The moment Amara opened her eyes, she sighed deeply at the realization that she had yet again woken up to a new day.
For the past two months, she has had only one thought: to go to sleep and not wake up.
She had thought about taking her life a couple of times, but she was much too scared to take action.
She couldn't stand the thought of drinking any poison. She didn't want to suffer any stomach pain or any discomfort. She didn't want to slash her wrists either. That would be too painful, and she didn't want to bleed to death slowly. She didn't want to jump off any buildings or jump in front of moving vehicles and risk not dying or sustaining painful injuries before dying.
And she was Christian enough not to want to die and go to hell fire because she killed herself. So, for the last two months, she had been praying to God every night and asking him to kill her.
How hard could that be? Didn't the Bible say that He would do anything we asked for in His name for us? So, why wasn't He taking her life? Why did she keep waking up every morning to this miserable life? If God wasn't going to provide the help she needed, why was He keeping her alive?
She knew she should say her morning prayers as usual but couldn't bring herself to pray. Her mouth felt heavy, and her heart was heavier.
What had prayer done for her all the time she had been praying? Her mother had been down with breast cancer for a while now, and there was no money for her treatment.
Her father was late. He had died four years ago when she was only twenty… not that he would have had money for the treatment had he been alive anyway. He had been a poor Okada man.
She was the first child among five children, the typical case of poor people having more children than they could feed.
After secondary school at the community government school, she had been registered at a tailoring shop with little money and plenty abeg, and thankfully, that was why she now had something to fetch her little money.
After moving to Warri a year ago, she had been alternating between working as a cleaner and sewing with other people's machines to save up money to buy her own sewing machine. Yet, the little money she had managed to gather had been swallowed by her mother's medical bill.
Every day, her mother and younger ones called to remind her they needed money. What was she supposed to do? Who was she supposed to call since God was not answering her?
Sitting up on the mat, she looked around her one-room apartment. The only things she had in the room were her mat, a wooden table with a broom and packer under it, a stool that the former occupant had left behind, a Ghana must-go bag containing her clothes, two twenty-liter gallons for storing water, two buckets, a stove in one corner, and a couple of cooking and eating utensils.
As little as these things were, she was proud that she lived in such a place. It was better than the mud house her family lived in back home in the village.
She had imagined that her sewing machine would take up some of the space in the room, but now she wasn't sure anymore if that dream was going to be realized anytime soon.
Amara sighed loudly. Just as she started to rise to get ready to step out for the day, her China torchlight phone rang out so loudly that her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
She didn't need to check the caller's identity to know who was calling at that time of day. It was her mother.
She sighed deeply before picking up the phone and receiving the call.
"Good morning, mummy," Amara greeted in their native tongue.
"Good morning, Ada'm. How are you?" Her mother asked in their native tongue.
Amara sighed inwardly, "I'm fine. How is your body today?"
"I'm in God's hands. Please can you send us money? Anything at all will be fine. There is no food at all in the house. We soaked garri to bed. And your sister, Nkoye, is sick. I think it is malaria and typhoid. Even Emeke is showing small signs that he will soon start," she said, and Amara shut her eyes.
Oh, God! She wished she could complain. She wished she could yell and tell them that she didn't have any money and had gone to bed on an empty stomach. She wished she could tell them that living in Warri did not mean she had money. But she couldn't bring herself to do that.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as tears rolled down her cheeks, "I've heard you. I will see what I can do by the end of the day."
The moment she hung up the call, she broke into a sob.
How was she going to get the money to send to them? Where was she going to get it from when she didn't have transportation fare to go to the places she had to clean? What crime did she commit to be have been born a first child in such a poor family?
Being born a first child in a wealthy family was a blessing. But being the first in a poor family? That had to be a curse— a punishment for a past offense.
After crying, she pulled herself together as usual and got ready to step out of the house.
As she packed the Bubu dress she had made for her pastor's wife, whose house she was going to clean first, she considered how to ask the woman for all the money she owed her.
Her pastor's wife had been buying so many bubus from her without paying, and she felt reluctant to ask her for the money each time. Even the voluntary cleaning she did for them once a week, they had never once given her mother for her transport fare.
There was no harm in asking for financial help from them, was there?
Thirty minutes later, she arrived at the pastor's house, and the moment the woman opened the door, she smiled at her, "Sister Amara, you're here. God bless you. Please come inside," she said, holding out the door for her to enter.
"Good morning, mummy," Amara greeted politely before going in.
"Good morning. Are you okay? Your face looks dull," her pastor's wife said as she led her in.
"My mother is sick. She was diagnosed with breast cancer…"
"Ah! The devil is a liar. Malatana Shabraabra!" The woman spoke in tongues. "The devil has failed. She doesn't have breast cancer in Jesus' name!"
"Amen," Amara responded and then continued, "she needs urgent medical help…"
"Ah! Sister Amara. I said she doesn't have cancer in Jesus' name. That means the cancer has gone. Don't you have faith?" She cut in.
Amara sighed inwardly, deciding not to pursue the matter further. "I brought the dress you asked for."
"Ah!" The woman's eyes lit up as she snatched the bag from her and immediately took the Bubu out of it.
"Ah! Blessed hands Amara. Number one fashion designer! This dress is too fine!" She hailed Amara.
'Nuh be these praises I go chop,' Amara thought within her as she flashed a stiff smile.
"I was wondering if I could get the money for the dresses today," Amara said, noticing how the woman's smile faltered and slowly disappeared.
"You want me to pay?" She asked, and Amara blinked in surprise.
"I sell the dresses. It's not for free," Amara said, and the woman frowned.
"Ah. I thought you were dashing me. I can't pay for these clothes. The materials are not even to my taste. I was only wearing them to encourage you. My tailor sews better than this," she said, and Amara's jaw dropped.
"Mummy…"
"How can you ask someone you call your mummy to pay for clothes you sew? Sister Amara, when did you become so money-conscious? Do not store up treasures on earth. Stop being so attached to money," she chided.
Amara stared at her speechlessly, her heart boiling with anger. She had the words right at the edge of her tongue to say to this wicked woman who called herself a pastor's wife, but she held back. Instead, she rose and picked up the dress from the couch.
"Why are you folding it?" The woman asked, bewildered as she watched Amara neatly fold the dress.
"I'm going to sell it to people that will pay. People that the dress is their taste," Amara said, picking up her bag to leave.
"Are you not cleaning the house again?" The woman asked as Amara started heading for the door.
"No need. Why clean your house when you're going to heaven? Leave it as it is," Amara said, walking away without turning back.