“Ready?” Mama asked.

Sofi and Dede had left. The movers had almost finished loading their truck. The house was empty. I was standing in the kitchen looking at the mango and pawpaw trees Daddy had planted in the backyard and wondering if the new family that was going to move in would keep them or cut them down. I wondered if the kids in the family would know they could use the seeds of the flamboyant tree for a bean bag.

I wondered if they’d see the broken lower branch of the mango tree and wonder what had happened to it. They wouldn’t know I’d nagged Daddy for a swing when I was six. Daddy had got tired of my nagging and rigged an old tyre onto the lowest branch for me. I came home the next day with almost half my class after boasting in school about my new swing. Instead of sitting on the swing like we were supposed to, five of us had stood on it. Sofi and Dede were right there in the thick of things with me. We kept shouting for those on the ground to ‘push, push’ and they did. After one of their pushes, we came tumbling down like Humpty

Dumpty with the broken branch falling on top of us. Luckily, we escaped with minor scrapes and bruises, but Daddy had said no more swings for me.

I wondered if they would fix the broken eaves over the back porch. If they left it the way it was, they would find out that a dove couple came to nest and lay eggs five times each year. Mama came to stand by me. She put her hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. She took it off without saying a word and walked away. It was not that I intended hurting her, it was just that . . . that . . . I resented her for making us leave. I had grown up in this house; thrown my baby teeth onto the roof of this house; had my first pet rabbit in this house but I had forgotten to lock its cage one day. The next morning it had burrowed its way out of our compound. I had even cooked my first meal in this house and had had my first somewhat awkward kiss by the garage in this same house. But what hurt most was that leaving felt like we were leaving Daddy behind; like he didn’t matter anymore; like the part of our life that had had him in it was over.

I sighed and walked through the house one last time. In each room, there was a memory that came back to me. In the living room I could picture Daddy sprawled on the sofa with his long legs hanging over the ends, remote control in his hand, engrossed in a football game. At the dining hall, he was sitting at the head of the table forcing himself to chew burnt fried plantain that I had left unattended while it was on the fire. After swallowing he had said, “This is superb; this is fantastic!”

I remembered the time I caught him eating a bar of Golden Tree chocolate in the kitchen. Mama doesn’t allow us to eat sweets or unhealthy food. She would have been furious to find Daddy eating chocolate. He had hidden the bar behind him and stopped chewing when I entered.

“What are you eating?” I had asked.

“Me? Nothing?” he had mumbled with his mouth full.

“Daddy, you’re lying. Open your mouth.”

He had swallowed and used his tongue to run over the front of his teeth before opening it.

“What do you have in your hands?”

Daddy had brought out his right hand and showed me his empty palm. His other hand was still behind him. I had rolled my eyes. “Your other hand.”

He had begun sending the right hand behind him when I said, “Keep that where I can see it.” He had brought out the second hand with the barely eaten bar of chocolate. “Larger half,” I had said.

He had laughed and divided the chocolate. “That’s very good.” Daddy and I had this game we played where we tried to outdo each other by saying oxymora.

“I’m not just saying it for the game. I really want the larger half.”

“In order to avoid a minor crisis with your Mom, I’ll give in this time,” Daddy had said handing over the larger half of the chocolate.

“That’s your only choice,” I had said warming up to the game.

“In my unbiased opinion, you’re really getting good at this game.”

“You’re clearly confused and I consider that seriously funny,” I had said triumphantly.

The person who could use two or more oxymora in a sentence was the automatic winner. We had just finished our illicit snack when we heard Mama’s car at the gate. Daddy had quickly placed the chocolate wrapper in a black polythene bag, tied the bag tight and dropped it into the dustbin. Then we had both rushed upstairs to brush our teeth. If Mama had wondered why our breaths were fresh and minty in the middle of the day, she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t suspected a thing.

I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat but couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down. He was gone and was never coming back and it was all my fault. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. My left hand began to ache. I took two ibuprofen tablets, picked up my overnight bag and began pumping the rubber ball that the physiotherapist said was to help my fingers regain function.

I walked out of the only home I’d ever known.

***

Tell us what you think: What is hard about moving homes? Why do you think it is particularly hard for Yayra to leave her home?