The Children of Iya Meta

The pungent smell of aboniki hits me hard as soon as I walk into Iya Meta’s room, like the resounding slaps I got from Iya Fatai during my teenage years when I was nothing but trouble. “Eku jókó,” I say to her, but she acts as though she cannot hear me, her eyes fixed on the little television in front of her.

Wrinkles from old age had taken over her face, hands, and most of her body, but they had failed to diminish her captivating beauty. “Despite the challenges, it was a great celebration; most of the guests have left now,” I say, watching for some reaction. But she responds with nothing more than an empty “Oooo,” her expression blank.

Iya Meta had requested changes to her room, a decision I had strongly disagreed with. Left to me, there was no point; we would only end up wasting money that was far from surplus.

And so in return, I receive little or no responses from her. I grab the little wooden stool by her bedside and sit. She might be upset, but I know she is grateful for my presence. As I watch Sanyeri and other popular Yoruba actors grace the screen, I can’t help but think about the level of imagination Iya Meta must be using. Old age stole her sight two years ago, yet every day she sits in the same position, staring at the little square object before her. How she was to enjoy changes to her room, a room she could no longer see, I had no idea.

Shortly after, I hear Iya Meta snoring softly, so I quietly excuse myself to spend the rest of the evening with my siblings. As I step out of Iya Meta’s room, I glance around, and everything seems so small. This house in which my father had built after many years of saving beneath his mattress was old, yet beautiful in its own way. There were eight rooms in total, four on each side, facing one another in the familiar "face me, I face you" style. One end of the long corridor between the rooms led to the back of the house, where the kitchen and bathroom were located, while the other end opened into the massive living room, with a dining corner, demarcated by rows of floor-to-ceiling local beads, all strung together with strong strings.

I smile, though it’s not a wide one, as memories both joyful and nadir flood my mind. I make my way out, passing by people packing up the tables and chairs that had recently accommodated the guests. Mr. Kay, the DJ we've known for many years, stood in his corner, fiddling with his music equipment. Maids, their brooms almost as tall as they were, swept the floor while gossiping quietly. Modupe, the eldest of us, sat nearby, bobbing her head to the music like an agama lizard, her gele still tightly secured on her head. Moyosore, one of the triplets, typed aggressively on his phone, occasionally smiling, and Mojisola, another of the triplets, was dancing, her waist swaying left and right as she held a bottle of stout.

Iya Meta had given birth to five of us, and I was the last. My father had named me Mobolaji “I woke up with wealth” for around the time of my birth; he had acquired wealth like never before in his lifetime. I pause and think of Moyosola, the last of the triplets, and I feel nothing but pain.

I think back to this morning, when we struggled with simple decisions, and wonder how our lives and bond as siblings got so complex. I’m about to sit when Mr. Kay starts playing one of my favorite songs, “Òrè rẹ̀ díẹ̀ bínú bínú wóní mo kú… Mí ò bá wọ́n wá, èmí ò ní bá wọ́n lọ… Ọ̀tọ̀tọ̀ lárìn wa....” so I push my thought aside and join Moji, letting the music sweep me away as we dance into the night.

Today had been bittersweet, for we had just laid our dear father, Mr. Bamidele Akinfenwa, to rest.

Modupe Akinfenwa

Iya Meta had named Modupe "I praise God"  herself, for her arrival had been nothing short of a miracle. After enduring several heartbreaking miscarriages over a span of four years, the day that Modupe was born was one filled with celebration in the Akinfenwa compound. People came and went, offering celebratory messages and gifts. Two large cows, bought from the popular Sabo market in Ibadan, were slaughtered and the entire neighborhood gathered to eat, dance, and drink until they could no longer.

Iya Meta and my father loved Modupe dearly, providing for her as much as they could, driven by the fear that the universe might not be so kind if they tried for another child. She was beautiful, her skin a rich blend of copper and her nose perfectly round, a likeness of my father’s. She was always active but her constant need for attention worried everyone. She couldn’t stand being left alone and would wail day and night if Iya Meta was not within her line of sight. Iya Fatai, in particular, complained about this behavior, but her concerns were quickly dismissed.

My parents, both educated, though my father more so, had big plans for Modupe’s future. He was adamant that she would attend school and earn a degree, likely from the University of Ife. But life, in its many ways, did not care for your plans. Modupe dropped out in senior secondary school two, complaining that school was too hard and that she’d rather open a shop and sell goods. “At least Mum had one, and was doing very well with it,” she had said.

My father wasn’t happy about this, but Iya Meta, ever understanding, often told him that one could make it in life not just through education alone. In the end, he let sleeping dogs lie, and Modupe began helping Iya Meta in her shop, learning the ropes and preparing to open one of her own.

While Modupe's schoolmates celebrated their graduation and their acceptance into several universities across Nigeria, she celebrated the opening of her new shop in Dugbe, not far from home. Iya Meta was there, surrounded by a few of her friends, as they opened the shop and offered a prayer over it “Ẹ jẹ́ kí ọjà yi jẹ́ ọ̀nà àràmàndà fún ìjọba àti fún àwọn ọmọ orílẹ̀-èdè wa," they prayed. My father, however, was absent, staying at home filled with regret, as the money he had intended to use for her school fees had been spent on what he considered a silly shop.

As luck would have it, Iya Meta became pregnant after many years, and to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t just deliver one child, but three bouncing babies. The entire family was elated, everyone except Modupe. Jealousy gnawed at her heart as she realized that the resources and attention that had always been hers would now be divided among four. She had even overheard Iya Meta telling one of her friends that she might have to close her shop for a while to help with the new babies. That thought alone made her furious.

To avoid this, Modupe announced to Iya Meta and her father over dinner that she would like to get married. She explained that she was now old enough, capable of bearing children, and certain that marriage was the next step for her. In her mind, if she were in her husband’s house, her shop could stay open, someone would care for her, and she wouldn’t have to tend to not one, but three babies. My father, however, was exasperated at the sound of this. “Tí ọmọ bá fẹ́ mọ ohun tó wà nínú àgbo, ó gbọdọ̀ kọ́ ẹ̀kọ́ láti ọwọ́ àgba…” (If a child wants to know what’s in the calabash, they must learn from the elders,) he shouted as he walked out of the room his pot belly leading the way. But Modupe's mind was made up, and there was no one who could convince her otherwise.

Not long after that disagreement, Modupe returned home with Mr. Folahan, the neighborhood plumber, a man almost a decade older than her, announcing that he was the man she wanted to marry. My father wept bitterly, asking God what had come over his child as no one, not even the wisest of elders, could speak sense to her. Accepting defeat, Iya Meta and my father reluctantly allowed her to go ahead with the marriage.

From that union, Modupe married three more times, as all her husbands eventually bundled her home like a Christmas goat, due to her bareness. Yet, in spite of this, one could argue that she was truly blessed in her path as a businesswoman. She was able to open three more shops across Ibadan from that little one in Dugbe. Though, at this point, she had moved so far away from home, hardly visited, and grew increasingly distant from all of us. It was as if her shops were her only family.

One could even say that having siblings was one of the worst things that ever happened to her, as she made sure to remind us, especially Moyosore, often.

Moyosore Akinfenwa

It was said that Moyosore "I rejoice in God's gift" had been the eager one to enter this fascinating world, allowing his sisters to follow behind. My father was agog with excitement for he couldn’t wait to play football and go on adventures with him. Moyosore was only about five years old when the title “Ọkùnrin ilé” was constantly called to his ears. He was a good son who grew up to take that role very seriously, always looking after everyone, especially Moyosola.

He was an avid reader, always lost in books, flipping the pages with intense focus, his round glasses resting crookedly on the bridge of his nose. My father was immensely proud of this and would often boast to his friends that his son would one day become a lawyer or even a professor, like his own father. In which his friends would respond, "Amin l'óru, kó jẹ́ su."

One afternoon, while my father sat in his usual spot with a Tribune newspaper in hand, Moyosore informed him that he wished to visit and live in one of the foreign countries often mentioned in his many books. He explained that there was more to life than Ibadan and could not wait to finish his studies so he could begin preparations.

My father looked at him intently and simply said, “Okay,”  hoping that this was just another fleeting dream that little children often had, one that would soon be forgotten. He couldn’t fathom his beloved son leaving for a strange land where he knew no one, unable to enjoy the many delicious meals Iya Meta prepared. He fretted and became even more concerned about how Iya Meta would react to this sudden declaration.

Not long after, Moyosore graduated from the University of Ibadan with a degree in Biology, defying my father’s career dreams for him. My father, however, beamed with pride, grateful that the triplets had managed to finish university, unlike Modupe. A grand celebration was held in which family members and friends partied into the early hours of the morning except Modupe, who didn’t bother to show up. Her absence stinging harder than any bee sting.

Like any other graduate in Nigeria, the next course of action was to serve the country through the popular National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), founded by one of Nigeria's past military leaders, Yakubu Gowon. Moyosore, however, explained to the family that he didn’t see the point in wasting his time helping to rebuild a country still trapped in a state of “meticisina statism, cankerous tribalism, ecocentric chauvinism ….catalytic parapoism and state brigadish”. Instead, he preferred to pursue his dream of going abroad, where he could chart his own path.

This left Iya Meta crying, “Omo mi ooo,” for several nights unable to fathom that her son, would leave. Moyosola, in particular, was disappointed as they had spent several nights planning how they would serve together at NYSC, and now she felt betrayed that he was going to abandon her without ever mentioning his plans to leave the country.

Everyone begged my father to talk sense into him and convince him to stay, but he remained silent.

One could say he had spent several years preparing for the moment when this proposal would surface once more.

By the end of that year, Moyosore had found his way to Germany, not by his own might, but by the strength of my father’s money, which he had stolen after being refused financial help. My father was deeply saddened by this behavior, responding with nothing more than a quiet, "Kí Ọlọrun tọ́jú rẹ." This marked the beginning of my father’s decline in health, for in the days that followed, he carried nothing but sad eyes behind his glasses.

Moyosore did not return home for many years, not even when we relayed the news about Moyosola. He still continues to live in Germany, working with animals. A vet doctor, he called himself, to which Iya Meta replied, “Ṣe ìyè ẹranko ṣe pataki ju ti ènìyàn lọ? ” We do not know what part of Germany he lives in, nor do we know if he has a family as he barely shares anything about himself or his life.

Every day, I think to myself that there must be something in the air, water, or food abroad that makes anyone it swallows forget their roots and their blood.

Moyosola Akinfenwa

Moyosola "I rejoice for the gift of God" was a difficult child during her tender years. She was the one, out of the three, who was left alone in the humming incubator at the hospital, while her siblings were already home, peacefully sleeping in their cots. Iya Meta, heart heavy with worry, would hurry back to the hospital after nursing the other babies, her legs pacing back and forth as she sat by the incubator, watching her tiny daughter. Long into the night, she would stay there, until my father would eventually come to gently drag her away.

Iya Fatai had once remarked that Moyosola was an Abiku, a child of spirits, who probably fought her way into this world alongside her siblings. She was always ill, her frail little body so thin that it reminded Iya Meta of the skeletal branches of the mango trees outside the house. Every day, the whispers of strangers made it worse,“Ṣe kò ń fún ọmọ yìí ni ounje?” they would say. The words piercing Iya Meta’s soul, leaving her feeling helpless, like a mother who could not do the bare minimum of feeding her child.

Iya Meta had tried many things, but nothing seemed to work with Moyosola, apart from Akara. She had a singular love for Akara and would sometimes faint from the lack of it or wail for hours, her cries pinching at everyone’s ears. Not until one fateful night when Iya Meta walked into Moyosola’s room and found Moyosore, sitting by her bed, softly reading aloud from one of his many storybooks, all while feeding her small spoonfuls of yam porridge. Her small hands were even reaching out, grasping for the spoon more eagerly than she had ever before.

The connection between the stories and her finally eating was indeed a mystery to everyone. As after then, Moyosola began to thrive, looking like the healthy child everyone constantly prayed for.

As the years passed, she grew stronger but was still vulnerable, often falling incredibly sick at random times. Sometimes her sickness would go for long stretches of days, her cries, clutching everyone by their necks. Still, Iya Meta would sit by her “Ọlọrun, má jẹ kí n sunkún fún ọmọ mi, ràn mí lọwọ láti wẹ́ ẹ." praying while staring intently at her. Moyosola was so much like her,  the way her nose was slightly pointed, the way her head was full of thick, dark hair, just like hers. It was as though Iya Meta was taking care of her own self, but in a smaller, more fragile form.

Despite everything, Moyosola was a vibrant child who loved planes and would often talk about becoming a pilot. In which Iya Meta would respond “Iṣẹ́ ọkùnrin” dismissively. Regardless, she survived secondary school just like her siblings and later graduated with a degree in Mechanical Engineering, her pilot dream never leaving her mind.

That was, until Moyosore left. The weight of his absence affected her with such intensity as if he was the oxygen and the blood she needed to survive everyday life. Did she not have her own friends? Her own life outside of his? The family wondered.

“I understand you miss him, but you must continue with your life,”  my father would constantly tell her, but it did nothing. Slowly, she got worse, gradually turning into a shadow of herself. She hardly ate and did not even attempt to go for her NYSC. When Moyosore remembered to call home, she refused to talk to him.

Months later, it was my father who walked into her empty room and found the note “Always with you,” carefully hidden under a mug she had cherished. This made Iya Meta fall into a depression that none of us could fix. She did not go to her shop, she hardly left her room, and when seen, looked like those mad women that roamed about Ring Road.

All avenues to find her were in vain, and till today, we still don’t know where she went. Eventually, we all began to think that a dead body, at least, would bring closure. This way, we would know where she was.

Mojisola Akinfenwa

No one could beat Mojisola "I wake up to wealth" in a dance competition. Her body always found a way to move beautifully to any rhythm. Left, right, she would sway. Her legs, arms, and waist, speaking a thousand words her mouth could not, leaving everyone in awe. I could hardly blame Dapo. Iya Meta often said that Mojisola had inherited this gift from Iya Fatai, her mother, but it was hard to confirm, especially with Iya Fatai's bad knees.

It was in one of these dance studios in Oluyole that Mojisola met Dapo while in secondary school. My parents, especially my father, were not very encouraging of their relationship. He feared that if not properly managed, another Modupe would develop. Iya Meta, on several occasions, was seen dragging Mojisola out of several dance studios by her ear, wailing at the top of her lungs. But the shouting and ear-pulling were no use; Mojisola always found her way back. Eventually, Iya Meta turned to prayer. "Ọlọrun má jẹ́ kí ọmọ mi dá ìdà kù," she would say, looking up to the ceiling. “One day, you will come and dance in my own studio,” Mojisola would tease in response.

Fortunately, Mojisola’s education was not affected. She graduated with flying colors after secondary school and went on to finish at the University of Lagos with a degree in Mass Communication. While everyone worried about Moyosore's dream of going abroad, Mojisola remained largely unfazed, as she and Dapo, her boyfriend of many years, were planning to move to Ghana right after completing their NYSC.

She was thrilled when Moyosore’s plan to leave for Germany became the talk of the house, thankful that there would be little or no backlash for her. Besides, Ghana was just a neighboring country, not across the vast oceans she had learnt about in school. “So, you’re leaving too?” Moyosola asked one hot afternoon, after our bellies had protruded from the pounded yam Iya Meta had fed us. “Oh, so now you remember I’m your sister? Is it not your brother you clung to all these years?” Mojisola snapped back, shutting the door in her face.

I remember that day as Moyosola stood in front of her door, fighting back tears.

NYSC soon came to an end, and Mojisola finally married Dapo. Their wedding was the talk of the town, as neighbors far and wide swooned over their young love, which had managed to survive several hurdles. She had danced like she had never before. Her buttocks moving beautifully in her iro, the embodiment of joy and celebration.

Not long after, she moved to Ghana with Dapo, where they were blessed with two children. Everything seemed to be going well until Mojisola returned home, two Ghana-must-go bags in hand, weeping uncontrollably. “Kí ló ṣẹlẹ? ... Àwọn ọmọ nko?” Iya Meta asked, trying to calm her down, but she was nothing but hysterical. Her long legs kicking against the earth.

Dapo had thrown her out of the house, bringing another woman into their home and refusing to let her take the children. Devastated, she traveled back to Ghana several times to beg for them but Dapo refused. Accepting defeat, she settled for visiting once a quarter to see them. Until, during one of her visits, she arrived at the house to find that the children were nowhere to be found.

Iya Meta, understanding of her pain, volunteered several times to go to Ghana with her to plead. Yet, it yielded no results. What Dapo was punishing her for, the family could not understand, and all inquiries about what Mojisola might have done to upset him fell on deaf ears. In her grief, she retreated to herself and turned to the church, spending nearly all her time praying day and night. And when not at church, was caught talking to herself and to inanimate objects, pretending they were her children. Iya Meta had even heard her having a conversation with the manikin head, pretending it was Moyosola.

“Ó ti yá wéré” Iya Meta would wail to my father, her tears almost falling on his feet, begging him to take action, to speak with Dapo man-to-man. But my father, always silent and withdrawn, did nothing. The sadness in his eyes deepening with each passing day.

Slowly, Mojisola began to turn into someone we could not recognize. Most times she spent her days on the streets of Ghana, asking for nothing but her children. She hardly smiled and did not dance for a very long time. Not until a few years ago, when someone who resembled Kitan, her daughter, walked into our compound, in which Mojisola screamed, “Jesu Kristi!” before fainting.

The family was overjoyed, and for a fleeting moment, I thought, just maybe, Mojisola could start living again. Maybe she could even finally open that dance studio she constantly dreamed of. But so much time had passed. She had spent so many years simply existing, like a roaming spirit caught between worlds, doing nothing, having no work, no relationships, and no attempts at reclaiming her life.

I could almost understand the pain she had endured, but not fully — I was never a mother.

Mobolaji Akinfenwa

It was as if the universe had taken pity on my father. For he bore the weight of life's burdens on his shoulders, like a camel heavily loaded for a long, grueling journey. One evening, my father arrived early from work, his face beaming with an almost childlike joy. “Olúwa ti dáhùn àdúrà wa,"  he said, holding Iya Meta's hands. He announced to her and anyone within earshot that he had received a promotion and was about to embark on a new business venture with one of his long-time friends at the bank. Iya Meta, overwhelmed with joy, dropped the beans she had been peeling and began to sing and dance, rubbing her protruding belly.

“Mobolaji” my father said, his eyes shining with a brightness that hadn’t been there in what felt like a long time. “Ẹ̀yẹn ni orúkọ ọmọ ná."

I must admit, I was truly blessed and received nothing but the best. I attended the finest schools, and I even had the privilege of completing my university degree abroad, a feat that shocked my family, especially after they witnessed my father's fear and disappointment when Moyosore had left for Germany. "Ọmọ tó ti bajẹ́," Iya Fatai would say whenever I received anything I requested, to which Iya Meta would respond, "Kò sí ẹ̀san fún ìjìyà," before showering me with praises. "Olowo orí mi, Oko mi” she would say as she placed several kisses on my head and cheeks.

Among all things, I would like to think I was a decent child. I understood the situation with my family and tried my best not to go looking for trouble. Moreover, Iya Meta’s happiness was of utmost importance to me. It was vital that I did everything I could to take care of her and not bring her sorrow. One could say that aside from fulfilling whatever destiny the universe had set for me, another purpose of mine was to care for my mother the best way I could, and I took that responsibility seriously.

To get away from my family and the harsh reality we had to deal with on a day-to-day basis, I spent a lot of time at one of the popular motor parks, just people-watching. I would sit at a distance and make up stories for anyone who caught my attention. I imagined where they were heading or where they had come from. I tried to guess their occupations based on how they dressed and carried themselves. When they smiled, I smiled; when they expressed sadness, I mirrored their sentiment.

All of this, from a distance, until one day, I saw the most beautiful girl my eyes had ever been lucky enough to behold.

She stood there beside her mother, carrying a bag far too large for her petite frame, watching as her mother haggled with the bus conductor over change. I’m not sure where the boldness came from, but within seconds, I found myself in their line of sight, volunteering to help carry their bags. A beautiful girl like her should not be burdened with such heavy loads, I had thought. She smiled at me shyly and quickly looked away, her ivory skin radiating elegantly in the sunlight. I remember thinking that this was a smile I would want to continue to see for the rest of my days.

Her name was Ranti, and she became my world. Well, until sadness took up residence in our home. I did my best to send that tenant packing, to chase it as far away as possible so that my life, our life, could continue to blossom. But some losses sting too much; they dig too deep.

“We can't continue this relationship,” were the words Ranti spoke to me three years into our serious courtship. Words that tied my stomach in knots. I understood her reason, that bearing children would be difficult for us if we weren’t lucky, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t see how I would continue to live in a world so treacherous without Ranti.

Years later, we got married and were blessed with a bouncing baby girl who was the spitting image of Ranti. That day, holding her fragile little body in my arms, was the best day of my life. Until the doctor entered the ward, his coat rumpled, and explained all the things we would need to prepare for, as our beautiful, bouncing baby girl was SS.

“We shall figure it out,” I said to Ranti with pleading eyes. And for a while, it seemed that we were, until the crises began. Soon, we found ourselves spending weeks in and out of the hospital and spending all the money we had managed to save. Weeks constantly watching our baby girl suffer in pain. Seven years, just seven years, was all it took, and our precious girl left us, continuing her journey beyond our world.

Ranti was shattered, and so was I.

She blamed me, and I understood why. "Let’s not go through with this. Let’s try again," she said one night as I put my ear on her stomach. I couldn’t bring myself to answer, but finally, I whispered a simple "No." I couldn’t. That was our child. If only I had put my selfishness in check.

I tried to get us all the help we could, to move on, to heal, but nothing worked. Then, one night, I woke up to find Ranti standing over me with a knife. “I am sorry,” she said, and then walked out the door never to return. I had lost all the best parts of my world.

At that point, it seemed pointless to fight the tenant anymore. And now, even to this day, I still dine with him from time to time.

<<<<>>>>>

“Bolaji…? " Moyosore taps me, snapping me back into reality. “Ṣó máa jẹ́ ìgbìn.... Moji brought some?” “Oh, I thought it was all gone the way Sister Modupe was shouting from earlier. Who even gave the Fadokun’s snail?”

“I wonder ohh, those miscreants,” Mojisola responds, and we all laugh.

We sit there long into the night, sharing stories about our childhood, and I soak in the moment because heaven knows when we'll next gather like this, in peace.

Regardless, I hope our lives continue to blossom, despite whatever challenges life plans to throw our way.

Sage Roses ❁