Chapter One.
The Past.
Clarisse.

The beeping of the hospital machine coupled with the tick-tock of the clock had become a menace I had to endure yet another time. At first, it had been my father. He died alongside his aides in an accident caused by a dumper truck which colluded with his car causing his car to tumble. That was it for everyone but it was more than that to me. My father was rushed to the hospital but it was all in vain; he passed away eventually. Till now, I blame myself.  It was I who insisted he show up at the school's Christmas carol. Now my brother Clarence had met the same fate.

He lay on the bed an oxygen pipe passed through his nose and about a thousand needles poking his fragile looking body. It was obvious he was not going to make it but my mother had insisted on intensive care. Through the glass partition, my mother, Cleotilda (his twin) and I could not see his face properly. Guilt consumed me like the rot on a tomato. I still remember the day he was rushed to the hospital; the way he had slipped and then tumbled down the stairs because of the glass of water I had dropped in anger. Perhaps if I had dried the floor or I had ordered one of the maids to do so, the story would have been different.
I snapped out of my reverie abruptly by the shrill sound of the machine. I turned my head sharply in the direction of mother whose eyes had widened. Cleotilda on the other hand had turned pale.

The next second was characterised by the rushing of footsteps; doctors and nurses in urgent deliberation; the repeated hammering of my brother's chest in a belated effort to will his heart to start but I knew, I just knew.

A doctor in a blue hospital gown came out of the ICU. His eyes had a well-rehearsed look of sympathy. He stepped towards my mum who had fallen onto her knees at his feet. Her eyes were red and swollen; she had kept repeating, "please tell me it's good news."  It was not like she was unaware that good news would be a miracle now but she had chosen to be optimistic.

"Madam, we have told you this over and over again; once there is brain damage that's the end. Keeping him here would not make any difference."

"At this juncture, the hospital has every right to declare him dead," the doctor said, looking at his watch at the same time Cleotilda looked at the digital wall clock.

10:13: The same time father had been declared dead. The only difference being a.m and not p.m.

A strangled sob escaped my sister's throat. I shot her a look of sympathy; I could not cry, there was not a drop of tear left in me. In return, I was rewarded with a glare that would have frozen hell over.

I looked at my index finger which was vibrating of its own will. A throbbing sensation disturbed my chest. Whether caused by the pain of Clarence's death or the guilt I felt as being solely responsible for his demise; I did not know.

Mother had followed the paramedics who wheeled my brother's corpse to the mortuary. I was left with my sister who was bitter with grief and stared into nothing as if searching for my brother's wandering soul.

Left with nothing to do, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through TikTok not particularly interested in anything on my 'for you page' or 'following'. Cleotilda's eyes must have landed on my phone because she scoffed. "You're so heartless," she spat. Her tone had been cold and filled with resentment towards me. She might have been right. Who thinks of tiktok when they had just lost their beloved to unwelcome grasp of death? I guess then I had sought a distraction from the pain the gripped my heart.

I had looked away placing the phone in my purse. I had begun tapping on my thigh impatient for my mother's return. I had wanted desperately to go home so I could lay on my bed and stare at the dream catcher on my ceiling wondering if it was a harbinger of bad dreams. It was what I had being doing since my father had died and those thoughts had kept me lose sleep.

After about four hours, my mother had returned announcing in a monotone voice that Clarence's corpse had been taken care of for now. "Let's go home," she said with a sigh.

The golden chandelier, antique chairs, and the fresh smell of lemons that had welcomed my family into the lobby that dismal day had only made me hiss in irritation. Hours ago, I had longed for home but as I walked in, an eerie feeling crept over me. This place served as a reminder of everything that had happened in the past few days.

One of the maids had come to receive mother's bag but was sent away with a glare. Mrs. Adelagun, my mother had stomped out of the room with Cleotilda while I threw myself across the couch. I had closed my eyes and focused my thoughts on tears, urging myself to cry but not a drop fell from my eyes. I felt guilty. Father had died yet I had not shed a tear even at his funeral. I had only stared at his grave and had wished it was a nightmare I was yet to wake up from.

"Clarisse," A voice had called. I had opened my eyes to see the maid who shared my middle name - Idowu. "You no go inside?" She had asked in pidgin English.

"I'm inside," I had whispered, my voice hoarse.

"Is better you go room go baff, before mummy go dey shout."

"Leave me alone," I had muttered, stretching my legs on the couch, "I'll go upstairs when I want to."

"Ah! Jesu ki ni mo se?" Mother's sudden outcry in our native tongue had shook the house. "Tani mo se?"

It had been easy to tell my mother's location; she stood just outside the lobby. I had taken a deep breath contemplating sneaking past her so I could lock myself in my room or wait until she left. Deciding on the former, I had stood up and quietly walked out taking extra care not to make any noise.

As mother had rolled on the floor wailing about her misfortune, she had caught a glimpse of me. That had been enough to send her into a fit of madness.
"Aje!" she had spat, scrambling to her feet. She had rushed towards me and dragged me by the hair. "You killed my husband and son!" She had accused me, screeching so loudly that it had almost deafened me.

I had yelped, holding the back of my head to ease the pain. "Mother-"

"I'm not your mother!" She had shrieked, tackling me to the ground.
"Why did you have to be born? Why do you want to take over everything?" She had exclaimed, tears streaming down her face.

"Tell me who is next?" my mother had demanded, kneeling on the floor.
She had shook me vigorously. "Is it me or your sister?"

"I-" I began but had been cut off by my mother who had suddenly wrapped her hands around my neck.

"I will kill you before you kill me!" She had spat, wringing my neck like a piece of wet fabric. As I had felt life go out of me slowly, my mother's hand was suddenly yanked away.

"Stop it!" Cleotilda had screeched, pulling mother off me. "Just stop!"

I had exhaled in relief, rubbing my sore neck. The pain had been so unbearable that I could feel tears gathering at the brim of my eyes. I had wondered how my mother possessed strength enough to end a person's life. I had shot a look of gratitude towards my older sister but was shunned by her look of disdain.

"You deserve to die," Cleotilda had spat, walking up the stairs with two maids who helped drag our hysterical mother with her.

∆*+*+*+*+*+*∆

You deserve to die.

Those words had been on repeat in my head since Cleotilda uttered them. They hurt more than the recent and now regular and random beatings from mother — still I refused to cry. It felt like God was punishing me now for choosing the ways of the devil— the lies I had told in the past, and things I had taken without permission. I was in hell, the flames licked me up relentlessly down to the last cell in my body. Carolyn Hill was right— hell wasn't really a place. It was the state of one's mind sometimes. A punishment you bore in silence for what would feel like an eternity. I stared at the dream catcher on my ceiling and sighed.

I had not spoken to my sister since that day not even today which was my brother's burial. I kept to myself— barely stepping out of my room. I refused to eat anything despite Idowu's nagging. I dived into an ocean of reflections and drowned myself in various thoughts of 'what ifs.'

What if I hadn't begged my dad to come for the carol? Will he still be alive?

What if I hadn't gotten angry at my mother and broken the cup? Will Clarence have lived?

As these questions plagued my mind, my fingers trembled continually. They seemed to be doing that without my permission. It was my body but I had no control of its actions. My throat felt blocked, dry and my eyes were heavy with tears that could not fall. It felt like five kg blocks on the edge of a table that stayed steady even though it needed just a slight push to fall off. I stood up from my bed and held my stomach which growled loudly. With an exaggerated  sigh, I walked out of my room and to the kitchen.

I met Idowu seated on a kitchen stool while the chef was leaned on the kitchen island pressing his phone. "Is there any quick meal available to eat?"

"Will you eat indomie?" The cook asked, dropping the phone he held. "Or do you want to eat bread? I can make a sandwich."

"There's Nutella abi?" I asked with a yawn. "I can't wait for indomie to get ready."

"No, but there's nusa. It's almost the same thing. We haven't stocked the house since…" The cook trailed off. "How many slices?"

I yawned once more.
"I'll do it myself,"  I declared. I opened the fridge and took out a pack of pre-sliced bread and a jar of Nusa. I took a bread knife and a small ceramic plate from the dish rack and piled bread on it, smothering each slice with excess nusa. I had barely sat down at the kitchen island when I began shoving the food into my mouth not caring about eating etiquette.

"She has an appetite," Cleotilda sneered upon seeing.
"No wonder you're getting fatter these days," she eyed me.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, dropping the bread slice I held. "At least I have a well-rounded ass to show for it," I smirked.

"Tah," she spat, leaning against the island. "You're entering 12th grade this year, you know you won't go to university in Nigeria so all the fats you're packing in your thighs calling them hips, the one in your butt and arms will not be appreciated. Better start working out and lose some weight."

"And you think that carrying the whole world on your chest will be appreciated when you go to uni this year?" I retorted standing up. "Even with your skinny thighs and arms, you'll still be considered fat."

"I'll be the new Amandla Stenberg," my sister scoffed. "Unfortunately, you can't be Cardi except you get a boob job and remove those stretch marks."

I fought back tears but it was pointless. The tears I had refused to shed two months before began their descent on my cheeks. I desperately wanted to throw the plate of bread on the wall and send shards of glass and crumbs of bread flying across the kitchen and allow the white tiled walls to get smeared with nusa but I did not. Instead, my fingers curled into fists, ready to deliver punches. It took a lot to hold myself back. I took deep breaths and counted from one to ten instead. I had read about that calming method in various American novels. It felt and sounded stupid to me and as much as I hated to admit it, it always worked. It saved me from acting on impulse several times. Only I wished I had counted those numbers before throwing the glass of water that brought another tragedy to the house.

I closed my eyes and told myself not to think about them. It seemed better if they lurked in the corners of my mind than take control of my emotions. I could handle the subtle feelings of guilt just a little but I knew if I thought a little too much about it I'd break down like the temple of Jerusalem.

"You were going to throw the plate weren't you?" Cleotilda jeered. "Allow me to hit my head hard and get pierced by the glass then have a brain damage just like Clarence." Her taunting voice broke as she spoke. "It's so easy for you to cry because of the truth about your body but you can't cry over the death of the people you claim to love?"

"I can't cry?" I questioned, my breath shaky. "Since when did crying become a compulsory thing to do when a family member dies?"

My sister scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You're so brazen."

"Just because I did not turn myself into a mad person like you and your mother over their deaths does not mean I don't feel the pain!" I shouted. This time I could not contain it; the flower vase which stood on the kitchen island became a victim of my anger. I sent it soaring towards the wall; flower petals scattered themselves across the floor getting torn by the broken glass that lay in trickling water. I stormed out of the kitchen, taking in short and rapid breaths. The situation surrounding Clarence's death flashed before my eyes in slow motion. The expression on his face as he slipped and fell by the edge of the staircase hitting his head hard against both shards of glass and the jutting end of the stairway.

"Stop being impulsive," he had always said to me. "Mum gets mad when you throw things around. You know she will beat you."

When his face finally vanished from my sight, I stood in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway and looked at my body. My eyes travelled over the reflection of my arms and then to my visible thighs. I raised my t-shirt and stared at my belly for a while. Even though I felt betrayed by Cleotilda for playing on one of my biggest insecurities, I knew she was right. I had neglected my body for a long while.

I was FAT.

Chapter Glossary:

Jesu, ki ni mo se is interpreted as Jesus, what did I do? It is a Yoruba statement often used during lamentations.

Tani mo se? is interpreted as Who have I offended, a statement which serves the same purpose as the above sentence. When bad things happen to people (Nigerians <yoruba's> in this case), they often use this while lamenting their fate because in the olden days, when a person offends someone, they mostly retaliate through the spiritual dimension (using juju <voodoo>) either by killing their loved one or causing a series of misfortune to befall them. Till date, the Yoruba people of Nigeria often use this to lament.

Aje is translated as "witch". Whenever women are suspected of doing evil through the spiritual dimension, they are often called this. A witch can be good or bad but in situations like this, they are seen as evil.

Nusa: A spread for bread.

A/N

In case you're a non Nigerian and you're reading this, Nigerian parents take discipline seriously. Most don't even know the difference between discipline and abuse, be it their words or actions.