Alika

By Isaac Rejoice

Alika 7-Up. Maybe you know him, maybe you don’t. He is the matchstick man that used to be on 7-up glass bottles, but that was a long time ago. He had red dots for eyes, spikes for hair, his left leg bent forward, forever in a hurry, forever a walking man. Till today, or since forever even, I hated that name. It was used to refer to anyone who did not have ‘meat’ on their bones. It became a cuss word, one that hurt because a two-year-old could easily call you Alika and get away with it.

I did not have ‘meat’ on my bones, the way a young woman should. Where I come from, a young woman that did not fill out as she grew up was treated differently, and the words used to refer to her in Igbo could be loosely translated to as weak, watery, empty. And if you were endowed in the right places, God bless you, you would be regarded as plenty, full of goodness, the way a man would like.

The way my mother put it, I was a statue, almost lifeless. She used other words too, depending on her mood. Anything from aziza to atu or even ogwu azu. As far as it had no weight, it was me. She had a way of making me feel like I had told God in person to make sure I was thin.

“ Heaven knows I feed you well. I give you food enough for three persons. Where you stuff it, I don’t know. I just don’t know”.

A few weeks ago, she served dinner, I returned to the kitchen and split the garri on my plate in two. I witnessed the most dramatic thing that night. She got up from the kitchen stool, tied her lappa , held me firmly by the hand, half-dragged me to the living room and planted me in front of my father, a man who had no time for the squabbles of life.

“Look at this child. Just look at her. People will think I starve her every blessed day. Eat, she will say no. Drink water, nsobu. What will I do with her, eh?”

My father looked up briefly from the glowing screen of his iPad.

“Amarachi, she is a growing child. She is –“. He broke off and looked at me.

“I di afo ole?” How old are you, he asked.

“Sixteen” I mumbled, shifting my weight from one leg to the other.

“Sixteen, only sixteen. By the time she’s twenty, she will add. Don’t worry, besides you weren’t that big when I married you”. He looked down and continued to scroll. I bit my lower lip and furrowed my eyebrows to stop my lips from stretching into a wide smile.

“ Hei!”

We both looked at her, startled. She drew me close and knocked on my chest, the way an angry man would bang the door to his house. I flinched and pushed her hands away.

“See. See how it sounds. Like an empty shell. How can a human being be like this? Eat, you will not eat. I makwa, none of my friends believe you have written WAEC, do you know? Soon, you’ll enter the university, suitors will start coming, will you marry like this? Okay, fine. Even if you do, how will you carry babies for your husband? Your weight can’t carry a baby. It just can’t. When I was your age I wasn’t as thin as this. My body was strong enough to carry a child. Stay here and keep listening to your father. If it’s modelling you want to do i-“
Daddy got up and held her hands, his face stern. I hadn’t seen him angry in a long time. He was the peacemaker, the one who never got angry. Not even when Mommy went to a friend’s weekend-long party without telling him. Or when my eldest brother spent a fortune on SARS on a friend’s account. Nothing was more important than his peace of mind. Now he was shouting it was hard to listen.

“Stop it. Stop it this instant, you hear! This girl, your child, our child does everything you want her to. You said no friends, no partying, no flaunting on social media, no boyfriend. She agreed to all of that. She is eighteen for goodness sake! Eighteen! She can’t inflate herself just to please you and your friends. What more do you want? What?”

And then in the same breath, he turned to me and said, “Go to your room and lock the door.”
I felt eyes boring holes at the back of my head as I walked to my room. I stumbled twice on the staircase, the tears made it hard to see. They were coming fast, really fast. I opened the door to my room, got in and locked the door. Lock- and- bolt. Mommy had the key to my room. Slowly, I took off my clothes and stood in front of the tall mirror.

God, why am I so different? Why send me to this family? Mommy hates me. Just give me admission. If I leave I won’t come back, I swear. You’re the one that made me like this, make me bigger. Just do it. Please. I’m tired of living like this. I’m tired. Please.

Someone knocked on the door. A slight pause. Then another knock.

“Ola, open the door. It’s me”

Daddy. Not now.

I put on my clothes hurriedly, wiped my face with the back of my shirt and looked in the mirror. My eyes were red and swollen. For a moment I couldn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, all gangly with plenteous hair and red eyes, and a dripping nose. I opened the door.

“Ola, have you been crying?”

I sniffed and nodded in response. He took me by the hand and led me to the bed. We sat down, shoulders touching. He was still holding my hand.

“Your mother wants the best for you. It may not look like it now but-_”

I couldn’t bear it anymore. I let go of his hand, and it’s warmth.

“She wants me to be perfect. I can’t. I didn’t make myself. I do everything she wants. I eat all the food she gives me. When my stomach can’t hold it anymore I vomit and go to bed hungry. I’m tired.”

He looked worried now.

“Why didn’t you tell me and your mom?”

I shrugged and wiped my nose.

“ I did. I told Mommy. She ran a pregnancy test for me and told me to thank God it was negative.”

His face looked funny. He was rubbing his hands on his bald scalp now.

“Ah. Amarachi. Well, that’s how she is, you know.”

The silence that followed afterwards was all warm and comfortable. I wanted to ask him The Question, so I rearranged it many times in my head.

“Daddy, do you know Alika?”

He turned to me, surprised.

“Who?”

“Alika nau. Alika Seven-Up.”

“Oh. Alika. That’s the name for slim people.”

“So I’m Alika?”

“Ola. Your mother and I named you Olannaya, Father’s Gold. That is what you are, and what you will remain unless you want to be any of those things people call you. Your mother had called you chewing stick, it didn’t make you one. Be who you want to be, the world won’t stop spinning because of that.”

He looked at the clock on the wall, got up and stretched, hands above his head.

“Ola, it’s past ten. Go to bed, but first eat something.”

“Daddy, thank you.”

“Sleep well.”

He opened the door and left.

Be who you want to be, be who you want to be.

Those words followed me to Dreamland.