A Collection of Short Stories

Jumoke Omisore
We only die once
“She did all this to you?” AJ asks, gaping at the bruised skin on my legs where the duvet
does not reach. I want to tell him about the leathery welts on my bottom where my father’s
floggings often land when my stepmother feeds him lies about me. I want to tell him about
the rage in my father’s eyes when he hears those lies.
Sometimes I wonder if the lies are true—the way she tells them, I feel sorry for my
stepmother because the girl in her stories makes her home sound like a hell of an edifice.
“Let me get some water from the tap so you can wash your face,” AJ says and leaves the
room. I want more than water—I need food, water and warmth. I imagine what I will do
to milky tea and freshly baked bread when I lay my hands on them and the yearning only
serves to stir my hunger.
I wonder why none of the neighbours came to my rescue while I squatted all day beside
the gates, until darkness descended upon the streets. My father had simply walked past
me when he returned from his job as a taxi driver. He’d gone straight into the apartment
that had refused to become my home. I came to live there after my grandmother’s death
four years ago. At first, the new arrangement worked. Until the day I broke my stepmother’s
oldest glassware.
I glance at the wall clock; it is two o’clock in the morning. AJ returns with a small bucket of
water. He hands me a towel before disappearing again. The water is warm and I savour it as
I slowly dip the towel and dab my face. I do not wince because I am acquainted with pain.
There is a mirror directly across the room. It shows my reflection, the crevices in my collar
bones and the hollows in my cheeks. I notice my shaven head is smaller than it used to be
when I was eight and lived with Grandmother. My lower lip is now twice its size and caked
with dried blood.
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