Our rest did not last very long, before we went back to work. We steadily worked another session in silence. I worked and played, and sometime she looked my way to know how deep I was with the work. Then I would start working again. She understood I was a child and it was one of the many things children were known for. They could sometimes lose focus and concentration. She would only encourage me to go back to work and never to play out the time meant for the work. At least it was better than to beat and scold me.
The children slept many times and did not distract us. The shadow soon shortened and it was time to go back home. Mother had weeded energetically and wanted to do more work. It was believed that at that time of the year, weeds grew at the fastest rate than any other time because of the incessant rain and only those who work hard meets the demand. They grew by day and cover every available space in the farm. The earlier the weeds were uprooted the better.
When it was evening, she dropped her sickle and gathered a heap of wood as big as she could carry, tied them together, strapped Mma to her back and we began the journey home.
We did not get home on time like others. It was a tradition that at the end of the day’s work, the villagers went homeward in a single file along the narrow farm path in small groups chatting with their wives and friends of different age brackets. They exchanged greetings with Mother and passed us. Mother was not bothered. She was only bothered that we could not get home without our full strength.
As we were walking, Mother was carried away and suddenly she struck her toe on a stump and fell into a bush. When she saw the blood that began to gush out, she screamed. No one was around to help. When she called my name, I cried along, too. Blood came out as fast as she screamed. Mother cried like a small child and squeezed hard her foot. She called my name repeatedly and the pain of what had happened to her affected me in an unusual manner. I felt it so much that I too began to cry.
She put Mma down at the side of the path, sat down and continued to cry. I stood by her, trying to comfort her. She called my father – something she did to get relief whenever she was in pain and which had become a custom.
I ran to the nearby bush for obialadi leaves, which I quickly stripped from its standing limbs, crushed it in my palms and squeezed the juice into her wounds. It sent her more pain. She hissed, shook her head and tried squeezing more blood out. She quickly reached for a dry white string which she had used for tying wood and tied her wounds firmly. She told me she needed time to rest and to regain some strength. I pleaded with her to manage herself so we could get home since darkness was looming and she obliged.
Because of this little delay, night and rain caught up with us; we got home soaked to the skin, even Mma caught cold.
At home, she boiled hot water herself. She used some to bath Mma and the remainder to tend her wound. She tried washing the fresh wound with a white piece of cloth. At first, she first washed the dried blood that had stained the whole toe. The water was hot because she added the left over from Mma’s bath. She had needed someone to help her dab the wound and tell her sorry when necessary. I was the only one around. When I could not do that, she managed and washed them light-handedly and hissed with pain each time.
The dinner over, and the children went to sleep one by one except Mother and I. My Mother had placed a pot full of maize on the fire for the next day’s lunch, so we conversed on different topics to kill time while waiting for the fire to die down.
After dinner was over, we heard a knock on the door. I exchanged looks with Mother. Our mind ran to many things. It might be Ukeje or Iremma or our neighbors. Who was really the person? We did not know. I carried the smoldering palm kernel candle from the bare floor, lit it and made way to the wood crossed door. There was a light wind blowing, so I cupped my right hand to shelter the flame and walked slowly closer to the door. I was known for