His mother was my mother’s best friend.
They did everything in common from gossiping and backbiting
to calculating when their period cramps would fall through.
The calendar dates were always marred with biro stains which I
couldn’t fathom what it was until much later in life. Momma was
always speaking in whispers around her.
Momma told her everything.
She was more beautiful than Momma. I know this because she was
always the yardstick for comparison. Momma looked up to her
for validation and endorsement. Sometimes, she got clothes for
Momma and those clothes looked like Momma was thrown into
them, yet paint a picture to Momma. She wore them with glee and
They did many other things together, but my mouth is heavy
because I have seen her insert one of her index fingers into
Momma’s vagina.
“You are sweet, sweet woman” she gasped.
Momma was vibrating like the Nokia 3310. Possessed suddenly
with serious demonic spirits, I think. She jerked at her touch. And
made sounds like a dying cat. I cannot understand my Momma. I
pretended to be sleeping because if I wake up I may die.
I know that woman will beat a living hell out of my small body. I’m
a wise boy, my teacher says I am the wisest in the class, just like
King Solomon. I feign sleep and watch as plenty white something
like pap comes out from Momma’s vagina.
“Why is Momma screaming like a possessed animal?”

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I cannot explain it but I know what Vagina is. Our teacher said that 15
is what a girl has between her leg called. And Momma’s vagina is
bringing out some foamy white substance. She seems to be crying
and happy at the same time.
Whenever she came around, Papa was always prancing about like
a goat. He wore a flowing gown that fateful day and seems to be
hiding the injury between his legs. Bent with pain; showing her
something that I cannot see from my position.
Momma was asleep. And she is discussing with Papa and helping
him with the pain located in his waist region. I see that Papa is
relaxing more and making less sound. I cannot explain why she
helps Papa and Momma do personal things.
Papa was always agitated when he saw her with Momma, always
screaming. He never openly identified with her but they were
always together at that ungodly hour.
Papa never screams like Momma. He grunts like a pig. She knows
how to bring Papa to his knees, what Momma never did.
That fateful Saturday morning, Papa was well dressed and said
nothing to me as he sauntered into his car and off into the stillness
of the morning. Momma had a stroke and fell facedown, after
hearing the news of papa’s engagement to another woman.


I cannot understand it, she is crying profusely and touching
Momma’s lifeless body, I am looking on like a Zombie. Then I say
to Momma, “If your friend is a vulture, you must never die.” She
is staring at me like a lab rat. I know she hates me for saying things
above my age. I keep looking at her confusingly. It appears like
she wants to put her fragile hands on my small neck and snap the
carotid artery till it disconnects.
Her eyes are red. Very red like bloodstains.
“Momma, wake up” I cried.
I am touching her and she is becoming cold like Ice. Papa is moving
away. He is not feeling the pain. I think Papa killed Momma.
Now ‘she’ is the new Momma!
We have a new Momma.

Onyeka Micheal Chiemelie
Onyeka Micheal Chiemelie is an innovative, creative writer who hails from the eastern part of Nigeria. Onyeka is a graduate of History and International Studies from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He has written many scholarly articles on the internet crossing varied disciplines of human endeavor. Onyeka have got the utmost desire to earnestly develop self in every aspect of life using his literary prowess and adequately ensuring extensive use of God’s given skills to bettering the world. The remote goal is to be the lone voice in the wilderness, a positive change in the midst of the chaos around.
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