Praise Song for the Butterflies. Bernice L. McFadden

had hired to cook and clean for the family. Bembe was a fifteen-year-old unwed mother who had gone and gotten herself pregnant at the same time her own mother had conceived. Both mother and daughter were in their second trimesters by the time Bembe confessed her transgressions.

      They gave birth within a week of one another. Bembe a cedar-colored boy and her mother twin girls. Within a week their family bloomed from five to eight. Bembe’s parents didn’t make enough money to clothe and feed them all so Bembe had to drop out of school and find work.

      Sweet and quiet, Bembe wasn’t the best cook or cleaner, but she was company to Abeo and helpful with Agwe.

      For the first few weeks that Grandmother was there, she would not speak to Bembe. Instead, she silently watched, stalking her like a snake in tall grass. Grandmother’s silence and cold, hard gaze raised the fine hairs on the back of Bembe’s neck.

      “I don’t trust her,” Grandmother muttered. “She has the fingers of a thief. She cleans like a blind woman . . . You call that jollof? I call it pig slop!”

      Ismae and Wasik smiled and listened respectfully to the old woman’s grievances, but did nothing to change the situation, and so one day Grandmother changed it for them.

      Wasik was at work, Abeo was at school, and Ismae had taken the baby to visit a friend. When Grandmother heard Bembe set a large metal pot onto the stove, she emerged from her room like a crow and flew into the kitchen squawking demands: “Show me how to work this stove. Fill this pot with water! Chop this . . . cut that . . .”

      A flustered Bembe complied without question.

      When Ismae returned home, Grandmother was standing over the stove stirring a pot of stew and Bembe was cowering in the corner.

      “Mama, what are you doing? We have Bembe to do that,” Ismae said.

      “I told you, her food tastes like pig slop,” Grandmother responded without looking up from her task. “Anyway, what am I to do, sit in that room all day listening to the radio and staring at the picture box?”

      “Of course we don’t expect that. But you’re here to rest, not work. Take a walk; the streets are safe, very safe. No harm will come to you. There are eyes everywhere. Our neighbors know who you are.”

      Grandmother dropped a pinch of salt into the stew and swirled the wooden spoon around a few times before bringing it to her lips for a taste. Satisfied, she nodded her head and then looked at Ismae. “You should have left me in Prama. This place is hell.”

      * * *

      Later, in the privacy of their bedroom, Ismae gently massaged her husband’s tense back.

      “It’ll get better,” she offered softly. “Everything is new to her. It’s just going to take more time than we thought.” She found a knot near his spine and began to work it loose.

      Wasik leaned into her kneading fingers. He grunted in agreement, but in truth, his mother was the very least of his worries. What was paramount in his mind was the allegation that had come down from the ministry of finance accusing Wasik’s superior—Ota Weli—of diverting government money into a personal account. As a result, Ota had been suspended from work while the powers that be investigated the theft.

      Wasik had been summoned to the minister’s office and questioned about the matter.

      I had no idea, Wasik explained to the minister, wringing his hands. He did not understand why he was so nervous, because he was in no way involved and knew nothing of the theft. But still, perspiration gathered in beads across his forehead, and even as he declared his innocence, his tongue turned to sandpaper.

      Really? None at all? the minister had pressed in a gruff voice. You are his right-hand man and you didn’t notice that these funds were missing from the account?

       No sir, I did not. Those particular books were not put in my charge.

      The minister eyed him warily. The truth will be revealed, he warned, and then dismissed Wasik from the room.

      “Did you hear me, Wasik?” Ismae whispered, her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. Wasik turned and peered into her eyes.

      “I’m sorry, Ismae,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. “I was thinking about something. What did you say?” He kissed her fingers.

      Ismae grinned. “I said to stop worrying yourself about your mother, everything is going to be just fine.”

      “Of course it will,” Wasik said, pushing Ismae down onto the bed.

      5

      One day, a few weeks after Grandmother arrived, Ismae came wobbling into the house supported by her husband and a pair of crutches.

      Grandmother spat, “That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled shoes.”

      Ismae ignored the comment. “It was the silliest thing,” she stammered. “I go up and down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I don’t know. Thank God I wasn’t carrying Agwe!”

      Wasik helped Ismae onto the couch and placed a pillow beneath her injured ankle.

      Grandmother studied the cast. “How long will you have that thing on your leg?” she asked, running her finger across the hardened plaster.

      “The doctor said six weeks.”

      “Six weeks?” Grandmother responded with a huff.

      “Yes.”

      Grandmother shrugged, turned, and walked into the kitchen grumbling about high-heeled shoes and tight skirts.

      Ismae thought how helpful it would be to have Bembe there during her time of need. But the poor girl had crumbled under Grandmother’s tyrannical reign, and had found employment elsewhere.

      One afternoon during the second week of Ismae’s convalescence, she was sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine when Wasik arrived home early from work.

      Ismae gazed at her husband’s wan and worried face. “What is it? What has happened, Wasik?”

      He dropped his briefcase on the floor, went to the glass tray of liquor, and reached for the bottle of schnapps. “They have suspended me,” he squeaked.

      Ismae tossed the magazine aside. “Did you say suspended?”

      Wasik took a gulp of the schnapps, swallowed, and nodded.

      “But why?”

      “They think I have something to do with the money that was stolen.”

      Ismae already knew about the theft, because news of it had reached the papers. Even as the reports gained momentum, however, Wasik had kept the fact that he was being investigated a secret from her. But now the truth was out in the open.

      “That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working at the treasury department for years, and not a cendi has ever gone unaccounted for.”

      Wasik drained his glass and poured another. When he’d emptied the glass a second time, he brought it close to his face and peered at the empty bottom as if his life had fallen down into it.

      “How long will you be suspended?”

      “Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.”

      “And how long will that take?” Panic pealed like bells in Ismae’s voice.

      The schnapps circulated quickly through Wasik’s bloodstream, raising his body temperature, burning away the worry. He poured a third drink. “I don’t know,” he replied dryly.

      “What will we do for money?”

      Wasik swirled the liquid round and round in the glass. His head felt as light as a leaf. He sighed. “I will still be receiving some of my salary.”

      “Some?”