Page 8 of Cursed Daughters
“Who are you quoting this time?”
“I am not your mate, Monife. You will show me respect.” But her words lacked any real bite; she sounded drunk.
“You need to stop giving these people your hard-earned money.”
“This time it will work. He will come back to me.”
“We don’t want him to come back.” Though even as she said it, Mo felt the familiar pang. He was her father; she had loved him for fifteen years, and then he’d discarded her as if she were nothing. He rarely called. Sometimes she wondered if she had done something to offend him. Still, she would never voice that hurt. She would swallow it down so deep that she’d forget it was there. And she needed her mother to follow suit.
“No! This isn’t your father’s fault. It is the curse.”
The curse. The curse. Damn the curse.
“How much did you spend?”
“Kí ló s??”
She was confident her mother had heard the question, but she repeated herself. “How much did you spend? On these stones? And whatever has made you high?”
“What are you talking about? I was given a spiritual herb…”
“Is that what they are calling weed now?”
“Weed?”
“Marijuana. Ganja. I don’t know what they called it in your generation.” Her mother’s eyes widened. It had not occurred to her that she was simply becoming stoned. “How much did this cost you, Mummy?”
“A hundred naira.”
Monife swore under her breath. Her mother only earned seven hundred and fifty naira a month, and once again she had spent a sizeable portion of her salary on quacks.
“A hundred, Mummy. Fan-tastic.”
“She said it would bring me fast results.”
“Who? MamaG?”
Her mother did not respond, which was answer enough.
“A hundred! Then you will say there is no money for fuel.”
“It’s an investment.”
“Mmm-hmm. So what did she offer you? Weed and…?”
“It’s not weed. This herb is for clearing the person’s eyes. Thenthis plant, it opens up the door to the spirit world. The stones will centre him with me.”
“Sure. The 419 special,” she muttered. It was all fraud in the end; wasn’t it? She passed her mother a T-shirt to put on, remembering to switch the shirt from her left hand to her right to avoid the reprimand that would follow. Then she began to collect the stones. Her mother didn’t fight her. The weed was making her docile. She was not generally a docile woman.
Bunmi lowered her body onto the stool and helped herself to a pinch of loose tobacco from a small rectangular tin, slipping it between her cheek and gum. It was a fairly new habit, but she was already addicted to the practice. Monife kept her thoughts to herself and left the room to fetch water, bread and beans, because with the consuming of weed would surely come the munchies.
II
It wouldn’t be the first time Mo had gone in search of a babalawo or mamalawo who had relieved her mother of much-needed cash, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She considered reaching out to her brother for help, but Tolu preferred to pretend their mother was in her right mind, as did Aunty Kemi. So she went in search of her cousin instead. Ebun may well have been the youngest person in their household, but she was also the most reliable.
She found Ebun in the courtyard, wearing her school uniform and kitchen gloves and pulling out weeds from the flower beds. She looked up as Mo approached. Ebun’s hair was plaited into five fat cornrows in compliance with school rules, but they did nothing to detract from her striking features. She raised her hand to her face, blocking the sun, and squinted at Mo.
“What’s up, cuz?” she asked.
