Kalasisi

They said the day Kalasisi was born the sky wept. The rain was heavy and loud, like it was in competition with Mama screaming in labor for who would be louder. And the thunder that followed shook the louvres—you’d expect them to fall. They said Mama pushed and screamed for hours, but Kalasisi would not come, not until the rain had become whispers to Mama’s screams. They said when she finally came, her face was squeezed like she had already tasted the bitters of life. They said Kalasisi did not cry.

Kalasisi was five years older than I was. My mother’s second child, my father’s fourth. In those days we lived in Bonny. In the mornings, after Baba had left for the sea and we’d proved to be useless in the market to Mama as she sold, Kalasisi would take my hand and we would slip away, pulling me along as she ran ahead to the beach. We’d swim in the river, she would teach me how to catch fish with my hands, we would walk the beach picking shells, periwinkles, and chasing crabs.

And when the sun began to dip low, Kalasisi would take my hand again, and we’d run back to the market to meet Mama before she closed for the day.

In those days, Baba worked as a seaman with the Nigerian National Shipping Line, serving aboard ships that transported officials and cargo along Nigeria’s coastline. On special holidays, we would accompany Baba on some of his trips—sometimes to nearby states like Bayelsa and Delta, other times further to Lagos, Kogi, and Benue. We got to see much of the country.

The year Kalasisi turned ten, Baba took her on one of his trips to Lagos. Weeks later, when he returned, he was without her. As families did in those days, Kalasisi had been sent to live with an aunty who would send her to school. This saddened me—whose back would I stare at as I ran behind her to the beach? Who would tell me to be patient as I squatted in the water, my impatient eyes tracking tiny fish? I would miss my big sister. But I was happy still—at least she’d be going to secondary school.

The aunty lived in Lagos with her husband and their two children. They said she needed help—she was a teacher, he a banker—and with a three-year-old and a baby, there wasn’t enough time between them. That was the reason they gave. She never did send Kalasisi to school.

Two years after Kalasisi left, Baba got a letter. I watched him as he read it—the confusion on his face, the stillness that came after. He left for Lagos the next day. When he returned, he was carrying a baby, held close to his chest like something he was shielding.

They said Kalasisi had gotten friendly with a boy on the street. That she’d been sneaking out. That she’d gotten pregnant.

But I knew.

It was him—the banker.

One day we were standing in the water, the sun already falling. She had tears in her eyes when she said some nights, when it was quiet—when even the frogs and crickets were still—she could feel him on top of her, like it was happening again.

Three years after Baba came back with the baby, another letter arrived. This time, he sent Mama. She returned with Kalasisi walking behind her. There was a sadness in her eyes. And a swelling in her belly.

Years after Kalasisi gave birth to her second child, she finally started secondary school. She was seventeen. She had refused at first, saying she was too old—that she had children to take care of. But Baba called her into his room, sat her on the edge of his bed, spoke to her in the way only he could. And she agreed.

She was the oldest in her JSS1 class. The other students mocked her, called her names. Because of the children, because of her age, they called her “kalasisi” (small mama)

Kalasisi didn’t mind. She never responded to their taunts. By the time she finished school, she was twenty-three.

When the government came to Bonny to recruit into their service, Baba used his connections with the chieftaincy and got Kalasisi into the newly formed State Security Service.

She served as a security escort for Nigerian dignitaries—mostly government officials—moving from state to state, carrying that gift of travel she’d inherited from Baba. Eventually, she joined the security team for the governor’s wife.

Then one day, Kalasisi came home and announced she was leaving her job—she was getting married.

Mama asked why she had to quit. Kalasisi explained that the SSS had a policy—all potential spouses had to be vetted, and that could take up to two years. She didn’t want to wait. Mama was furious. It made no sense to her. Why not finish the vetting, keep the job, then get married?

Mama forbade the marriage.

The man Kalasisi would marry was also from Bonny. They met in Port Harcourt—she was there for work, he with Shell. Baba knew his father through the chieftaincy, and Mama knew his mother from the market.

They say the day he saw Kalasisi, he went straight to his mother in Bonny and told her he had found a wife.

And when Kalasisi told him that mama had forbidden the wedding, they say he ran back to Bonny again—this time in tears—and that it was his mother who jazzed Kalasisi for him.

Kalasisi got married a month later. She didn’t invite Baba. She didn’t invite Mama.

Mama told anyone who would listen that the man had jazzed her daughter. Baba never forgave her. He said she’d stolen his joy.

Kalasisi moved to Port Harcourt. She had three children with her husband. Then he got sick—diabetes. When he died, he left her with five children and nothing. His illness had taken what little money he had left.

Kalasisi got a job as a cleaner at the University of Port Harcourt. She worked there until she passed.

Years later, after Kalasisi had raised her children and her children’s children, she moved slower now, with a limp, but the strength from her youth had not left her. She still rose every morning at dawn, her voice waking the house before the sun, singing songs she never quite finished.

It happened on one of those mornings. It was dark. The days had blurred into months since NEPA last gave power. Candlelight flickered, but did little. She hadn’t noticed the slight unbalance of the stove—until it fell.

The kerosene spilled, hot and angry, over her legs and thighs, setting her wrapper on fire. My sister did not cry. Not when they found her on the kitchen floor, the charred wrapper clinging to her like a second skin. Not when the infection came. Not even when it took her leg.

My sister died on the 8th of March, 2021.

She’d been struggling to recover from the accident. That morning—my birthday—I woke up with a pig sitting in my stomach. A heavy, restless feeling I couldn’t name. Then the call came. And the pit opened.

But from behind the tears that shielded my eyes, I saw Baba standing on his boat, holding out his hand for Kalasisi. And I knew—she was happy.

Some days, when I’m back in Bonny, I stand by the shore. The sand crawls between my toes. The water teases my fear. And as I watch the waves, I hear her in the wind.

She says to me: Be patient.