Page 9 of Cursed Daughters
“Want to go quack hunting?”
“Shit. Again? What’s the damage?”
“A hundred naira.”
She whistled. “She told you who?”
“It’s Mama G.”
Ebun hissed. It thoroughly encapsulated the way Monife felt. She wished she could just return from her lectures to find her mum knitting, or better yet, not find her at all because she was out looking for another husband for herself, the way Ebun’s mum did. She was certainly the happier of the two sisters. “Are you driving? Or am I?”
“You might as well get your practice in.”
Mo had been designated Ebun’s driving instructor, but Ebun was a natural. She stroked the wheel, caressed the stick shift and spoke to the old Beetle whenever it threatened to stall. When it came to the car, she was a doting parent. Admittedly, she was a tad young to be driving; but as long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves, they were good to go. They slipped into their respective seats and Mo switched on the radio, scrolling through various channels until she landed on one playing “Murder She Wrote.”
Ebun headed in the direction of Lagos island. They had a fair idea of where Mama G might be, but they couldn’t be certain. Mama G was a nomad, though not by choice. Every couple of months, the hastily erected wooden shacks belonging to her and her commercial neighbours were torn down by the police and their occupants moved on. Mo could only hope she would find her in the same place as she had been three months prior.
They got as close to the shanty town as they could without risking getting the Beetle stuck in the boggy sand. Mo lifted the Olympus camera dangling around her neck and took a few shots of their penurious surroundings. Ebun muttered something about needing Wellington boots as they navigated the mud and the stream of discarded chicken bones, bottles, Styrofoam and wrappers to get to Mama G’s humble abode.
They spotted the old woman sitting on a small stool outside her shack, scooping amala and ewedu from the bowl balanced on her breasts. Her breasts were so large that it was easy to fall into the trap of using them as her sole form of identification—“you know, that aunty with the massive boobs.” How she managed to stay upright was a mystery. She didn’t have the girth for that size chest—her arms and legs were stick thin. She beamed when she spotted them approaching; her teeth were yellowing and there was a morsel of meat stuck between her incisors.
“Monife. Ebunoluwa. ?ó wà pa?”
“Mama G, ? káàsán,” Mo greeted. Ebun said nothing.
“How is your mummy?”
“Not great, to be honest. That’s why I’m here.”
Mama G stood up and waved them into the shack. The space could just about fit the three of them. Mama G sat cross-legged on a mat against one of the makeshift walls. Beside her was a bench, and to the right of the door was a potbellied stove. Mo dumped the contents of her bag on the bench. Mama G sighed.
“I don tell you before. I no dey give refund.”
“Mama G, you are taking advantage of my mother.”
“No o! Your mama na my correct customer. I give her the best.”
“The best?” Ebun cut in. “Your results leave a lot to be desired. My aunty still doesn’t have her husband back. Isn’t that what you have been promising her?” She was leaning against the wall next to the exit and glaring at Mama G. Mama G returned the look and then hissed. Mo should have reminded Ebun to let her do the talking. If Ebun antagonised the mamalawo, they definitely weren’t getting their money back.
“E don happen in the spirit world,” Mama G replied.
“Did your spirits give you any type of timeline?” Ebun pressed.
“Their time no be our time.”
“How con—”
“Ebun!” Mo snapped, and Ebun sighed, before holding her lips together with her thumb and forefinger. She would stay out of it. “Look, Mama G, I don’t want long story. I just want the money back.”
Mama G dragged her beady eyes back to Mo and shrugged. “I no thief the money. And your mama don use the products. I cannot resell am. This na business.”
Mo tried to convince her to return at least half, but Mama G was immovable.
“I climb go top of the mountain to secure that one,” she said, pointing at the plant on the bench. “And pay the man wey deyharvest am. Premium service I dey run here. And I tell you free of charge—one day, you too go need my service.”
“God forbid,” was Mo’s reply.
They walked out, breathing in the fresh air. Mo hadn’t realised how heavily scented the small space had been. There was a man standing under the sun, waiting his turn for Mama G. Ebun turned to him and said, “Her gods no dey answer am again.” And they left the man to decide what he would do with this intel that the gods had abandoned the woman whose services he wished to engage.
