Aunty Ramat always goes out of her way to buy us agbalumo whenever she goes to the market, the children in the neighborhood loved her as she always had something in her bag for us, we would wait at the door of her 'face me, I slap you' room, maami and some other older women call her 'iyawo' though we were not allowed to call her that, so we all just stuck to "Aunty Ramat". She was always laughing, She prays five times a day, we have never seen Aunty Ramat's face but her laughter rings out the loudest and her hijab is so long that it sweeps all the dust as she walks. On weekends, Aunty Ramat would always run home to cook with firewood, she would bend down on her fours and blow air with her mouth till her eyes starts to water, I always peep from the corridor to watch her and she would look up and still laugh and tease me. We barely saw Aunty Ramat's husband at home, he would always rush in and rush out, on days like this, we never hear aunty Ramat's thunderous laughter, she wouldn't bring us biscuit or agbalumo but we always hear the screams, the noise of plates falling, we always hear it and the night I left my bed to go to her door, maami caught me and yanked at my ear, she twisted it all the way back to our room. "No, it is not our business, everybody has what they are battling" she screamed at me. We all minded our business until the morning after one of those nights when we found Aunty Ramat's door wide open. This time,her face was not covered, her room was scattered, her prayer mat was still packed to a side, her Quran was neatly placed beside her pillow, that was when we saw the bruises and marks, my mother quickly pulled me to herself and covered my eyes but I had seen it all. I bent down and picked an Agbalumo but it was stained with blood, Aunty Ramat's blood.. *In the Yoruba land, new brides are called 'Iyawo'
#TinyWrites #BeingTiny #DomesticViolence #her - 2 hours ago