– Thunder Wears Slippers Too
Dust and Silk
The day had been long, the laughter loud, and Amaka was full of it — the kind of joy that fills your belly like cold fufu after fasting.
But by the next morning, the air felt different.
The sky wasn't crying, but it was grey — the kind of grey that made goats silent and kept chicken under benches. Amaka stepped out, wrapper tied lazily around her chest, hair net halfway on her head.
She stretched and yawned. "Today looks boring."
She didn't know that the day was waiting to slap her like her mother on a Sunday morning when she spills rice water.
Inside the house, Mama Amaka was seated on a stool, chewing groundnuts slowly — too slowly.
Amaka paused. "Mummy?"
Her mum didn't respond immediately.
That's when she knew something was off.
"Good morning…" she said again, drawing the words out.
Mama Amaka turned with a kind of softness Amaka had only seen when someone was being extra polite to a police officer.
"Morning, my daughter."
No sarcasm? No insult? No eye-roll?
It was giving suspicious.
"Mummy are you sick?"
"No o."
Amaka narrowed her eyes.
"Are you… fasting?"
"No."
"Mummy you dey owe anybody?"
Mama Amaka looked away and sighed.
Then… she dropped the bomb.
"Your father is coming to the village."
Silence.
Pin-drop silence.
Birds paused. Wind paused. Even the pot in the kitchen paused boiling.
Amaka blinked once. "Whose father?"
"Your own na."
"MY WHAT?"
Her voice was already climbing pitch like gospel worship.
Mama Amaka looked away, chewing another groundnut.
"You said my father is coming?" Amaka repeated, stunned.
"Yeees," her mother dragged the word like it was burning her tongue. "He called me yesterday evening."
"Wait… wait mummy. That man you said left when I was two years old?"
"Yes."
"The one you used to say was possessed with stubbornness and nonsense?"
"The same."
"JESUS!"
Amaka flung her hands to her head.
"Why? Why is he coming? What does he want?!"
Her mother shifted on her stool. "He says he's coming to see you. And me. And… to talk."
Amaka gasped like she had just been told NEPA cut light forever.
"Talk? About what? That man that disappeared and suddenly wants to talk after how many years?! He doesn't even know my age!"
"Amaka, lower your voice."
"I will not!" she shouted. "That man does not exist in my life!"
Her mother stood up slowly. "He's still your father."
"No he's not! My father is... is... Mama Emeka's generator!"
"AMAKA!" her mother snapped.
Amaka hissed and paced. "This is a bad dream."
Her mother rubbed her forehead like her brain was overheating. "He said he's already on his way. From Lagos."
"From WHERE?! Lagos?! Since when do people in Lagos remember their children in village?"
"He said he wants to make things right."
"With who? Because it can't be me."
Then, quietly, her mother said, "He also said he wants to help us."
That stopped Amaka mid-rant.
"Help us how?"
"He said he has a job now. A good one. That things have changed."
Amaka folded her arms. "And you believe him?"
"I don't know what to believe. But... I'm tired, Amaka. I'm tired of selling vegetables under sun. Of begging for small small help. If he wants to assist, should I reject it?"
Amaka looked at her mother — the lines on her face, the tiredness in her shoulders.
She understood.
But it still made her blood boil.
"He should have thought of that before leaving us," she muttered.
There was a long pause. Then Mama Amaka said softly, "I told him to come in two days. He'll stay in the guest room."
Amaka raised her hands to heaven. "Blood of Elijah."
"Control your mouth o. If he brings help, you better smile and accept it. You're not a child anymore."
Amaka walked out without another word, face burning, feet stomping like thunder wore slippers.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
Later that evening, word had already started spreading.
Old women near the borehole were whispering.
"That man is back? Ehya... shame no dey catch some men."
"Better late than dead," someone else replied. "At least he's coming home."
Kids were giggling and teasing Amaka as she passed.
"Your daddy is coming o!"
"Your long-lost daddy!"
"Welcome home, Daddy of dust!"
She hissed at all of them, grabbed one by the ear, and warned him, "If you talk again, I'll baptize you with slap."
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
That night, Amaka sat on her bed, arms folded, thoughts buzzing.
She didn't remember his voice. Didn't know his face. Her mother rarely talked about him. He was like one ghost in the family album — always cut out or scribbled on with biro.
And now he wanted to come back?
To see her?
To "make things right"?
Tch.
If this was some kind of movie scene reunion, he better carry Oscar award and leave because Amaka was not interested in hugging anybody with disappearing habits.
She looked at the wall and muttered under her breath:
"Let him come.
Let him talk.
Let him bring whatever Lagos dust he wants.
But one thing is sure...
He's not walking into my life like a mango thief at midnight."
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿