
The river danced to a tune, and so did they. They found their rhythm in the tides, rising when it rose and going still when it went still. They conversed amongst themselves in soft whispers; voices of a woman, a child, and an old man. I heard them. They saw me. They could tell I knew they could be anything they wanted.
On my first trip to Lagos, I lost my mother. Or she lost me. Whichever happened, I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t bring myself to cry that day. Because I had known it would happen someday, somehow: Mama would leave behind her daughter, and will chase the perfect world that existed outside being my mother.
For long, thanks to Mama, I had known I was more of a curse than a blessing. Pulling at my ears, Mama dragged me her parents each time I made a mistake, and made them see I was her mistake. She hated that I could have ideas of my own. She hated that I brought in more money than she did whenever I went out hawking, the very reason I was always kept under lock and key. So, it was a big surprise when she decided to take me to Lagos with her.
“We’re going to sell a lot of wares, se o ti gbo? You had better hold on tight.” She had said to me as we alighted a bus at Eko Idumota.
The market was bustling with life and colours. Different voices reached my ears, calling, answering. Traders pulled at Mama’s clothes as we walked. Hissing when she shook her head, they walked off to another person. Mama didn’t have any look in her eyes whenever I pulled her. I know this because I looked at her as we walked. She knows I know this because she stared down at me with those eyes.
Mama disappeared some minutes after we stepped into the market. She had subtly pulled my hand off her wrapper and walked off. The bodies of people pushing mine in the crowd made me topple several times, and when I eventually looked up, Mama was gone. Just gone.
I walked for hours until I found a bridge. This bridge. I stood still for a while at its rising, then walked on, exploring. There was something, and it was close. It was here, around me. In that water.
I looked. The noises fading at once, all I could see were them. I looked around, noting expressions, watching body speak. No one else could see them, it was clear. No one else could hear. Those voices were light, and they were deep. They were everything at once. They spoke, sang, and danced. They were sticks.
Seeing that should have made me take to my heels. But I watched them. I watched because they moved with enviable grace.
My breath hitched and my hand flew to my throat when they turned to me. No eyes. But I could feel eyes piercing through skin and bone and staring directly at my soul.
They said nothing. They did nothing. They acted as though seeing me had drawn life out of them. This brought realization upon me: I was currently homeless, and by status, motherless. My own mother had deserted me.
They began to dance again. They danced to take away my sadness. To make me feel less of a mistake. I know this because I felt them. They know I felt them.
Buses still raced past. The air still held cries. Everything happened all at once. But here was I, still. I felt no fear, neither was I daunted because all I could hear were the voices of dancing stickmen. All I could see in my mind were bodies, moving in the river below the bridge.
You won’t understand.
The Author

Tayme Dada is a student at the University of Lagos studying Psychology. When she isn’t writing, she is reading or staring off into the distance because well, why not?
God knows I haven’t read a Tayme in while. The style is everything you expect and more. Great work you’ve got here, Tayme. I’ve read it three times already but it still doesn’t feel enough. ❤️
I love this.❤ well done.
Stories like this of Tayme come not quite often, so when I see one, I don’t hesitate to grant it the accolades it deserves. I’m stunned, I must say. I’m stunned.