It was a quiet Friday, the kind of day I had sought for weeks. There was no work for me that day. It was officially a public holiday. The kids were home too. There was no school. Their small noises outside made the compound feel alive. I could hear someone’s home theatre playing faintly from upstairs, an old school soul music. And from across the corridor came the familiar rhythm of Mama Chinedu’s sewing machine. She was working on a contract for a client who just opened a new school. The client had requested over 200 new school materials. Mama Chinedu was packaging them as demanded by the client. Her living room has been transformed into a workshop.
I had just finished washing my clothes and slumped onto the couch in my sitting room. I was about to binge-watch my favourite TV show when the steady humming from her sewing machine kept distracting me like a heartbeat that never stopped. That sound had become part of our lives in that compound for days. Somehow an uncomfortable comfort.
Even at night, I could hear it in my room, soft, determined, and consistent.
I never ceased to stop by on my way back from work, either with food, juice, or gist. Sometimes, I also advised her to rest a bit.
“Mama, try and rest small now. This cloth will not run away.”
But Mama Chinedu would only smile, glasses sliding down her nose. “My dear, when you promise to deliver, make sure you do. That’s how people trust you.”
Later that afternoon, I stepped out to get a drink for me and Mama Chinedu from a nearby supermarket. The idea was to help cool out bodies from the harsh and golden sun. But. When I returned, Mama Chinedu was nowhere in sight.
I dropped my nylon bag and walked closer to the door. “Mama?” I called.
But there was no answer.
I pushed the door open.
Lying on the bare floor was Mama Chinedu, her hand still gripping a piece of blue fabric. Her glasses had fallen off her face. For a second, I thought she was resting. But I knelt beside her, calling her name again and again, almost panicking.
Suddenly, Mama Chinedu opened her eyes; her lips were pale. “I’m fine, Zee” she whispered weakly. “Just a little bit dizzy.”
"Dizzy?" I asked as if I didn't hear her the first time.
I could already tell by merely looking at her that it wasn't a little bit. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and a soaked towel. I offered her the water and watched as she reached for it with trembling hands. Then I sat beside her and pressed the cool towel on her forehead before running outside to seek help from my neighbour upstairs.
Together we helped Mama Chinedu to a nearby clinic.
And just as I thought, the nurse said it was exhaustion and dehydration. “She is dehydrated and exhausted too,” she explained. “Has she been eating well?”
"Well, she's been at work for weeks now. Barely had time for herself."
"She'll need to be here with us till tomorrow for a few medications." The nurse added.
I stayed with Mama Chinedu at the hospital. Memories of how she frequently brushed off my every warning that week. Of how she’d joke and say. "My dear, I'm stronger than this machine here.” Whenever I asked her to rest, she said she wasn't a robot. Now it felt strange seeing her so still, without her glasses or her cheerful voice.
She has always been the one to tell me to find time to rest. Now I was the one pleading with her to take her advice.
The next day we were back at home. I made sure she ate something warm. But the sewing machine stayed covered. I wasn't going to let her get back on that machine in such a condition.
Well, it wasn't until the next day, Mama Chinedu got back on the sewing machine. And since it was Sunday and I was at home, I helped her with some chores.