Erased Identity
By Rabi'atu T. Yakubu
You cannot imagine the burden of competing with a body that has disintegrated to dust. You have stripped off my identity before I got the chance to discover it. If only I could glide to the heavens to strike a deal with God, my life for your return. The smile on our parents’ faces, alien to me, but hanging on the walls of the downstairs living room, would return. When I think of you, which is always, I picture a vindictive young girl, mockingly waving the banner of happiness snatched away from our family. Your departure from Earth, two years before my arrival, left a stain too potent for bleach. You had a dream about my birth? Demons stole a whisper from the heavens and informed you? I am certain that dying was your choice. The shift of attention when a newborn arrives generates jealousy. Genius idea. If my emergence into your lives would terminate your reign, why not allow mere malaria to dismantle you?
I turn fifteen today. The age you died. Reincarnation movies usher my birthdays. Important to spend time with family, they drill into my head. Our own personal hobby. A different year this is. No movies for the fifteenth. Their idea of an appropriate present is granting me access to your room. Your room with the periodic table duvet and sterile white walls devoid of BluTack or Sellotape. Quite a boring human being you must have been. Mama came to wake me up, but I was already awake. The excitement in their hearts sneaked through my door to mock me, swaying and bopping like the hips of a belly dancer from their room, three doors down. Before she came, I walked around my room for a while, settling for the view outside the window. Stealthy clouds approached the moon from both sides, singular purpose of dimming its glow. I stood transfixed, rage bopping against my organs like fiery molecules in an enclosed chamber. The moon’s inability to fight back felt personal. It was personal. I sank back into my bed when I detected her footsteps. Baffles me, why we live in a ten-bedroom house, whose vastness and emptiness has made me sensitive to sounds. They must have had dreams of filling each space with children. Does that explain their unhealthy attachment to you? No sympathy from me either way. You left them. I came along to mend the shattered pieces of their hearts. Shouldn’t they be more devoted to me?
Here I am, standing in the middle of your room, clad in a sombre veil of frustration. It is bigger than mine. I wonder though. Can you see me? If so, what’s on your mind? Our parents stand behind me. What’s next? Are they planning to retrieve a magic wand? One, two, three, and voila, I turn into you? They have turned your room into a sanctuary, only accessible to them. My guess is they hide in here to cry or whatever. I can effortlessly visualise them huddled on the black furry rug, in front of your bed, staring at your framed picture on the wall. Do you think I am evil for finding the imagery funny?
Baba’s uneasy breaths strangle the room with anxiety. His arms hug his thin body. His face looks swollen. His black and blue striped pyjamas, worn every day, irritate me. Let me guess. You must have vomited or peed on it, his heart cannot afford to throw it away. They stare at me, wearing uniform faces, half ecstasy, half hope. Drunk on their belief that today will be the day you return to them. Mama’s black abaya cuts onions below my eyes. Who selected black as the popular choice for abayas? You probably know the answer, right? I’ve heard about your encyclopaedic brain. Random thought? I have become accustomed to overthinking inconsequential matters. My mind is perpetually swarmed with questions, but I rarely have the courage to say them out. You know why? Because the voices in my head are fond of chastising me with, ‘This is stupid, she would never ask these questions.’
Mama moves first, gently walking over to your brown oak wardrobe, as if wary of waking up a monster. Her trembling hands open the wardrobe, bombarding the room with a vanilla scent. My tongue traces the insides of my top lip. To laugh or cry? Whose role is it to perfume your clothes? She brings out a folded dress and gently releases it by holding onto its shoulders. The dress has red and yellow circles splashed on it, like Venn diagrams. Baba grabs my hand, his sticky hold like dipping into a jar of honey. He guides me to the full-length mirror glued to the wall opposite your wardrobe. They leave me alone in the room, with silent instructions to wear your dress.
One, two, three, voila. Its contrast against my dark brown skin tone is uncomplimentary. You were lighter, the colour of milk sullied coffee struggling to make an impression. I find pleasure in pointing out our differences. I have dimples. You had none. I can recall rushing up to Mama, holding out my latest art work from school, desperate for acknowledgment. With a tilted head, she would insert two fingers in the depression of my dimples, as though her touch could magically make them disappear.
Your room overflows with ominous marks of exhaustion. Voices from the furniture plead, in desperate tones, trying hard not to weep. A soothing sound. Soon, I hush them. Soon. I release my eyes to find your reflection staring back at me, smirking and pointing out all the ways that I fail to measure up to you. That’s okay. I don’t want to be you.
‘How do you feel?’ Baba asks, speaking in between gasps. They are back. I didn’t notice. When I turn around, he swallows his lips, his eyes constrict. Disappointed? I guess he expected the dimples to disappear, the skin tone to be lighter, the eyebrows to be sparse. The reincarnation of their beloved daughter.
‘You look beautiful,’ Mama stammers. ‘All the clothes are yours. You can move in here!’
‘Yes! Move in here!’ Baba exclaims, not one to give up too easily. His thoughts breakout like caged animals, euphoric after the door is opened: maybe she’ll be transformed after resting her head on the pillow?
I shape my mouth into a smile. After I scorch all your belongings, your memory lingering around the house will disappear with the flames, and they will be forced to accept your demise and my individuality.
Rabi'atu T. Yakubu's short stories have appeared in AFREADA, The Kalahari Review, Nantygreens and in an anthology by Dahlia Publishing.
- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.
