I was just ten years old when my mom brought in a housemaid that kîlled my baby brother.
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My name is Daniel. I was ten years old when my mother brought home the housemaid that killed my baby brother.
At first, I thought it was nothing. Just another helper. Someone to sweep the floors, cook jollof rice and eba, wash plates, and keep my mother company while my father was away on his endless trips with the transport company. Papa would leave every Monday morning in his old blue Toyota and return late Saturday night smelling of diesel and exhaustion. So the house in Ibadan — our yellow duplex close to the expressway — often felt too quiet, too big for just me and Mummy.
Mummy was seven months pregnant then. Her belly had grown so large she walked with both hands supporting her lower back, moving slowly like someone carrying a basket of yams. She was always tired. Always sighing. The doctor had warned her to rest, but in our house, rest was a luxury.
The da arrived, I came back from school around 2 p.m., my bag hanging lazily on one shoulder, my socks dusty from the football field. I stepped into the sitting room and saw her sitting beside Mummy on the brown sofa, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap.
She looked young — maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. Dark, smooth skin. A small, heart-shaped face. Very neat cornrow braids that shone with pomade. And that smile.
