The Morning After
By Catherine Momoh
You wake in a bed that is both familiar and unfamiliar to you. Familiar because it is your childhood bed. Until the age of nine, you woke up most mornings soaked through with urine. When one of your cousins found out, she ran to tell the other cousins and they all chanted “piss-a-bed” until your aunty threatened them with a cane. Aged 13, you laid under the covers cradling a hot water bottle as your mother explained that you had to get used to the cramps because they would come every month. At 16, your pillows were heavy with tears after your neighbour’s son unceremoniously dumped you for your best friend. The same boy you had risked canings for by sneaking into this room, onto this bed, to press down and cover his face in kisses.
But this bed is now unfamiliar to you. Unfamiliar because it is the first time you have woken up in it as somebody’s wife. Your brand-new husband is asleep beside you. You gently stroke the back of his head. He stirs but does not wake. You wriggle your toes, wriggle your fingers and stare at the diamond winking at you from your left hand. You get up and open the windows to let the stale air out and the fresh air in.
You pad over to the ensuite and look in the mirror. You look the same: dark, wide-spaced eyes, eyebrows plucked into thin arches, gold hoop in left nostril. In the days leading up to the traditional wedding, but especially in the last moments before your soon-to-be husband’s family arrived, the aunties had told you your life was about to change. You were finally going to become a woman. No matter that you are nearly 30. You remember being a young girl and envying your cousins on their wedding day, the way they had leapt into a land you did not know. Now it is the morning after you have supposedly become a woman, and joined your cousins in this mysterious land. With the tailored dress zipped off, and the expertly applied make-up washed away, you don’t look any different from the unmarried woman who looked in this mirror the morning before.
You throw cold water on your face and brush your teeth. After spitting mouthwash into the sink, you leave the bathroom, tiptoe through the bedroom and make your way down the corridor and into the living area. The balcony doors are already open and the morning light cuts through the dark. Your younger sister is asleep on the sofa. Her headtie is askew, her lashes are peeling, and the back of her dress is hastily loosened. The morning before, she had ordered your mother to lace the corset tighter, tighter, yes, tighter so everyone would query where her waist had gone. When you asked how she would breathe she retorted that she could breathe tomorrow.
The dining table, the coffee table and the floor around your sister is littered with empty bottles of Supermalt, plates flecked with peppery jollof rice, plastic cups stained with sweet lemony pap, a large serving dish smeared with cassava leaves. You carefully make your way through the living area and onto the balcony.
Your grandmother, Mammy Amie, sits in silent solitude in the burnt orange sunrise. She is swathed from head to toe in a rich blue fabric. No matter what, she rises at dawn to say her prayers and sits in silence until everyone wakes. Seeing you, she gives a small smile and gestures for you to sit beside her.
Mammy Amie does not speak English or Krio. She only speaks Mende, a language you do not understand. Your whole life, her words have been translated to you by your father, your aunties or your uncles. If they are not around, you interact with her using smiles, frowns and hand gestures. You remember feeling so frustrated with Mammy Amie. Why would she choose to sit in silence over learning Krio or English? This was back when you thought you knew everything because you studied at the international school. Then you went to London for sixth form and the English they spoke was different, words firing at you like bullets from a machine gun. Then you understood how easy it was to choose silence.
The day before, your father had asked Mammy Amie to bless the new union. No-one had translated but you did not need to know what she said. You understood well enough.
Now Mammy Amie looks at you mischievously. ‘You,’ she points at you. ‘You na bad pikin.’ The little Krio she does know is halting, uncertain, self-conscious.
‘Oh?’ you reply, amused.
Her finger lowers to your stomach. ‘Belleh.’
You are stunned. Apart from your mother, sister and husband, no-one knows. No-one else is supposed to know. You told everyone the traditional wedding was brought forward because you’re moving to England for your husband’s postgraduate studies. At first you try to act shocked and deny it. Mammy Amie kisses her teeth and looks at you sideways. You look sheepish as you lift the oversized shirt to show your taut round belly. Mammy Amie claps her hands and hoots with laughter. It is such an unusual sound. You can’t help but laugh too. When the laughter dies down, Mammy Amie lays a small, wrinkled hand on your smooth stomach and mutters a quick prayer.
You don’t need to know what she says. You understand well enough.
Catherine Momoh currently works as a school administrator but previously spent five years working international sales at HarperCollins Publishers. As well as short stories, she is currently working on her first novel.
- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.
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