Untold

(The short story spirit is my new love.)

"Bia buru nni gi", my mother called. Come and take your food.
I turned to my little sister who was already devouring her meal. I could not blame her. We had not eaten a decent meal since father died . Even when he was alive, we toiled; living off his little shop at the corner of the lonely street and the salary that never came. Mother would stay in the shop all day until father returned from Aba Boys Primary School where he taught. The day he had died had started out as a joyful one. October's salary had finally come. Nobody cared that the government still owed six months. We were only joyful that they had remembered him. The cruel country had managed to make us see his right as a privilege. Excitedly, he had gone to the bank, but my old man never made it back. A truck had crushed him on his way home. He was robbed at this scene too, probably by someone whose case was worse than ours.
I refused to cry at the funeral. I watched mother and sister weep by the coffin and all I could think of was how we had spent all our savings on the burial. Months after, we were still recovering from the debts we owed. Meals were reduced from two a day to one to a small snack that only made our bellies roar for more. I decided to get a job. Sweeping compounds in town for small stipends was not fetching a fortune, but at least we could manage a meal.
One evening, mother came home in a vehicle.  It was not one of those shiny cars that I admired on my way to work. It was a beaten-up truck that barely sat on four wheels. The man did not alight with her but I saw all I needed to see from where I stood. He looked older than my father and well-fed (to put it lightly). His overgrown beard had failed to obscure his black lips. I hated him on sight. My sister on the other hand had decided to tag him 'uncle'. The next day we had two meals instead of one. Groundnut had been added to the garri, and the stewless white rice we usually had for dinner had become near-white jollof, but jollof all the same.
His visits became more regular until she finally let him spend the night. Then came the morning when mother was serving garri and egusi soup that made my stomach weep. Despite my hunger, every thought of the meal set before me reminded me of the noisy night. Mother and uncle’s kerewa had been loud enough to wake the whole compound. My sister had slept through it, and as I stared at the sumptuous meal before me, I wished that I had too. I should not have been so curious. I ignored my wild thoughts and reached for a large piece of fish in the bowl. A taste of it came with carnal images of the night and I spat it out in disgust.