Animal Instincts
By Nana Afadua Ofori-Atta
She applied foundation to her face in drops, blending it in with a makeup sponge. The Donkors were naming their daughter today and Rita was determined to be in attendance. It was the first time in weeks she was out of bed before ten, all showered. She sat at her dressing table in a white lace dress she had originally planned to wear for her baby’s christening, there was no point in saving the dress now. She unscrewed the cap of a shade of firetruck red lipstick, and made a popping sound with her lips to ensure she got the lipstick everywhere. Rita had no right to look as stunning as she did. She was rifling through her makeup box when she noticed her husband, Luke, in the mirror, slack jawed.
“Where are you going?”
“Ansaba’s, they are—”
“I know what they are doing but how dare you? How can you even bear to be there dressed like that?” Luke asked, voice raised.
“I can’t go wearing funeral clothes now can I?” Rita shouted back at him.
“That’s the point! You’re not supposed to go.”
She ignored him, walked round the cot they hadn’t gotten round to moving out of their bedroom, and pulled open the drawer which held her scarves. Wrapping a black one around her shoulders, Rita turned to Luke. “Better?”
He glared. “People are going to talk.”
“You mean your mother and her cronies are going to talk.”
“That’s not fair,” Luke said, sitting gingerly on the bed. His feet knocked over the gift bag Rita had painstaking put together. She had put in the things she thought she could part with; the clothes their daughter never got to wore, the unicorn blanket, and the stuffed Corgi she had been too small to play with. Luke looked down at the spilled contents of the gift bag and burst into laughter. “Your mind’s gone, that’s the only explanation. It’s fucking addled.”
“My sanity is right here.” Rita replied, not quite believing her own words.
“You’re giving Sarah’s things away and you didn’t even bother to ask me?” Luke asked, his voice cracking over the words as he picked up the stuffed Corgi.
“It’s easier this way, they are just mocking me for what I don’t have.”
“She wasn’t only yours.” Luke replied quietly, before walking out of the bedroom, still clutching the stuffed Corgi. Rita bent down, picked up the onesies and dropped them on the bed. Trembling, she folded each one as though she was afraid they would unravel beneath her fingers. She would probably miss the ceremony now, and she knew she could give the Donkors their gift later, but Rita returned to her dressing table and applied setting spray to her face.
*
The naming ceremony was held at the Donkors’ house. When Rita arrived the guests were at the buffet table, the baby had already been named and her father, Jonathan, was out on the street in front of his house with a group of men; all muscular, dressed in kaftans, being unnecessarily loud. It was microcosm of a boys’ secondary school dorm. Once he saw her, Jonathan peeled away from the group, meeting Rita at her car.
“Didn’t expect you to be here,” He said, bending down to give her a hug. “You look good.”
Rita gave him a forced smile. “Big day, we should all be here.” And by we, she meant Luke and their baby.
“No one would judge you for not coming.” He said, with a look of sympathy. Rita had become accustomed to such looks over the past three months, but something about receiving it on what was supposed to be a happy day set her off. She was trying to move on - why wouldn’t anyone let her?
“Ansaba and the baby?” Rita asked.
“In the sun room. She is feeding the baby. She’s been there for a while so she might be out soon but you can go see her if you want.”
Rita expressed her gratitude before heading towards the sun room. She heard people mumbling about her clothes, her sheer audacity to be wearing white clothes so soon after the death of her child. They stated she wasn’t a true mother, a mother would never act in such a manner. She gripped the black scarf tighter as she made her way through the screen kitchen door. Those people had no right to tell her how to behave.
The sun room was on the first floor with a door made of odum. It was also locked. Rita called out for her friend, and after several minutes she banged on the door with her palm until she eventually saw the brown knob turn. Ansaba poked her head out. Her lipstick was smudged and mascara runny. The baby was also crying.
“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” The questions gushed out of Rita’s mouth like a geyser. Her friend didn’t reply and stepped aside instead, letting Rita into the conservatory.
The sun room had changed since Rita had last been over; wicker furniture had replaced the beige sofas, and though the chaise lounge remained, a bassinet had been added to the room. The space didn’t have as many plants then either, now they were everywhere; on the shelves were metal pots of calatheas and ferns, orchids and spider plants hung from the ceiling, and pots of crotons and emerald palms were lined up against the glass walls. It was as though Rita had stepped into a forest, a forest illuminated by paper mache lamps and ceiling fans to mimic the wind.
“She won’t stop crying.” Ansaba said, collapsing into one of the chairs. She had her hair in flat twists and her ruffled slit and kaba hiked up slightly - Ansaba looked like an unhinged angel in the bronzed light of the sun.
Rita walked over to the bassinet, the newborn was puffy-eyed from non-stop wailing. She was in a white onesie which had ruffles, probably to match Ansaba’s outfit, and she was adorned in gold; bracelets wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and a small necklace hung from her neck.
“I remember what that feels like.”
“Do you want to hold her?”
Rita did want to hold the baby, but she was terrified. Over the past few weeks she had come to the decision that she was not good with children, maybe Luke’s mother was right; she lacked basic animal instincts. The baby’s tears made her uncomfortable but, in the end, it was the reason she slipped a hand under her neck, the other under her bum, and lifted her out of the crib. She was big for a two-week-old. Rita held the newborn against her chest, patting her back gently as she walked around the furniture.
The baby’s cries grew louder.
Ansaba let out a laugh which held a hard edge. “It’s like a broken toy.”
“Show me a newborn who doesn’t cry.” Rita retorted.
“He named her after me. You should have seen his mother’s reaction.”
Their love-hate relationship with their mother-in-laws was a thing they had in common, so when Ansaba spoke about her mother-in-law’s irritation in a nonchalant manner, Rita knew there was more going on. She also knew prodding her friend for more information would lead nowhere - Ansaba would tell her in her own time.
“All your names?”
“Well, not all of them. She missed out on Agnes. Everyone’s just going to call her Ewurakua.”
The baby began to quiet down. Sarah was always a good girl. Rita came to a halt, almost bumping into a potted plant. She looked down at the child in her arms, at the moon face and umber skin that did not belong to her Sarah, and her chest tightened. Ewurakua wasn’t her Sarah but it was fine to pretend she was just for a little while, right? It wouldn’t hurt anyone. Rita wasn’t sure she convinced herself of that point completely.
She looked out through the glass wall, the party was in full force below. They couldn’t see her; it was one of the few things Ansaba had insisted on when the conservatory was added to the house. She noticed Jonathan dancing and laughing with his friends and pretended it was Luke with his brothers. Rita imagined sitting at one of the plastic tables, cradling her baby and receiving compliments. As she pictured this alternate reality, she absentmindedly reached out to stroke a broad green leaf.
“Its growing much better since I brought it in here,” Ansaba said, a flat tone to her voice. “Plants are easier. She, she demands everything from me. It’s exhausting having someone rely on you that much.”
Rita grimaced. She would give anything to have that feeling back. “You know what they say - they grow up so fast. Soon she’ll be walking around.” Rita replied, voice cracking over her words.
“I feel chained up,” Ansaba shouted, hurtling a pillow at her friend who ducked out of the way. “Ever since I had her, she is all everyone wants to talk to me about. I can’t do it. I feel like I am going to fail her. Things were better when it was just me and Jonathan.”
Failure was a sensation Rita was more comfortable with than she would like to admit. However, unlike Ansaba, she had already failed as a mother. What kind of a mother slept while their child struggled to breathe?
“You don’t really believe that.”
“I know I shouldn’t,” Ansaba said, dissolving into tears. “But I don’t want to move, I don’t want to eat either and I keep thinking ‘what if hurled myself down the stairs?’”
There was a sharp intake of breath followed by a hmm from Rita. The baby shrieked once more. Ansaba clamped her hands over ears then kicked the wicker table across from her.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Ansaba shouted as she moved towards Rita. She held out her arms, asking for her daughter. Rita’s eyes flickered between her friend and Ewurakua, it was an uncomfortable position to be in. She didn’t want to hand over the child, but when Ewurakua was returned to her mother she quieted down significantly. Ansaba chided her daughter for being selfish, for never being sated and for ruining her life. She laid her down in the bassinet. Rita felt a sense of relief wash over her now the baby was out of her friend’s grasp, even if she was still crying. “Jonathan never hears her, he sleeps like a baby,” Ansaba let out a sardonic laugh. “I hate him for it.”
Ansaba crumpled to the ground and let out a screech as she pounded her fists against the wooden floor. Rita wrapped her scarf round her, gathering her in her arms, and rubbed circles on her back. She didn’t push back when Ansaba hit her, she knew how it felt. Luke used to hold her those first weeks after they came home from the hospital.
Rita’s first weeks as a mother were stress-inducing, and whilst she didn’t have the same reaction as Ansaba, she knew someone who did - her cousin Tessa. For the first year of her son’s life, Tessa wanted nothing to do with him. His milestones didn’t impress her - even when his first smile had been at her. ‘Baby Blues’ they said, but Rita always suspected it was more. Looking at Ansaba, she knew it was more.
“It’s going to get better.” Rita said.
Ansaba pulled away, eyes red, nostrils flaring and snarled her words; “How? I have to do everything for her. Sometimes I sit next to her crib, watching, afraid she is going to die.” Rita knew her family’s experience was partly the root of her friend’s fear. She looked down at her hands, not sure how to comfort her.
“Do you think I am a bad mother?” Ansaba asked, smoothing out her slit.
“Not at all.”
Rita didn’t say it to make her feel better - it had been less than a month, she was overwhelmed and her body treated her like the enemy - but Rita knew Ansaba would make a good mother to Ewurakua.
“I’m just so tired.”
The words hung between them.
Ansaba wiped her eyes with her wrists as she rose to her feet. The sun was setting and Rita could barely make out the trees in the garden.
“I should get back.” Ansaba muttered.
“The important part is already over - and you look a mess.”
“They all think I am mad anyway.”
“Well, we won’t give them the satisfaction.” Rita replied, reaching over to her handbag. She pulled out her makeup bag, poured out the contents, picked up the face wipes, and proceeded to clean Ansaba’s smeared makeup. Ewurakua must have gone to sleep because it was the longest stretch of silence Rita had experienced since entering the sun room. She winged Ansaba’s eyelids and worked her magic with some gold eyeshadow she had forgotten about. Ansaba’s eyes glittered under the paper mache lamps, but when Rita went to apply some lipstick, Ansaba broke into another crying jag. Rita gathered her friend into her arms. She held her friend as she tried to hold herself, as she tried to not think about Sarah.
They were all so very tired.
Nana Afadua Ofori-Atta is a writer and poet based in Ghana, as well as an avid tennis fan.
All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.
