(Rachel's point of view)
Things that are good don't last.
That was the first thing I learnt from life.
I learnt it long before I knew what pain actually was. A long time before I knew what it meant to lose. It took me a long time to understand that loving someone can mean getting ready to see them go through pain.
I looked up at the damaged ceiling of our small room and counted the lines that looked like scars. When I was younger, I gave them names. One looked like a bird. One looked like a heart that had been broken. When I told Mama that, she would laugh.
She would say, "Rachel, you and your imagination," and she would smile even when she was exhausted.
I couldn't find anything hilarious today, though.
My chest hurt. My throat hurt. My eyes hurt, but I wouldn't cry. Crying didn't make everything better. Crying didn't get me any money. Crying didn't make things better. My mum didn't get any less exhausted when I cried.
So I just lay there and listened to the noises of life in the morning.
Horns on cars. People yelling. The generator next door is making noise and trembling. A baby is sobbing somewhere down the street. There was never a peaceful morning in Abuja. No one ever stopped living here because of pain.
I carefully moved my head and gazed at Mama.
She was already up.
She was sitting on the side of the little bed, fastening her old trainers. Her shoulders were drooping and her back was bowed. She looked like she had lost weight since last week. Or maybe it was only my worry that made things worse in my mind.
Mama had dark complexion and was gorgeous in a manner that pain couldn't take away. Her cheekbones were really pointed. Even when she was fatigued, her eyes remained deep and loving. She was thin, but not feeble. Life had tried to break her many times, yet she was still going strong.
Almost.
"Mom," I said softly.
She turned around and smiled at me right away.
That grin.
That smile she always gave me that wasn't real.
"Good morning, my star," she replied sweetly.
Star.
She always called me that.
I swallowed hard. "You didn't sleep."
She shrugged a little. "Sleep is for people who have time."
I slowly got up. "You worked late again."
"Um." She didn't say no. She never did.
My mum had four jobs.
Four.
Morning cleaner. In the afternoon, I assist out at a restaurant. Do laundry at night. I work as a night shift assistant at a small clinic twice a week.
It's all my fault.
Because my dad was deceased.
My dad was a dumb, evil man, but he always took care of his family when it came to money. He paid his rent. He got some food. He paid for education. He made sure we had something.
But he never let us be at ease.
He never let my mother be free.
He never treated her with respect.
He never let her work because he was afraid she would try to take control of him. He thought that a lady who worked would be proud. He thought that a pretty woman was not to be trusted.
He thought my mum would cheat on him.
What type of man these days thinks that way?
He did.
He had power over her. Made fun of her. Saw every motion she made. Made her question her own value.
And now he was no longer alive.
There were occasions when I felt bad about how I felt.
But I understood the truth deep down.
I was glad he was dead.
Not because I loathed him fully.
But my mother could finally breathe.
Even if that breath meant going through pain.
Again, I said, "Mama." "You are losing weight."
She chuckled softly. "You want me to be as big as Mama Grace?"
I attempted to grin, but my eyes didn't smile back. "At least Mama Grace is sleeping."
She took a break for a second. Just a second.
After that, she got up.
"Rachel, I'll be fine."
That was the lie she liked best.
"I'm sorry, Mama," I said quietly all of a sudden.
She looked back at me, bewildered. "Sorry for what?"
"For letting me down."
Her face transformed right away.
"Don't say that, Rachel."
"But it's true," I responded, my voice cracking. "You have to work four jobs because of me. Because of my school. Because of my dreams. "I'm just a burden."
She instantly walked back to me and put her hands on my face.
Her hands were rough from years of scrubbing and cleaning. But she was gentle with her touch.
"Look at me," she said.
I stared her in the eyes.
"Rachel Goodchild," she said slowly and clearly. "You are not a problem. You make me get out of bed. You are the reason I fight. "You are the reason I am still alive."
I cried.
"I don't want you to die because of me," I said softly.
She gave me a hug.
She replied softly, "I won't die." "Not until I see you become everything you want to be."
I held her close.
I didn't know how harmful those remarks were at the time.
---
That same day, I walked to school with my old rucksack on my shoulder.
I was 19 years old.
A girl with brown skin and tremendous goals, but a tired heart.
My father was from the United States.
My mum was both Nigerian and American.
People constantly told me I looked mixed. Light brown skin, lovely curls, and a keen nose. A few folks said I was pretty. A few people said I was lucky.
They didn't know that luck had nothing to do with it.
We didn't have any luck in our house.
It did.
I walked past big houses. Vehicles. Gates for security. People that seemed like life had been good to them.
I sometimes thought about what it would be like to live without fear.
Fear of paying rent.
Fear of food.
Fear of hospital bills.
Fear of losing the only person who really cared about you.
I attempted to pay attention in class. But Mama was always on my mind.
Did she have something to eat?
Did she take a break?
Did she fall down somewhere and I didn't know?
My heart raced every time my phone vibrated.
What if it was bad news?
What if today was the day?
"Rachel!"
I looked over and saw my friend Tina.
"Hey," I murmured in a shaky voice.
"You look tired again," she said.
"I'm always tired."
She let out a sigh. "Is your mum still working all those jobs?"
I nodded.
"She's tough," Tina added.
"Yes," I said in a low voice. "But even tough people break."
---
I came home late that night.
Mama wasn't home yet.
I made the small bit of rice we had. I kept half for her. I waited on the bed.
Hours went by.
Finally, the door opened about midnight.
Mama came in gently.
Her steps were heavy.
She appeared pallid in the face.
"Mama!" I got up. "You're late."
She smiled weakly. "Long day."
"You didn't eat, did you?"
"I will," she said.
She sat down and put her head in her hands.
My heart sank.
"Are you okay, Mama?"
She said hastily, "I'm fine."
Another falsehood.
"You're shaking."
She attempted to laugh it off. "I'm just tired."
I got down on one knee in front of her.
"Please take a break."
"I still have to—"
"No," I answered firmly. "You rest today."
She stared at me.
She didn't say anything for a long time.
She merely nodded.
I couldn't sleep that night because I was listening to her breath.
Slow.
Heavy.
Not even.
Fear was like a stone in my chest.
I spoke softly into the dark.
"Things that are good don't last."
I didn't know how true those remarks would be.
Not yet.