Watering the Distance
Image inspired by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel, Purple Hibiscus.
You lay down still. So still that the only thing that moves is the rise and fall of your chest as your heart beats faster and your breath catches in your throat.
The tears fall steadily down your face but you make no attempt to stop them. Let them fall and maybe she'd notice, maybe she'd see that you were dying inside. Dayo had tried again and this time he didn't succeed. Not that you were lucky, just that he was stupid.
That was your triumph, but how long would that work in your favour? How long until she noticed. Noticed that he was trying to touch you in places deemed sacred. Noticed that he was trying to take away your spirit.
You laid still. Even as she called for you
Even as she said your name.
You did not answer, you did not move.
‘Darasimi’. ‘Dara’
Please come up. Please find me.
Please see me.
And she does come up. And she does find you. But does she see you?
“What are you doing lying like that? Are you sick? Is it cramps?”
You don't answer, all you do is turn to look at her, so that she can see your face, so that she can see your pain, so that she could see you.
But her next words, break the spirit that you had tried so hard to protect.
“Come, come let's pray for what is bothering you!
Let's commit it into the Lord's hands.”
You want to scream but your voice fails you.
You want to shout, but nothing comes out.
Can't you see? Can't you see that I'm dying?
But she does. She can see. But she does what she knows is best. Prayer. It's the only thing keeping her sane. Since Baba left with another woman, since Bidemi left this world.
It was what kept her anchored to the land of the living that had offered her nothing but pain. Speaking to a higher one that would one day take away that pain, that would one day set her free.
She wasn't just your mother, she was just another soul with a broken spirit. Someone clinging to the divine for relief, to look after what she couldn't protect, what she was too ashamed to face. At that moment, you both didn't seem so different.
So you lift yourself from the cold bed and take her hand as she leads you to her room. You both kneel and then you close your eyes and join her.
Afterwards you tell her everything. How Dayo had been trying to touch you, how you had felt so lonely, how you had waited so long for her to see you.
She cries and you cry and you both hold on to each other as your bodies shake with sobs. Finally she raises her face and you see a look that you hadn't seen since the day Baba announced his departure. You saw fresh rage and determination.
Your cousin left the house that day and you finally cleared her room of Baba’s belongings, to create space for a new dawn and a new beginning.
It was hard but you were gentle. She no longer cowered behind prayer but began to take charge.
You sit beside her, hands touching for the first time in weeks.
The air was still heavy with all the unsaid things, but this time, it didn’t feel like a wall, more like a doorway.
Her fingers trembled as they rested over yours and you realized something: healing might not come as an apology. Sometimes it comes as a presence. A willingness to stay.
In that moment, you stopped waiting for perfect words and started noticing the small things, the way her voice softened when she asked if you’d eaten, the way she lingered in the room a little longer. These were seeds.
Healing wasn’t about erasing the past. It was about choosing to plant something new in the same soil. And you knew… even if the roots took years to grow, you’d water them.