After the long WWE smackdown from his mother, she sat him down and talked about why what he did was wrong for hours on end. It was like a ritual she always did. Immediately after each beating he received from her, the ritual incessantly began with haste.
Jesse never understood why she couldn't just discipline him — let him take the pain, endure the beating, and leave — and let that be the end of it.
She never let him go that easily.
No, she had to go over what he did wrong from A to Z, and make him sit through what felt like a lecture that would never come to an end.
She would dissect every detail, methodologically explaining in any and every exhaustable way why he had been punished and what he needed to do to avoid further punishment in the future.
She was so clinical with it, as though she thought his head was a coconut shell, and breaking it down as simply, easily and repeatedly as she could would somehow make it easier for him to understand — or finally get the message into his thick coconut skull.
Jesse hated it.
In fact, he hated how she spent eternity correcting him more than the beating itself.
If her goal was to add a second layer of punishment with it, she had gone leaps and bounds above the threshold for success.
Well, there was nothing Jesse could do but count the minutes until he could escape — or rather, be granted freedom.
But eventually, the moment he had been waiting for came.
Jesse had to touch his face and look at his hair to make sure they hadn't turned wrinkly and grey in the time that passed.
Done with the lecture, his mother looked at him squarely under the jaundiced glow of the kerosene lantern light, and eventually asked, "So... oko mi, how was school?"
Jesse hesitated, fingers tracing the peeling floral pattern on the old and large plastic table that served as their dining table — the same table where he'd done homework since primary three.
He really didn't want to dump the news on her, but he had no choice at all in this circumstance. It was either he told her, or he would have to kiss school goodbye until further notice.
Through the thin partition wall, Mrs Solade's television blared a Nollywood drama soundtrack full of gunshots and screaming.
After a silent moment in the room that stretched on longer than Lagos traffic, he forced himself and said, "...They said if we don't pay the remaining half of my school fees by next week, I won't be allowed through the school gate on Monday."
His mother sighed.
They both had been doing that for a long, long time.
The lines of her mouth deepened as she stared blankly into the distance.
Eventually, she spoke in a forlorn tone, "...It is well... God will make a way."
From the folds of her wrapper, she brought out a crumpled 1,000 Naira note. Jesse's throat tightened a little.
That note represented hours of her standing under the blistering sun, waving off Area Boys demanding "tax," swallowing trader's insults, and arguing incessantly with haggling customers over the bend-down-select-clothes she sold at the market.
"Take," she said. "This is all I managed to make today. Market is very very bad, you know how it is. Go and buy 600 Naira fufu from Mama Taiwo."
Of course, there was garri at home, but she didn't want him drinking that except as an afternoon meal. In the mornings and evenings, she wanted him to get as close to a balanced diet as was financially possible.
Anything else could stunt growth both physically and mentally, and also make one more suceptible to illnesses, as well as cause unwanted symptoms of deficiencies.
But... something else concerned Jesse far more at the moment.
"But mummy, your transport to your shop at the market is 1,000 Naira. How will you get to the market tomorrow?"
"Hmm... God will make a way." she said again, as if it was a suitable answer that would put him at ease. "Now, hurry and go and buy the fufu quick, and make sure to ask Mama Nkechi if we can borrow her gas on the way. Tell her I will pay her the 4,000 Naira I'm owing her by the end of the month."
Jesse sighed, then got up, changed out of his dirty uniform, and did as she said.
Honestly, he felt useless in the whole situation. His mother was breaking her back trying to support them, and it made him feel horrible that he couldn't do anything to help her. He felt like a complete and total liability.
Sometimes, thoughts about dropping out of school to look for a job came to mind. Maybe finding work at a construction site — there were boys his age working there, after all — or apprenticing as a mechanic at Brother Tunde's garage, but his mother would never have any of that.
"Education is important," is what she always said.
She told him it may be a difficult road to traverse, but it undoubtedly paid off in the end. "Patience always pays off, and nothing good comes easy in life. Today's hardship, eventually becomes tomorrow's triumph," is what she said, too.
Jesse left their room and walked down the dark corridor to Mama Taiwo's door. The smell of burning palm oil from neighboring apartments seeped through the concrete walls as night began to descend on Mushin.
The naked bulb dangling from the rusted ceiling hook of the hallway remained unlit, as it had for the past seventeen days.
NEPA hadn't brought light in all that time, but without a doubt, once the month was over, the bast@rd officials would still bring over their inflated electricity bills.
He reached the Taiwo family's door where a peeling sticker proclaimed "Jesus is Lord!" in fading letters and knocked on it.
Mr and Mrs Taiwo were outside, so likely it would be Taiwo he would be dealing with.
...At least, that was what he prayed for.
'Please let it be Taiwo, please let it be Taiwo, please let it be Taiwo...'
The door eventually creaked open to reveal Kehinde instead, backlit by a rechargeable lamp that haloed her in warm white light.
She sighed as soon as her eyes met his. "What do you want?" she asked with irritation evident in her voice.