Akita was not just a slum. It was the king of slums.

Stretched out on a valley without a drainage system, it was flooded by tributaries from the hill cities. Homes were evacuated, and families moved until it became a seasonal migration pattern. My family was not exempted.

Yet, in its rough bosom and wrinkled thighs, life bloomed.

Our small town boasted of dozens of families who found solace in our community, and temporary relief in the dry seasons and harmattan. I was twelve when I became part of their bottled grief.

My two brothers, and I were like lotus blooming in the mud. Sochi and Ikenna were five, and two years old respectively. Like most children, they looked haggard with runny nose.

Two years after Ikenna came, our mother hit the labour room. 

Without medical facility in Akita, everyone relied on Nurse Lizzie during childbirth. At over seventy, Lizzie was still the only reliable port of call. She had never lost a life all her life in the delivery room, but that day, she would lose her first. 

But it was not just a life. They were three members of family.

By evening, our eyes had grown weary from waiting for father's return. But we paid attention to the entrance of our home.

" It will be a boy," Sochi insisted, trying to win an argument that had lived since we saw mother's baby bump.

I couldn't wait to see her return with my baby sister.

But father came staggering into their small bamboo fence, and I felt a searing pain in her young chest. He was alone.

Ikenna rushed and embraced one of his legs. Having begun to walk only few months before, his steps were wobbly.

Sochi, looked intently at me. " You have gone cold. Why?" He probed.

" I am fine," I cracked a smile and strode to meet father.

He might have expected a hug. Instead, I carried Ikenna and took his hand.

Sochi was confused. " Come," I told him, and he lumbered towards us with dissatisfaction engraved on his face.

" We will be fine," I told father two days later. He hadn't eaten for two days, wrapped in his sorrow. I became afraid that he would leave and never return.

" Mama said I should take care of my brothers and our home. I promise to do so. So papa, please eat.

Sochi and Ikenna are watching you," I persuaded. 

He managed to take a bite, then two, and slowly his appetite returned.

I returned to the adjoining room and met the boys working with their spoons. " You said you will not eat." I reproved Sochi.

" Father is eating now," he countered.

I girl snorted playfully and returned to the kitchen. But once inside , my eyes wandered to the kitchen stool by the fireplace. Tears trickled down my eyes, but the second I heard footsteps approaching, I wiped my eyes with the back of my charcoal smeared hands.

Three decades later, the rainy season came. But this time, homes were lit with lamps and children played with their food. The sound of water hastening down to sea was lost as a birth cry triumphed.

" Is that from Udenze's home?" I heard a neighbour ask.

" Yes oo!" Another answered. “ God has done it. Jasmine has welcomed a baby girl.”

My baby brought unprecedented goodwill to Akita. Eventually, it got to prominent ears that Sochi and Ikenna had constructed a good drain and a standard hospital for Akita in the memory of our mother. Development came with the speed of a race horse.

After the naming day, I took Ngozi to Nurse Lizzie.

" You must forgive yourself now. Mama has returned." I comforted. 

Nurse Lizzie held her and smiled. It was the first time in thirty years. She had never delivered another baby after my mother's demise. Ngozi became the last child she ever held. 

By the time of Lizzie's burial, Akita was unrecognizable. The slum had faded behind the rising sun.