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“Go see if it’s Granmè,” she said. Scrambling to my feet, I ran to the window and looked to the side to see the front porch. A wide grin took over my face as I squealed.
“Granmè!” With excited hands, I unlocked the handle and swung the door open. The woman who had helped raise me stepped into our home with a jovial wave to the man out front.
After she was inside and the door locked, she rushed to my mother. With worried eyes, I watched as she gently ran her hands over my mother. “Is Mama gonna be okay?” I asked, worry eating me alive.
“Yes, my sweet boy. Mama will be fine. Why don’t you go have some of the cookies I baked you?” She motioned to the container she’d set on the table by the couch when she came in. Excited, I scooped it up and took it to the small table in the kitchen. If my grandmother said Mama would be okay, then it would be as she said.
Though I was busy stuffing my face, their words carried into where I sat.
“Ma, you need to get Ogun out of here.” My ears perked up and my chewing slowed.
“I’m taking you both. I’ll get your father and his boys to get you out of here. It’s time, Julia. I’ve let this go on too long.” My grandmother’s harsh whisper carried further than she realized.
“Ma, Ogun is all that matters. He has the sight, I’m sure of it. But there’s more. The glass….” She trailed off and I knew she was talking about the glass of water I knocked off the table. Though I didn’t remember touching it.
A sharp intake of breath preceded my grandmother’s muttering, and I wondered what she was saying as I slowly chewed the cookie.
“There is no time to waste. Are you able to pack a bag for yourself?” I heard my grandmother ask. Then I heard her say she would pack stuff for me.
My mother and my grandmother hid our bags after they were stuffed full. Then Mama and Granmè tucked me in. “You be a good boy, Ogun. There are powerful things coming in your future.” Her soft hand feathered through my hair as she sat on the edge of my bed. Mama was sitting down by my feet with her hand resting on my ankle.
“Okay,” I said, though I had no idea what she was talking about. They both kissed my head and closed my door on the way out.
I slept, but my dreams were plagued with dark images and a woman with long golden hair. I’d never seen her before, but she reached out to me, begging me to help her. No matter how hard I stretched my arm, I could never quite touch her fingertips.
When I woke up, Mama was cooking breakfast. She limped a little and she had purple bruises on her face, arms, and around her neck. I didn’t like it. I’d figured out that my father had done that to her.
“Mama, when I’m a papa, I won’t hurt my ol’ lady.” I’d heard my father call her that, so I knew that’s what she was to him.
She laughed her beautiful laugh and ruffled my hair. “You, young Ogun, won’t have an ol’ lady. You’ll have a wife and a normal, loving family.”
At the time, I hadn’t understood what she was saying.
My father came home long enough to change his clothes. He paused outside my bedroom as I read a book. “Boy, what are you doing?”
“Reading, Papa! My teacher said I’m the best in our class!” My teacher’s praise had made me very happy, but my papa didn’t seem happy and my smile dimmed.
“Quit wasting your time on that shit. I’m not raising you to be a pussy. You hear me, boy?” His dark eyes narrowed as he stared down at me. It was hard to swallow, and I could only nod.
“Good. Come here.” Nervous, I stood and walked toward him as he demanded.
He pulled a shiny gun from the back of his pants. He set it in my hand and I almost dropped the unexpected weight. His rough hand clutched the back of my neck and drove me down the hall to the kitchen where Mama was washing dishes.
At our footsteps, she turned toward us. When her eyes lit on what I was holding, I saw fear in her face.
“Giles, what are you doing?” she asked my father, but he ignored her and squeezed the back of my neck. I squeaked, and he shook me a bit.
“Shoot her,” he said matter-of-factly. Confused, I blinked up at him.
“Papa?” I asked.
“You heard me, boy. Shoot. Her,” he bit out in a quiet demand. My gaze flickered to my mother where she stood frozen with a dish towel in her hand.
“I don’t want to do that,” I said as my bottom lip quivered.
“Do it!” he screamed in my ear as I fought the tears that I instinctively knew he’d hate. My mother was shaking her head, and her mouth hung open but no words came out.
Pleading with my eyes, I looked at my father. Disbelief flooded me. I knew guns killed people because my dad let me watch movies with him where people would shoot other people. There would be lots of blood and then they died.
