WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

In those days, when it rained we would stay by the window and watch how the trees danced to the beats of the wind, the singing of raindrops and thunder. The lighter the music, the closer our legs would get to the door post, quietly watching the eyes of our mother; and waiting for an approval. When she wiggled her legs, it was a negative signal. But when she praised the beautiful works of God in the rainy moment, it was a positive sign. Note, there was no going outside when it rained in the night. That was why Joseph composed the song:

Rain visit us when the sun is not old

Rain sing for us when the moon is not young

So that mother will open the door for us to play with you

So that papa will come home dry and happy.

Rain visit us as we sing to you.

Rain oh rain oh rain.

That particular day, the rain was deaf to our singing, or calling and yelling. We became frustrated because the sun was kissing the lines of the sea, workers were returning home while livestock owners were gathering their animals for the day. “Joseph, is today not June? Why is it not raining after everything we have done to beckon uncle Rain?” I asked my brother.

“If it does not pour today, it will definitely pour tomorrow. Let us pray to see the breaking of day first, before expecting uncle Rain. And Ruth, today is Friday in the month of June” Joseph replied.

Mother called us into the house. She was the voice of our home. We would hear her talk more than Father would. We would see her manage every little bit of resource supplied by father; sometimes, this entailed eating beans for three straight days. If you complained, there would be no garri added to your meal and bread was bought only for the weekend by Father who expected Pastor's visit, for one prayer session or the other. During most of his visits, Pastor would prefer to stay under the fruit tree in front of our house than sit in the parlour because he knew my mother hated his guts.  

“Papa J, the money you spend on buying bread would have been used to beautify a part of our home. I don’t like that you are turning this into a breakfast restaurant o!” 

“Mama J, you know that we have to be a good host to Pastor Felix; he cares and prays for this family a lot. I hope you understand that it is all for our own good.”

“If the trees and grasses do not pray to God yet they grow, how much more we humans. I see no reason why I should wait for a pastor to pray for me before my life will flourish. Papa J let us pray together you will say mba! There is no shortcut to heaven if you like, build a bakery for your pastor friend. I
have spoken my mind!”

“It was that same mind you spoke that made me lose my job last year, after you commanded my oga to pay me my salary owed for 3 months.”

“You should be thankful I did. Or do you not have a better job today working as a Farm coordinator?”

We all knew Mother’s bile attitude towards Pastor. On Sundays, she would sit in the last row, avoiding anyone that would make her sin against God. 

We had entered the house, had dinner and were about to say our prayers - usually without father, when we saw the first lightning. It illuminated the dark corners of our home for a second. We saw a crack in the clouds from our window, and everyone braced themselves for the arrival of uncle Rain. Although we were not as excited as we ought to be, it was definitely going to be a cold night. The ceiling fans would go on a vacation at least and we would not hear their cracking sounds that night. 

Our father was still not home at past 8pm. Mother paced about the small flat gazing at the door from time to time. She shooed us to our room to sleep by force because she had a plan; we did not say our prayers that night.

I snuck out of my room when I heard the entrance door closed and saw my mother with an umbrella and our faithful torch heading into the heart of the rain. Joseph had slept by now after eating the most portion of our meal that night; eba and egusi soup. I wanted to stay under the fruit tree and get wet in the rain but the door had been shut from the outside by my mother. All I could do was stretch out my tiny hands from the window and allow little raindrops to touch them. The feeling was better than thinking of what was currently going on. Where was my father? Where was my mother going?

Rain visit us when the sun is not old

Rain sing for us when the moon is not young

So that mother will open the door for us to play with you

So that papa will come home dry and happy.

Rain visit us as we sing to you.

Rain oh rain oh rain.

The rain is still falling. I am becoming sleepy but will fight with everything I have, to see the end of this drama. Our neighbour’s dog begins to bark. I hear the owner scolding it to hush up but it would not. That dog was hungry most of the time. Joseph and I would make jokes of it dying before the day breaks. We would see it the next morning scouting for what to eat. How it has survived up to this hour is a mystery to us. 

The longest hand of the clock is now on 3, while the shortest hand is on 11. I can see someone walking towards our house. I shout for joy when I notice it is father. He has finally arrived home. 

“Welcome Sir!”

“Why are you not asleep and why is the door bolted from the outside? Where is your mother and Joseph?”

I related the night’s incident to my father who dashed out immediately to look for his wife. But how would he know where to look for her ? I thought to myself. 

It was the next day, after I finally slept on the couch with no sign of my mother or father. Joseph woke me up to go into the room as the sitting room was becoming crowded with people. 

“What is happening J? Who are all these people?”

“They came to see our father. I will explain everything to you later but please go inside for now.”

They are both dead, my mother and Pastor. The story they wanted me to believe was that my mother was hit by a car when she went in search of my father that night. But this is the real story I eavesdropped on when a police officer stopped by to get more information from my father 3 days later. The pastor had been accused of rape (I did not understand that word until I was 14 years old) several times but the accusers would go missing all of a sudden. He was a carpenter in Edo state who ran to Lagos when his atrocities were almost catching up with him. The guise of a pastor came about when he attended the Victory Baptist Church and saw the flock of young women. It took him 3 years to form his own assembly called The House of Praise. 

“I am sorry about what happened to your wife. She did not make it easy for that cursed soul.” 

“I killed my wife, officer, I did! She never liked that man, yet I would invite him to my house for breakfast because I thought God answered his prayers faster than mine. She went out that night to look for me in that bloody rain. I should not have agreed to follow my boss home. Those farm documents could have been sorted another day. I would have entered that rain and returned home all wet to my loving wife. Ah, I killed her. When my daughter told me that she had gone out in search of me, I knew her first stop would be at Pastor’s house because we were that close. When I arrived there, the house was dark. About turning back, I noticed the windows looked broken thanks to a mild lightening and then I saw my wife’s footwear. So, I quickly opened the door only to find that monster strangling her and pounding her at the same time. She had broken his shelves, tv set, windows but he was too powerful. She bit his fingers, hit his head with a stool, but he was too strong for her. My wife suffered because of me, she suffered. So it was all the strength in me I used to heat him with that same stool. He fell like a robot and I tried all I could to save my wife, but she was already gone. I was too late to save her. I will never forgive myself. We believed that man when he told us his wife and daughter died in a motor accident 3 years ago. We believed him when he told us he had preached the gospel in all the states in Nigeria. We believed every lie he spoke.”

“Once again, I am sorry Mr. Omene, thank you for ridding this world of such people and please, take care of your children. Goodbye.”

I stopped anticipating the fall of the rain. My father would cry every time it poured and Joseph stopped singing his composed song. The house was now a dark place with our light taken from us. Father never went to church after the incident. He would sit us down instead to tell us stories of the tortoise and the fox. I see my mother in my dreams telling me to take care of father and Joseph. But who will take care of me? I miss her. I waited for her that night and she never came back. Who will take care of me…?