Mama died when I was fifteen.

The months leading to her death were filled with despair, tears, Mama talking to herself, incoherent soliloquies I could not decipher, and the rotting smell oozing out of her amputated leg.

Mama was no longer mama; the happy, bubbly mama had been reduced to a mere host being exploited away by a parasite, the injury on her leg.

Mama had had an accident on her way back from the market. The soft tissues on her right leg had been severely dealt with. Every week, papa and I went with Mama to the hospital, where the nurse soaked cotton wool in different liquids and cleaned Mama's wound with them while avoiding direct contact with the wound, her face the direct equivalent of someone who has just stepped on faeces on her way to an important occasion.

The countless trips to the hospital didn't help out Mama; it looked like they made things worse. She never stopped wincing.

After three months, we heard the worst news: the tissues on Mama's injured leg were dying; amputation was the only option. And the leg was amputated.

But as if mama's ancestors on the other side wanted her and wanted her quickly, the legs started rotting; there had been a complication with the amputation.

The compound we live in is of average size. It was passed down to Papa by his father.

The house is centrally located, surrounded by short block fences; there is no main gate. The first thing you see is the entrance, a small door, and a pavement.

Upon entering, there's a hallway with rooms on the left side and our parlour door on the right; that's our side of the house. The rooms on the left side of the hallway were usually rented to tenants. However, at the time of Mama's injury, Papa had stopped renting the rooms out. So Papa delegated one of the rooms to Mama because of the foul smell that accompanied her leg. With just a mat and a small table, that room would come to be known as Mama's final resting place.

On the day Mama died, one wouldn't have suspected something would go amiss on earth. The sun came out at the perfect time and shone at just the right temperature to dry off our clothes. The world wasn't hot, nor was it cold.

Papa had gone to work and was given a promotion after twenty-five years of working as a public servant. I had received news from school that I was among the best students in the just-concluded SSCE examination. All was right with the world, or so we thought.

When she died, it rained heavily. The rain washed away all the good news that had graced our day and ushered us into a new life—a life without Mama.

Growing up, when Mama was still healthy, I assisted her a lot in the kitchen and also helped out with my three younger siblings. Mama never ceased to remind me of how I was the first girl; I was a mini version of her, and when she was no longer with us, I was to take care of the home and do all she did.

After Mama's funeral, an aunty wanted to take us with her to Onitsha, but Papa refused; he told her, “They will have a new mother soon.”

Papa's new wife came immediately after we returned home from Mama's funeral. She cooked the meals, washed the clothes, cleaned the house, prepared my siblings for school, and waited every night at Mama's shop, which she had now taken over for Papa so that they could copulate just like Mama did every night.

One day, Papa did not go to work; he was so sick, and he needed someone to take care of him.

“Chidera! What is going on here?”

My aunty screamed when she saw Papa on top of me, stark naked.

We didn't hear her come in. Her eyes widen, her eyebrows raised and her mouth opened in a gasp.

She dragged Papa off me and used her wrapper to cover my genitalia.

I waited for my aunt and dad to exchange the customary greetings, but what came were the veins bulging out of her forehead and then a loud yell.

“How long has this been going on?”

Papa stood up from the floor, his manhood dangling between his legs, his head bent as he searched around for a piece of clothing to cover himself.

“Why would you allow him do this to you?” Her third question of the day.

I was no longer lying down; I was now sitting, staring wide-eyed at her. My brain didn't understand what was happening.

“Why didn't you call me? You are just 15!”

Her voice was breaking now, and she allowed her tears to flow freely. I was surprised.

Why the tears?

Did anybody die?

My eyes darted around the room, but I couldn't find Papa; he must have slipped out when I was trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Why should I call?” I asked

“Before Mama left, she always told me to follow in her footsteps and do everything she did. Now, I am Papa's new wife.”