you showed no signs of life. I stood behind a transparent window and watched it play out with both hands on my head the whole time. The nurses tried to calm her down, but she raged with too much energy for someone recently delivered, stomping her feet on the bed and slapping her belly with her palms in an uncoordinated manner. "Why? Why! Why you?", she kept asking. I'd never seen her like that. I'd never seen Antou cede control of her mind in that manner. She had to be sedated, for her and the nurses' sakes and I could only watch.
The doctor managed to get you breathing, just as he did twice before. "Multiple organ failure", he said, echoing the same diagnosis from our previous attempts. You lay here now in this thin glass box, with tubes all over you such that I can barely make out your features. I haven't even touched you yet, my little angel. The doctor says if you make it through the night, you'd probably be fine. "We've done all we can, and the fight is now up to her". What does that even mean? As if you could will your blood cells to fight, flee, charge, retreat, battle or surrender if you so desired. But on the off chance that you can, please choose to fight. Please. If you heard some loud voices earlier, that was probably the pastor. "This one will live!", he proclaimed, just as he did for the other lives we lost. Should you live, he'd certainly add the experience to the portfolio of miracles he's performed. Should you not, then it's the all too familiar case of God knowing best. This is not to say that I mind a miracle, of course. I don't mind anything that'd save you and your mother.
I've said nothing to you of my pain because I don't want to heap it on yours. You deserve none of this. I write to you only because I think, and I think because I would crumble if I didn't. You deserve none of this, I'm sorry. At the start of her third trimester, we happened into a conversation about your name. I was fine with Little Antou, without the "Little", of course. She wanted to name you after a colour. Yes, exactly—how could she? We resolved to leave the decision till you were born. We would both think of a name the first moment we saw you, and that'd be it. Now, I wonder what colour she saw when she laid eyes on you. It couldn't have been a good one. Little Antou didn't cross my mind either as I stood and watched from the other side of the delivery room. Seeing your mother in that state—no, that wasn't her. That wasn't my Antou. My heart sank deep enough to displace tears from my eyes. "Is this how I lose it all?", I thought in panic. Before me was an orchestra of pain. The conductor, whoever they were, was putting on a stellar performance and I could only wish the pain away.
The memories are still fresh and all this thinking has parched my throat. I should go get some water and I'd check on your mother while at it. I see now that, unlike the others, you've got a stretch of birthmark under your left arm. Maybe it's on your right too—I can't tell through all that tubing. Maybe you'd be fine, Májẹ̀kódùnmí. And maybe Antou would once again turn her face towards mine, as she did on the stairway to the materials laboratory.
Fin.
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- Wolemercy