Mama could feel Idim’s presence when she entered his bedroom. The room felt like a sepulchre of memories, where the imprints of his tears, his struggles, and the fragrance of his existence still lingered. She had been avoiding the room like a plague, days turning to weeks, before finally succumbing to an unavoidable pull. The room had been Idim’s sanctuary as well as his hellhole, a conflicting space where solace and chaos, hope and despair, had wrestled for dominance. The neatly made bed seemed to mock her, a stark contrast to the countless nights Idim had spent battling with his demons.
The silence was palpable, an ethereal presence that wrapped itself around Mama. She strained her ears to get a glimpse of the familiar sound of Idim’s laughter, but all she heard was silence. Her gaze settled on a portion of the wall that had noticeable new painting. Idim had aimed a bottle of consecrated olive oil at Uduak that only missed by inches, its content splattering all over the wall, the bottle shards a candid reflection of his soul. Idim had a never-ending supply of these bottles of olive oil, and Papa’s church was the chief supplier. He most times would drink large gulps or pour large quantities of it on his head in an attempt to speed up his deliverance, but the attack on Uduak meant that he no longer could keep the bottles himself. Mama would occasionally sneak into the bedroom when he was asleep and rub a little of the oil on his forehead.
As Mama went deeper into the bedroom, her feet got heavier, as if dragged back by the unseen hands of her grief. She remembered the very day of Idim’s diagnosis, how words like schizophrenia and chronic and paranoia had hung in the air like dark clouds, suffocating her with their finality. Her faith had been shaken at that very moment, but later on, when she concluded that they were mere medical terms, she developed a new and unrelenting resolve.
The framed photo of a smiling Idim that was hung on the wall instantaneously caused Mama’s eyes to well up. The photo was one of the few things in the bedroom that miraculously went undisturbed over the years. She detached the photo from the wall and cradled it as if holding a piece of Idim. She recollected some of the few times Idim had put on a genuine smile, not the kind that was formed on his lips sardonically because of his condition. Mama remembered the time he gave one of those smiles at the pastor in Papa’s church. Idim had warned the pastor not to lay hands on his head, his filthy hands as he put it. The pastor ignored the warning, and what followed was a strong right fist to his jaw, swiftly accompanied by a left hook to the side of his face before Idim was contained. The pastor painfully regretted his decision to attend to Idim unbound, even after Papa had warned him that it was too dangerous.
Mama put back the photo and continued to navigate the room, her thoughts remaining with the violent outbursts and the sleepless nights, and the crushing weight of responsibility that had threatened to consume her. One time a distress call had been made to one of Papa’s pastors following a torrid encounter with Idim. The pastor, on setting his eyes on Idim as he entered his bedroom, said that that was a violent spirit and it would require a proper deliverance in their church. This was during the early days of Idim’s condition. After several sessions of unsuccessful deliverances, the pastors at Papa’s church ostensibly washed their hands off Idim’s case. The onus then fell on Mama to find that deliverance elsewhere.
Mama opened the closet and ran her fingers across the dresses that were hung in it, inhaling the obscure scent of Idim’s favourite perfume which he sprayed mostly on Sundays when he went to church. He never missed church on Sundays; that was an aspect of his life which remained unaltered because he was very much aware that his condition needed any kind of remedy that it could get. Only a relapse on such days could stop him from being in the house of God.
The fragrance took her mind back to the first time Idim mentioned hearing voices, his trembling tone betraying his usual sharpness as he confided in Mama. She had brushed it aside as mere teenage angst, her tone laced with a forced calmness as she drew him into a soothing hug. She already had a vague knowledge that something wasn’t right with her son, but it hadn’t gotten to a stage that should cause any sort of panic. Little did she know, that moment would mark the beginning of a relentless journey, one that would test the bounds of her sanity. She had peeled Idim out of the embrace, convinced that her love and care would be enough to shield him from the imminent darkness.
Mama now sat on the same portion of the bed where she always sat whenever Idim was in the right frame of mind. Tears began to skid down her face as she mustered the courage to acknowledge the unsettling truth: she was relieved that Idim’s struggles were now over. He was finally free from the torment that had ravaged his mind and body. His pain would no longer have to be her companion. That alone brought her a fragile peace, but she would never be able to get over the fact that it was her desperate search for his healing that ultimately led him to his death. What if she had been more patient, just as Papa urged? What if she didn’t take Idim to that spiritualist who, instead of healing him, sent him to his ancestors? These questions swirled like a relentless storm as Mama confronted this dark truth, and she only wished that Idim would forgive her wherever he was.
Author’s Biography
Uche Ozo is a practicing biomedical scientist, a profession that profoundly shapes his creative exploration of life, death, and human complexity. He was a finalist in the 2021 J. F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction. His work has appeared in Preachy, CC&D Magazine, and a 2022 Anthology by Potato Soup Journal.
