Glass Panes


Glass panes

(c) Folakemi Emem-Akpan

At first, she seemed to be all glass panes and sharp edges. She was caustic, sarcastic, and yet seemed brittle all at once, like if you came too close or pressed too hard, she would fall apart, disintegrate, get blown into the four corners of the earth.

She was a walking contradiction.

But she was a contradiction that he liked, even when her sharp edges seemed to cut him, even when her words sliced his skin and made contact with the broken edges of his own psyche.

The evening he saw her crying, her fists pressed into her eyes, her body shaking with the sobs she tried to suppress, his heart broke within him. He approached with trepidation, but when he held her, she collapsed into him, seemed to want to disappear inside of him.

Turned out she’d just gotten news of her father’s death. And like the contradiction that she was, she was both distressed and relieved at the bad news. Saddened because he was her father, and relieved because her abuser, the one who’d raped her from the time she was six till she was fifteen, was gone from this life and she could be free at last.

Her sharp edges made sense at last. And as she wept in his arms and told this story of her life, he felt a shift in his core, a revelation that this was where he was supposed to be at this point in his life.

We are all broken, he realized at last. And when you find the one whose brokenness matched yours, the one whose jigsaw puzzle of a life corresponded with yours, it had to be a sign that you were meant to be together, to help each other find your way in life, to be the anchor the other needed.

“I am here.” He simply said. It seemed to be all that was needed to be said.


For all the little girls growing up in today’s world. And especially for my daughter who is beautiful just as she is, and who should never conform to anyone’s standard of beauty


Let’s count the many ways that you are perfect

Your hair, halfway between brown and black

Your eyebrows, thick and full

Your eyes, wide and full and filled with light

Your nose, a little too wide, just like your mother’s

Your lips, pink and tiny and a shape never before seen

Your cheeks, full and chubby, ideal contours

Your hue, the shade of a half ripe mango

Your arms and fists, uniquely freckled

Your legs, long and lean and endless

Your feet, huge like your dad’s, yet graceful


Now let’s count the real ways that you are perfect

Your genuine smile, soul-lifting and freely shared

The delight that you find in simple pleasures

Your knack for asking soul searching questions

Your helping hand, always willingly offered

Your sense of family, of togetherness

Your empathy for the underprivileged

Your hard work ethic and tenacity of purpose

Your discerning and probing spirit

Your artistic beautiful soul

And the generosity of your spirit


Daughter of my womb

Apple of my eyes

You have a beautiful container of a body

It might never conform to everyone’s standard

But it is beautiful because it is yours

And better still, your content is perfect

It will never conform to everyone’s expectation

But it is perfect because it is you

You, forged by a perfect God



open hands

January 4 1905

Oyo, Nigeria


She was pushed from a safe and dark warm place into coldness, into the waiting arms of the nearly exhausted midwife. They’d been waiting on her, been desperate for her arrival for more than three days.


For those three days, the cries of Kikelomo, her mother could be heard in the neighboring farm. The days were colder than usual and at night, her five older children could be heard speaking in low tones outside the delivery room. They were petrified that their mother would die, were shaken each time her screams rent the still night air, only went to bed when the last candle was put out.


On the third day, on a surprisingly warm Sunday afternoon, Bose was born. She was wrinkled, bald and her eyes were strangely bright, brighter than that of any baby the midwife had ever delivered.


She was an accident. Her father had wanted no more children yet couldn’t forgo intimacy with his wife. When she’d told him she was expecting a child, he’d smiled grimly and spat out the kola nut in his mouth. That was all he needed to do for her to know he wouldn’t care for the baby.


She was the fourth girl. Had she been a boy, her father might have viewed her birth differently, might have been glad to have two sons rather than one. But since she was a girl, he ignored her thoroughly, went out of his way to do so.


The day after her birth, her mother was back in the kitchen pounding yam and sweating over a pot of Egusi soup.





June 14 2008

Lagos, Nigeria


Exhausted from the walk from the bedroom to the living room, Bose holds on to the walls for support. She is slower than ever yet insists on walking by herself.


She settles her 103 year old frame onto her grandson’s sofa and clicks on the TV remote. TVs have ceased to be a source of amazement to her, for her daughter had bought one as soon as they were mass-produced. Today, Bose is consternated by DVDs, TiVos, and android phones.




She turns at the approach of Maureen, her six-year-old great-granddaughter. Maureen is a striking image of Bose when she’d been a child growing up on her father’s yam farm. There is a bond between the two of them, an unspoken emotion that connects them in a way that no one else understands.


“Your legs are shaking, Mama.” Maureen folds herself into a chair opposite Bose and stares at her questioningly.


For the first time, Bose becomes aware that she is cold and that her sight is more blurred than usual.


“Perhaps I need to lie down awhile.”


This time she gladly receives Maureen’s help in returning to her room because she realises that she needs it. She leans heavily on the little girl and both of them slip at one time that Maureen misses her step.


In the room that now smells perpetually of an old person’s dying flesh, Maureen buries Bose underneath an avalanche of blankets. Yet the old woman cannot stop shivering.


“Are you sure you’re okay, Mama?”


When Bose’s nod gets lost in an onset of tremors, Maureen races out of the room, yells for her mother.


Bose jerks uncontrollably for a while, until the tremors fade, then stop. Her life flashes before her in cinematic blur. Being raised by an indifferent father, sold off into marriage at 15, the loneliness of her marriage, the redemption she’d found in her children, her husband’s death, her children’s marriages, her grandchildren’s birth, then the birth of her great grandchildren.


Suddenly, the images freeze.


She dies as she had been born.





You fell into your present profession by mistake, and in the beginning, your stomach would coil and roil and recoil with shame and disgust and trepidation and fear. But two years doing the same job, earning more than enough to keep body and soul together and a little extra to send home to the family every month has stripped you of shame. Or of disgust, or of fear.

That day began like any other day for you. You rose early, you bathed, you got dressed. Then you made your way from Igando, the Lagos suburbs where you live to Ikeja, its mainland. You waited in line for your interview, same as you have done for the past year. You waited in frustration, and in hope, and in distress, and in anticipation.

By the time you were done, you were sure you were not going to get the job, just like you didn’t get the job the last fourteen times. And by then, the heavens opened and rain fell in torrents, leaving you drenched and all the more miserable.

As Lagos commercial drivers are wont to do on rainy days, they hiked the bus fare. And you stood under the grey clouds, totally bereft, not knowing how you’d get back home. Because all that you had left in your purse was N150.

Ordinarily, it would have been enough to get you home, but not that day.

You waited for a miracle to happen, but after thirty minutes of shivering and being miserable, you had to act. The first person you approached for help was very helpful after you explained that you’d been for an interview and was stranded and couldn’t get back home. He handed you a crisp N500 note, and your eyes filled with tears of gratitude. The N500 was enough to get you home and get you dinner even.

Because it was so easy, and because you needed to attend another interview the following day, you approached someone else with the same story, then another person, then another yet. You were not always successful, but in one hour, you’d collected enough money to live on for three days.

You vowed never to do it again.

But you did do it, because it is temptingly and overwhelmingly easy to do. You’d take a bus away from the suburbs, and into the jungle heartland of Lagos where you were less likely to run into someone you knew. You always made sure to be well dressed, your hair perfectly groomed, your clothes perfectly ironed, your nails exquisitely polished. You always dressed well, and you always spoke impeccable English. You are always the picture of a polite young lady momentarily down on her luck.

In the beginning, your heart would thunder in your ears, and your stomach would knot up something awful. But after a while, you got over yourself. You got relaxed. You knew who to approach and who to not.

You’ve become a professional.

You hadn’t stopped applying for new jobs, and no one was more surprised than you when you did get a job. You’d attended that interview like you did the others, half heartedly and with no hope. But you got an offer letter and you began work the next month.

You worked at your job for two months, but the pay was meager, and couldn’t even begin to cover the most basic of your needs. You tried so hard, you wanted so badly to be legitimate; you needed to be successful at your job, build a career, go places in the corporate world.

But you always came back to the pay. It was too paltry. When you’d been a professional hustler, telling exaggerated tales of how you couldn’t get back home from an interview because of hiked transport costs, you’d made at least four times your present salary every month. And you’d had full control of your time. When you’d been a hustler, you’d not needed to get up as early as five in the morning and be out of the house by six, and not come back until night.

You tried so hard, but the lack of sleep and the demanding hours and the little salary finally got to you.

You stopped going to work. By the fourth month, you’d returned to the streets.

And now, you’re shame-stripped, shame-cured, completely shameless. Your rationale; one has to keep body and soul together somehow. You are aware that you cannot live like this forever, but you are prepared to milk the cow for as long as you possibly can.

This is your second year on the streets, and nobody but you knows. Your neighbours assume that you have a job you go to everyday, although the job must be so flexible for you to sleep in most days.  Your family at Ilesha thinks you’re employed, and you even manage to send something home once in a while. Not that your parents need any support from you, but because you want to.

This morning, the clock strikes nine. It is a bitterly cold and wet June morning, but you are warm. In front of your cable TV, you snuggle under mounds of thick blanket and warm yourself from within with a steaming cup of cocoa. You will stay indoors today, because it is wet and miserable, and you raked in enough funds yesterday to last a week.

You change the channel to African Magic. It is good to be alive.


**I was stopped once by a well dressed young man with tales of how he’d gone for an interview and needed the bus fare back home. I gave him more than he asked for and walked past him, but had to come back that way in ten minutes. Forgetting my face, he approached me with the same story still. This fiction piece is inspired by him, and others like him.


(c) Folakemi Emem-Akpan

I don’t love easily and I don’t scare easily, thanks to a childhood filled with torment at the hands of permanently drunk parents who showed love to each other and to me with numerous ear cuffings and head knocks.

I was forty when I got married; it’d taken me that long to find someone I could be myself with. Maureen was twenty-eight, so petite her shape was almost like a child’s, with eyes so round and wide she seemed to be in a permanent state of wonder. But under that fragile exterior lay a woman of steel, a woman of strong and final decisions.

For the first time in my life, I understood what love was. I felt what love was. I breathed was love was.

I was forty-three when I became a father. Sarah has eyes as big as her mother’s, huge round dimples that are made for kisses. The first time I held her in my arms, I fell in love again. And I swore I would protect this little girl of mine with my life if need be.

For four years, I kept that promise. For four years, we lived a wondrous, tension-free, joy-filled life, all three of us.

Until that day.

For days, Sarah had been complaining of a full tummy, headaches and knee pain. She’d been throwing up her meals and there were purple marks all over her body. Her pediatrician sent us home with antibiotics which did not help at all. By the time we took her back to the doctor, she’d started to break out in night sweats and could not retain any meal that was not liquid in composition.

The diagnosis at the specialist’s numbed me to the very core. Leukemia. Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia. The fan in the room seemed to stop spinning, the clock seemed to stop ticking, the floor started to rotate. The doctor’s voice seemed to come from far away.

I had learnt love from Maureen and Sarah. Now, I was to learn fear.

As they dripped the poison which was to kill the bad white blood cells in her system, fear consumed me. What if she didn’t make it? How do you learn to unlove a child you’ve loved for four years?

As my baby lost her hair and even more of her appetite, as she lost her laughter and her Sarahness; as Maureen lost her wit and her wonder; I died a little each day.

I went through the motions. I was with Sarah each day as she underwent chemotherapy. I held her teddy to her chest when she was too weak to hold it herself. I peppered her feverish forehead with kisses.

In the dead of the night, I held Maureen as her body shook with uncontrollable sobs. I brushed her thick black hair. I made breakfast so she could rest.

And inside, I died a little each day.

In those terrible months, it came to me why some people choose to live lonely lives, why some people choose to die as old maids and old codgers.

It is because love is sometimes a burden too great to bear.

And then Sarah started to get better. The purplish marks faded and disappeared, the headaches lessened in intensity, she started to eat better. A month later, she was allowed to come home. Two months later, they could not find the cancer cells in her blood anymore.

Sarah’s hair grew back, although fluffier and not as dark. Life reverted to normal, almost.

It’s been two years now. Sarah is still in remission, but I have not lost my fear completely. I am always checking her skin for the telltale sign, always second-guessing myself when she does not clear her plate.

And now that we are expecting our second child, I worry about Maureen. I worry about pre-eclampsia, breech birth, post-partum depression.

Love, I say, is a burden, but a delightsome one and the only way to go.



african baby

When your water breaks, you feel a dull roar of panic. You are not afraid of the delivery or scared for the baby. You’ve put to bed five times, and this pregnancy never gave you problems.

It is the scorn on their faces that you fear. It is the snorts and hmphs of ridicule. What makes your heart contract in fear is the fact that the birth of this baby could mean the final lid in the coffin of your condemnation.

From the day your belly started to swell, you suspected that it would be a girl. Again. Just like the others, this baby sat very high in your womb, close to your breasts in that delightful way girls are wont to do.

Soon your contractions are fast and furious and you send for your mother-in-law in the next hut. When she appears at your door, it is with a scowl on her face. This woman has single-handedly run her family for twenty-eight years. Widowed at an early age with four sons and a daughter to care for, she drew on an inner strength no one knew she had, raised her sons to be good farmers, selected wives for each of them, filled her late husband’s compound with dozens of grandchildren, majority of which are boys.

You are the only wife yet to produce an heir for the lineage.

When you got swollen with child this last time, your mother-in-law paid you a midnight visit and laid down the ultimatum. A boy or another wife for dear Leke.

That night, you cried yourself to sleep, your husband’s back turned to you. You don’t blame him. You don’t blame your mother-in-law. It is the way of your people to care for sons more than they do daughters.

Sons carry on the family name. Sons contribute to the family wealth by farming the cocoa plantations. Sons are an honor.

Two of the other wives arrive to help. Soon you are on your back, the leather tong clenched in between your teeth. Screaming during delivery brings bad luck to one’s husband so you bite hard each time the pain hits.

Your legs are held apart, your wrapper discarded as the women probe and prod you. You are instructed to push and you do so with all of your might. You push a second time, a third time.

The wail of a newborn rends the air. The three women fall absolutely silent.

You are exhausted but anxious and ask to see your baby. They don’t show you the face; rather your mother-in-law almost shoves the genitals in your face.

You’ve had a sixth girl.

But instead of the panic that plagued you all through the pregnancy, you suddenly feel a sense of calm. Love washes over you.

It doesn’t matter if you are scorned. It doesn’t matter that Leke will be given a second wife. It doesn’t matter if all your children are girls.

What does matter is that you are a good mother. There is tremendous love in your heart for this little baby just as there is for her siblings.

You cuddle your baby and look up into the eyes of your mother-in-law. She frowns. You smile. She shakes her head. You nod yours.

She walks out of the hut.


***In most African communities, male children are preferred above females and a woman who produces only girls is often ridiculed.

Blank page (Part 2)

Read part 1 here

Blank page (Part 2)

Julie cannot sleep. In the sweltering heat of the night, she has stripped to her panties and has taken a cold shower. But she still cannot sleep.

Somehow, she and Hannah had cleaned up their faces. Somehow, the three girls had sat at the kitchen table and done their homeworks. Somehow, Hannah’s mom never noticed that anything was wrong.

Back home, Julie picked at her dinner and escaped early into the refuge of her room. But sleep did not come. And sleep still has not come.

The agreement is that Hannah will tell her mom that she is fine. By all means, she is going to keep her nausea under control, so that her mom doesn’t have the same idea to give her a pregnancy test. Then, Hannah will tell Bode that she is pregnant. Then Lisa is going to help procure some pills from one of her classmates. This, she had reluctantly agreed to, after much begging from the younger girls. This is because she knows that her life will become so much harder if her parents find out that her younger sister is pregnant.

“Just four little pills. Put them under your tongue, and you’re done. Pregnancy gone.”

Julie had a mind to ask Lisa if she’d used them herself before, but the words wouldn’t go pass her throat.

Despite herself, Julie finally falls asleep, comes wide awake to the insistent sun at her window in the morning.

She and Anthony are waiting before their mom is ready, Anthony out of impatience to be at school already, and she out of an implacable fear that something is about to go wrong with all of their lives.

Hannah and Lisa are also waiting, and this morning, Hannah looks scrubbed clean and not so much sick. Julie is happy that she is keeping to the agreement.

And Lisa keeps to the agreement too, slipping a little pouch of pills to Hannah and Julie as they wait to be picked up in the afternoon.

“Mom’s going out this afternoon. I won’t be in either.” Lisa tells Julie. “So it’s best if Hannah takes the pills when she is in your house. Will your mom be around?”

“No. She has some presentations scheduled for this evening.” Both moms work, Julie’s for an insurance company and she sometimes has sales pitch gatherings in the evenings.


The cold fear grips Julie again. “But what if something goes wrong? Can’t you just stay? You’d know what to do.”

“Nothing can go wrong. It’s simple.” Lisa turns to her sister now. “Hannah, let the pills dissolve under your tongue. Wear some pads. You’ll bleed a little afterwards. Voila, problem solved.”

Hannah exhales, and so does Julie. Both squeamish, both scared at the sight of blood, they nevertheless know that Lisa has helped as much as she can. This is their problem now, and as Lisa has said, nothing can go wrong.




Something does go wrong.

The cramps hurt like a thousand hells, but Hannah cannot cry out because Anthony is in the living room watching a game show. She walks around Julie’s pink bedroom, will sometimes hang on to Julie for support, is sweating and crying silently.

“Shh. You’ll be okay.” Julie keeps saying, solemnly swearing off sex until she is thirty or married, whichever comes first.

In four hours, Hannah has used three pads. The fourth one is now completely soaked, and there is the need for a fifth one.

“This is not normal. Is this normal? Where is Lisa?”

When Julie goes to their house to check, Lisa is not yet back. In the next hour, she checks again four more times. But Lisa is nowhere to be found.

By now, Hannah is on the seventh and last sanitary towel. And the bleeding does not let up. And now she is in a state of pain that cannot be explained. She is lying on the floor of her friend’s bedroom, weakened by the hard work her body is doing, bewildered beyond belief.

“I am going to die, am I not?” She asks again and again.

“Should I call your mom? Or my mom? Do you want to go to the hospital? Is the pain very bad?” Julie is beside herself with fear and exhaustion.

“I don’t want to die.” And now, Hannah starts to cry loud tears. The cries explode out of her in boomerangs and weaken her even more.

Julie is crying too. She doesn’t want her friend to die. Nothing was supposed to go wrong, but obviously the pills are doing what they shouldn’t be doing.

Finally, she runs out of her room. In the living room, Anthony has fallen asleep as he usually does. Julie uses the rotary phone to dial her mother’s cell phone.

“Just come home. Come home, please.” When she hangs up the phone, she finds that her legs can no longer hold her up. She kneels first, then curls up. The tears cannot stop shaking her body.


Julie’s mom tears into the house, the panic threatening to engulf her. Anthony is sprawled on the sofa and Julie is curled up on the floor in the foetal position. They must be dead, she thinks, they are dead.

For an insane moment, she is frozen in her tracks, the irrational thought that if she left and pretended Julie’s phone call never came through, everything would be fine. She’d go back, and when she returned in one hour as previously scheduled, she’d meet Anthony watching TV and Julie and Hannah in Julie’s room, giggling and laughing the way they always do.

Then she sees a shuddery breath escape Julie, then she is by her side, holding her up.

“What is the matter, Jules? What happened? Are you okay?”

Julie dissolves into tears and clings to her mom for life. She has not willingly hugged or kissed her mother in more than a year but tonight, she wants nothing more than the comfort of this woman’s arms, nothing more than to lose herself in the soothing warmth of mom.

“Is Anthony okay? What is the matter, sweetheart?”

“Hannah. Something’s wrong. She’s upstairs.”

Upstairs, Hannah is curled up the same way Julie had been. But this is where the similarity ends. She is not wearing her skirts, only her blouse and bloodied pants. In between her legs, a pool of blood. On the floor all around her, congealed and congealing blood. On Julie’s pink walls, bloody palm prints where she had tried to stand.

Julie stands by the door, unable to enter, watching her mother take in the scene. She hears her mom’s sharp breath intake, then her exhale. She sees the horror dawn on her mother’s face.

“What happened? What happened?” She is bewildered as she steps into a little pool of blood, the more so as she touches Hannah’s clammy skin.

Still by the door, Julie closes her eyes and prays for death. A quick painless one, nothing like the agonising one Hannah must have gone through. Nothing can go wrong. She remembers Lisa’s words. Well, everything has gone wrong, she thinks.




For the next three hours, they all wait in the hospital’s reception as they transfuse almost two litres of blood and try to surgically repair Hannah’s torn uterus.

For these one hundred and eighty minutes, Julie has told the story of what brought them to this point thrice, once to her mother, once to Hannah’s parents, and finally to her father who has been in a perpetual state of disbelief.

Julie’s tears are depleted, but her eyes would not stop hurting. They burn and ache and close uncontrollably. Lisa, the big sister who’d procured the abortion pills, has not cried once. Not even when her father slapped and punched her repeatedly. Not even when their mother had told her, “Pray nothing happens to Hannah, Lisa.”

“Can I see you in my office?” The admitting ER physician finally comes out and beckons to Hannah’s folks, and they follow him mutedly down the hallway.

When Hannah’s mom’s wail rends the still hospital air a minute later, they all know.

Hannah is gone.



There is no funeral. On an unseasonably hot June morning, they bury Hannah in a hastily purchased cemetery plot.

They live life the way they know how best to; Hannah’s parents in unbearable emotional pain and unable to sit in the same room with their elder daughter. The elder daughter in a cloud of uncharacteristic depression. Julie’s parents in subdued tones and unapologetically accusatory towards her. Anthony seemingly oblivious to it all.

And Julie in a catatonic state that would not lift. For several days, she would be sure that her heart was dead and couldn’t feel any hurt. Then a wayward memory would make her feel a heart ache so sharp she would think she was having a heart attack.

And nights are the worst, for she cannot lose herself in sleep. On her bed, in her now green room, she’d still see Hannah’s prints on the wall, her blood on the floor. When she finally manages to fall asleep, nightmares would shoot her out of the bed.



She is no longer in her room. She is sitting at the dining table, doing her math homework. And she is still making the same mathematical error, as the events of the past year unravel in her mind.

Her notebook is so rough now from the writing and erasing. She tears off the page and is confronted by a blank page. A new start, a chance to correct her mistakes.