Arome

Mother said I am an old soul. She said I remind her of her grandmother. She says I must be her reincarnation and I drunk from the well of forgetfulness at the gate into this lifetime.

Mother says a lot of things, most she doesn’t remember, but she remembers her grandmother and so she remembers me. Mother’s grandmother was called Arome Achonu, just like me. Mother speaks weird to me sometimes. She asks me questions and talks about memories I should understand or remember. In those moments, I imagine that my mother escaped from a fairy planet taking over a body that she found by chance.

Hmm!!!

I guess all this crazy talk is inevitable. Mother said I told her that crazy and beauty runs in the Achonu blood. I don’t remember that.

My mother was an orphan who grew up with her grandmother, they bonded over the tragic deaths of their loved ones. People say the grief of Granny Arome’s death broke her.

In her sane moments, when she understood that I was no reincarnation, She would talk about her and look at me with disappointment. I think she hates that I am not everything Granny Arome was. I think she contemplates ‘what if I am’. So I try to show her that I am not.

She said Granny Arome told her that a woman’s pride is in her hair so I shaved mine. She said Granny Arome was a good woman so I played truant. But all she did was look disappointed and then forget.

Granted, my Granny Arome was something special. In a time where a woman was to be seen and never heard, she married a malleable man (that’s what mother said) and she made him a wealthy man. She brought ideas, she negotiated his deals, she taught herself arithmetics and English. When it was unpopular!

But I am not Granny Arome.

I must be crazy because even though I want her to see me as I am. I love it when she forgets and calls me her soulmate. But then I wonder, when will she see, that I am just a girl trying so hard to get her attention, so she can see that I am not an old soul because I’m young.

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When I came to Granny Arome, I was six, too young to understand my mother’s death but old enough to know that my father had abandoned me because ‘I am a waste of his resources.’

In short form -a girl

Before she took me in, she looked at my crying self, and she said

“ Forget your father and take my Achonu name.”

There was a firm resolution and sadness in her eyes, and instantly I felt like we were kindred spirits.

“Okay,” I whispered

“Darling child, before you accept this name, I must tell you that insanity and beauty run in the Achonu blood. You already have our beauty, and some may assume that you have our mania too.”

What is insanity? What is mania? All I knew was that this beautiful, greyed woman wanted me, and I needed her.

I realize now that's the words ‘I accept’ were a promise and the seal of our partnership.

From that day till she died, I knew that she loved me, unequivocally, irrationally, unconditionally, perhaps not unconditional because maybe she loved me more for the fact that I am an Achonu.

From the moment I stepped into her house, she told me stories every evening without fail. She would begin her stories with the phrase- ‘There was a time.’

At first, I was fascinated, awed by this woman that had so many experiences. I wanted to open up her head and see, but I also wanted to hear her tell it. Her face was always rich in expressions, and in some moments, pure delight like a child.

When I was eight, she was a beautiful storyteller, and as I turned fifteen, she became a dictator. A fierce old-school woman, holding me back from experiencing life like my peers.

My friends said their parents would talk about her, and they said she's a crazy woman that would not respect her age and rest. And even though I shrugged them off, It made sense to me.

I had more than once seen her talking and laughing to herself like she was having a conversation. She's a crazy old woman, no wonder she didn't understand. I was full of righteous energy and ready to denounce her and regain my rightful freedom.

But as I entered the house, I could tell that there was something wrong.

It was too quiet, so quiet that I automatically started tiptoeing in my own house. Then I heard this heart-wrenching sound.

Who is that? It was coming from Granny Arome’s room. I tiptoed to the door and heard it even louder— broken loud sobs, like a woman wailing for her recently dead husband. I suddenly felt like I was trespassing, like I had seen something I shouldn't.

It took me a week to gather enough courage to confront her about it, and she spoke

“Darling child, may you never know loss as I have.”

And that was the end of it.