MEMORIES.

The stars were bright but they couldn’t compare to Uyai’s eyes as she looked at me. “Come with me,” she said, twirling around me, “I want to show you something.”

Her voice was like the sound of a calm sea, quiet and soothing — enchanting even. I followed her through the streets and into her house until we stopped at the door of a great room.

“Are you ready?” she said, turning to me.

“Yes, I think,” I replied. I wasn’t ready.

She pushed open the door and we went in. I was not prepared for the sight. The room was filled with corridors of ceiling-high shelves, and in those shelves sat glass vials of different sizes and colours. They were more than I could count or even see.

“What is this place?” I asked, confused. “Are you some sort of apothecary or a collector of potions?”

She laughed and sat on the floor. It was dusty but I sat with her. Uyai had that effect on everyone. You couldn’t help but please. She smoothed her dress and looked at me.

“This is where I keep my memories,” she replied, cocking her head, “and the liquid in the vials are my tears.”

“Tears,” I repeated, not understanding her.

“Tears,” she repeated matter-of-factly, “the mind will forget and memories shall fade but tears never forget. Have you heard of the saying, ‘Water remembers everything?”

“I think I have.”

I hadn’t.

“Then see for yourself. Open a vial and put a drop on your hands. Just a drop.”

I walked to a shelf and picked up a blue vial. I opened it and put a teardrop on my fingers. Immediately I was taken into the past. And in my mind’s eye, I saw: 3:13 pm. 5th of July, 2012.

I was in a classroom. There were students all around shouting and laughing at someone in a corner. I looked closer and it was Uyai. But this time, she was younger.

“How does it feel to be so ugly? How does it feel to be poor?” the crowd of students chanted.

It was a terrible scene. Young Uyai stood frozen, crying uncontrollably.

I couldn’t watch anymore.

Somebody tapped my shoulder. When I opened my eyes, Uyai was in front of me.

“Why did you take that one? Here, try this one. Just a drop.” she told me.

It was yellow.

6:30 am. 25th of November, 2013.

“Happy Birthday!”
Her parents and siblings and extended family woke the twelve-year-old child, with cakes and balloons. She was surprised. Tears flowed down her cheeks, she had forgotten her own birthday.
“Come downstairs, everyone is waiting. I made your favourite,” her mother said as she hugged her.

Red vial. One drop.
9:45 pm. 16th of April, 2016.

Two adults were screaming at each other. Her parents. I couldn’t find Uyai.

I found her in another room, her eyes were squeezed shut and her palms were pressed to her ears. She rocked herself with her knees pulled to her chest.

“Stop. Please stop.” she kept repeating over and over.

I went deeper into the room, opening many vials. I felt and saw memories of happiness and sorrow, of love and care and hatred and fear and death. I couldn’t stop.

On a dusty shelf hidden in the shadows, laid a black twisted vial covered in dust. I picked it and opened it, curious about the memories it held.

“Stop! Don’t touch that vial!” my friend shouted suddenly.
She startled me. I jumped and before I knew it almost half of the tears in the vial had poured on me. I screamed. It was searing hot.

2:30 am. 8th of March, 2008.

The sound at the door woke me up. I couldn’t remember falling asleep. The room was dark. Where was Uyai?

I saw a man at the door and my body was frozen in fear immediately. ‘Uncle’, I thought, but I had no uncles.

He called my name and I answered him no. He called Uyai’s name, yet I answered. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was in Uyai’s memory. Not a spectator this time, but as her. I tried in vain to leave the memory.

He sat on the bed and stroked my feet. I whimpered. She whimpered.
“You can shout. We’re alone, my dear,” he said with a sinister smile.
“No, please don’t” we whispered.
Her clothes came off gently, yet against her will. And for hours, he touched her in ways no one should touch a child. I never stopped screaming. She didn’t either.

When I finally gained consciousness, I was still screaming and crying. She was screaming too, bent over and clutching her abdomen.

“I didn’t mean to,” I sputtered, “it all happened so quickly. I’m so sorry.”

“Some memories do not need to be stored to be remembered. Some memories are etched into your mind, haunting you until you heal — and maybe even after” she said quietly.

“Here,” she said, holding a vial out to me, “I took some of your tears while you cried.”

CHIOMA IBEAKANMA.
25/05/2020.