Chapter 1
They say, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," but Mara's mother knew well how to spoil whatever she had on hand on her tiny body whenever she could.
"Did I tell you to buy groundnut paste?!"
A slipper landed on her back.
"Go and tell them I sent you for pepper!"
Mama Mara's eyes were wide, brimming with fury. Every time she laid eyes on her daughter, she was reminded of the mistake she had supposedly made: getting pregnant at a young age and ruining her chances at a better future.
Mara would slowly shuffle on her feet, wailing as she went, almost tripping over herself through her blurry vision, down to the place they called Bottom Mango.
That was where she usually went whenever her mother realised she had forgotten to buy something from the market. Sometimes it was pepper, sometimes groundnut paste, and sometimes seasoning cubes. But most of the time, Mara would forget what her mother had sent her to buy halfway there.
But what could the mind of a five-year-old contain when a thumb was permanently lodged in their mouth?
"My m-mother s-sent me for p-pepper."
Mara would sniffle, handing over the crumpled note that served as her change for the mistaken goods. The market woman would sigh and reluctantly take the money from her hand, tutting to the others.
"Dis pikin too small for this."
Mara would feel somewhat consoled by the care and pity of the market women. Then she would wipe her face, collect the ingredients from them, and hurry home.
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She was six when her mother started sending her to the market on her own.
Mama Mara would take a piece of paper, write down all the ingredients, and warn Mara strictly.
"When you get to the highway, beg someone to help you cross the street. If it's a man, say, 'Please, Uncle, cross me.' If it's a woman, say, 'Please, Auntie, cross me.' Do you hear?"
Mama Mara would repeat the instructions in Mara's ear as she handed her the paper and money.
And Mara, having been so dutifully trained, would never risk losing any money lest she desired another beating.
She would trek a kilometre altogether, to and fro, from the market with all the ingredients in a black plastic bag. And she would be happy that she had not received a beating after Mama Mara had checked to make sure everything was in order.
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She was seven when she started learning how to cook rice.
She followed her mother's instructions.
"If you see the rice is still hard in the pot, add water, okay?"
And Mara did as she had been instructed. She added a bowlful of water to the rice after confirming that it had not softened yet. The smoke from the firewood was burning her eyes, but she continued adding more wood because it seemed the rice did not want to finish cooking.
By the time evening came, her best friend had returned home.
Her father.
"PAPA!"
Mara dropped everything and ran into her father's arms, cherishing the faint smell of motor oil and alcohol that clung to his clothes. That scent reminded her that she was safe.
"Where is your mother?" Her father asked with a smile, holding her in his arms.
"She went out, and she told me to cook rice."
"Eheen, my girl is a big girl now ooo, cooking rice!" Her father smiled, his twinkling eyes sparkling with pride. "But it seems the rice is burning ooo!"
He quickly set Mara down and rushed to the overflowing pot.
When he opened it, he found a marshmallow-like mass of rice, overcooked into porridge.
"Well, you did well for your first try." Mara's father smiled, fighting the tiredness that had settled on his face.
Just then, Mama Mara rounded the corner.
"Momoh, why did you come home so early today?"
Mama Mara's face was scrunched up as she stared at the man she had once given a chance at love. If not for his sisters having locked them together in a room, she wouldn't have found herself in this predicament.
"We finished work early today," Mara's father replied in his usual careful tone.
He was not much of a talker, but he was a hard worker, a mechanic responsible for maintaining his company's generators.
Mara stood alert, digging her toes into her slippers.
Mama Mara shuffled past them and into the kitchen.
"Haaaaaaiiiiiieeee! Where is the cane?"
Mara ran into her father's embrace, her only shield against her mother's wrath.
"Momoh! Did you see what your daughter has done? She has cooked the rice into porridge!"
Mama Mara came storming out of the kitchen, her face feral as she prepared to pounce on Mara.
"Don't you touch her," Mara's father warned. "How can you leave a child to do the cooking you're supposed to do? Is she the one I married?"
Mama Mara reluctantly retreated a few steps, defeated, before letting out a grunt.
"Haba, go and buy milk and sugar. You made porridge, so we will eat it like that."
Mama Mara flung the money at Mara. Mara slowly slipped out of her father's embrace and scampered off to buy what her mother had instructed her to get.
When Mara returned, her father accepted his portion of the porridge, added a spoonful of milk and sugar, and silently began eating.
Mara slept peacefully that night, thanking God for her father's early arrival. If he hadn't come home when he did, she would have silently cried herself to sleep.
