— Hot Ground and Loose Mouths
Dust and silk
The sun had barely finished waking up when Amaka's voice pierced through Umuahia like hot water on cold skin.
"Chidinma! Return my kerosene or may God use thunder to balance your karma!"
She stood in front of their compound, wrapper tied tight under her arms, one slipper in hand like she was ready to discipline the ground itself. Chidinma, the neighbor's daughter, stood five feet away holding the small yellow gallon of kerosene like it was her birthright.
"I didn't steal it, Amaka!" Chidinma shouted. "I borrowed it!"
"Ehn? Borrowed? Did I tell you I opened a kerosene bank?"
The small group of village children that had gathered to watch the unfolding fight let out a collective gasp and started whispering.
"Amaka don start again…" one boy muttered, eyes wide.
Before another word could be flung, Chidinma's mother, Madam Chinelo, stormed out of their house like a wrestler entering a ring.
"What is going on here? Why is this mannerless girl shouting like a wounded goat?"
Amaka dropped her slipper instantly. "Who is mannerless, Mama Chidinma? Talk clearly!"
"You, of course! Do you know how to talk to elders? Is it because you and your mother have no husband in this compound?"
The crowd gasped again — this time louder.
Just as Amaka opened her mouth to drag ancestry into the matter, her mother's voice cut through the compound like a bell at a village meeting.
"Amaka! What's going on?!"
Mama Amaka, short and strong like freshly pounded yam, marched into the scene with a firewood stick still in her hand. Her scarf was tilted like she'd left a pot burning — and maybe she had.
"She said I don't have manners, mummy!" Amaka cried, pointing like a market lawyer. "Because I asked for my kerosene!"
Mama Amaka turned slowly to Madam Chinelo. "Chinelo, it's early morning. Are you okay? Or did your demons wake up before you?"
"Ahn ahn! Are you calling me a witch?!"
"I didn't say that," Mama Amaka said, raising the stick slightly, "but if the broom fits, sweep with it."
The compound erupted in a mix of suppressed laughter and "chai!" from the bystanders. Even Chidinma quietly returned the kerosene gallon to Amaka's feet.
"I told you to leave it alone," Mama Amaka whispered to her daughter, dragging her by the arm. "But no, you must disgrace us in public. Now come inside before I disgrace your bones."
As they walked away, Amaka muttered, "At least I got my kerosene."
Her mother stopped and eyed her.
"You'll also get slap if you open your mouth again."
Inside, while Amaka sets the fire and her mother grumbles about "raising a lion instead of a daughter," the sound of distant jeeps driving past the village road hums softly.
But Amaka doesn't turn.
She doesn't care.
Not yet.
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Later that day
Ngozi showed up to Amaka's compound like she had heard gunshots. Breathless, wrapper twisted up to her knees, one eyebrow raised.
"I heard you almost slapped Chidinma with a slipper this morning."
Amaka, seated under the mango tree fanning her armpits with a broken math notebook, didn't even blink.
"I didn't almost slap her. I planned to. God just held my hand."
Ngozi sat beside her and burst into laughter. "Tell me what happened joor! The whole village is talking. Even Mama Ifeoma said she had to remove her earpiece just to hear better."
Amaka straightened proudly. "I woke up this morning and went to collect my kerosene to boil yam. You know that small yellow gallon my mummy bought last week?"
Ngozi nodded. "The one she hides behind the goat shed."
"Yes! I went there, and boom — emptiness. It was gone! I asked our goat. The goat said, 'Ask Chidinma.'"
Ngozi gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. "She stole it?"
"She borrowed without permission," Amaka said, air quoting like someone who failed CRS. "And when I confronted her, she said, 'I'll return it later.' My sister, is it earrings?!"
Ngozi fell backward laughing, nearly spilling the bowl of okra she brought from home.
"And guess what her mother said?" Amaka continued, voice rising. "She said I was mannerless. That our family has no husband!"
Ngozi sat up, mouth wide open. "She said what?! No husband?? In this economy?!"
"She should thank God my mother came out. Because I was about to say things that would make heaven close."
Ngozi held her stomach from laughing. "Wait! What did your mama say?"
Amaka grinned. "She said, 'If the broom fits, sweep with it.'"
Ngozi screamed. "Mama Amaka for president! That woman is not normal!"
"She even told me to come inside before she disgraced my bones."
They both laughed until their wrappers shifted and Amaka had to adjust hers with one hand while fanning herself with the other.
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A silence settled for a few minutes as they both stared at the blue sky.
Ngozi broke it first. "But that Chidinma ehn… if I catch her near my okra next time, I'll beat her till she starts speaking Yoruba."
"She's always forming innocent. But if you leave her, she'll carry your whole roof."
Amaka paused. "I'm still angry o. But the fight sweet me. Like pepper and crayfish."
Ngozi chuckled. "You're not normal. One day they'll put your mouth inside NTA news."
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