My mother never looked at the beggars. They appeared every
time traffic slowed to a stop on President’s Road, imploring with lips whose words we couldn't hear through the glass of the car's tinted windows. If
you didn’t know her you would think she could not see them there. But each time
they came her fists would tighten around the steering wheel as she stared
straight ahead; that was the thing that gave her away. And when they moved on,
finally convinced that the glass would not descend for them – or when the
moving traffic forced them to scurry away – she would let her breath out in a
hiss.
Me, I always looked at the beggars. I wanted to ask them
about their lives, but I knew mother would sooner twist my lips with her fingers than let that happen. So I made do with tracing the lines on their
faces with my mind’s hands, imagining what had etched them. In the few seconds
that they stood there, I would give them a name, carve them a history, spin
them a tragedy and, if I happened to like them, paint them a fairytale ending.
Mother always said I was a strange one.
It was always the same when mother beggars came, sad-faced
children clutched by the hand or nestled in their ashy bosoms. I would weave
them a story of class and romance and conspiracy. She was always dirt poor; she
always fell in love with a young prince; his family always stood in their way, separating
them by some demonically clever means, and she was always pregnant by the time
this happened, and he always never knew. It didn’t matter if the beggar was light
or dark-skinned, fat or thin, old or young. And the story always ended with the
prince finding them, like now in traffic, and taking them home, where they
would defy his family and all the odds and end up happy ever after.
This one carried her baby on her back, fastened with a
length of brown cloth. She had a handwritten sign pinned to her blouse and I
squinted as I read: DEF AND DUMP WITH CHILD NO FATHER. I created my fantasy
while mother strangled the steering wheel. Satisfied that the occupants of our car
were indeed heartless and would give no money, the beggar turned to leave. As she started to walk to
the car in front of ours a power bike roared up from behind, speeding between
the rows of cars, heading toward her. She acted fast, flattening herself
against the hood of mother’s car as the bike sped past. Mother scrunched
up her nose as the beggar’s body touched her car. The beggar woman spread her
fingers at the rider’s back – waka, God punish you – as he and his bike faded
into the distance.
Mother’s eyes followed the beggar woman as she walked on. I
watched mother watch the woman because, well, mother never looked at the beggars. My regular
story for mother beggars would not be enough now. This woman had made mother look, so
she had to be special. She deserved a different story. I smiled at my own
generosity. The beggar would never know or appreciate it, but that didn’t
matter. Her special, different story would exist. I just needed to decide what
it would be.
Mother rushed out of the car just as the traffic lights
turned green, darting between vehicles to chase after the beggar woman who was
hurrying out of the way. The drivers stuck behind mother’s car were leaning on
their horns.
Wait, did mother know the
beggar?
A minute or so later mother emerged from the side street she
had disappeared into in her pursuit. Mother is like a book of codes and symbols;
if you know where and how to look you can read her. I have learnt all the faces
of mother. As she hurried back to the car she was wearing the face she always had
when she was forced to be wrong because someone else was right.
Mother got into the car, ignoring the glares from passing drivers.
She sped off with her tires squealing on the asphalt, as though to make up for
the time spent chasing the beggar. I stared ahead and did not ask what she was
wrong about this time. If I did she would never tell. I pretended not to see
her glance at me from the corner of her eye.
‘I thought the baby with that woman was your sister,’ she
said. ‘She looked exactly like your sister.’
It was safe to look at mother now, so I did. She had on the
face she used to defend herself when she fought with dad.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ mother said. ‘Strange things
happen in this country, don’t you know? One woman left her baby at home with her
nanny one day, only to find the baby at a Mama Put at Mile 12 Market with some woman she didn't know...'
I put on my listening face for mother and let her voice fade
into the background. I made up stories and mother saw things. We were not so different after all.
