Soft Life

Photo: Beth Tate

What would it take to make an African woman soft?

To not suffer like her mother did, carrying children on her front and back. 

To not accept steadfastness in exchange for love.

To not roughen like calluses on rocky soil or palms aged by harsh soap.

To be held tenderly for any other purpose than to go forth and multiply. 

Photo: Naba Abolova

When Ada was younger, she once watched her mother stick her hand into the oven to turn over fish while it was cooking. That was the first time she learned that she had to set herself on fire to make other people happy. Indeed, at dinner later that night, everyone said it was the most delectable smoked fish they had ever tasted. She remembered her mother washing loads of pint-sized laundry one by one, scrubbing floors on hands and knees, ironing her nurse’s uniform just so no one could recognize the wear and tear on the body underneath.

She never saw her parents hug except on Christmas mornings and New Year’s Eves when the clock struck midnight. No flowers on Valentine’s Day. No diamond bracelets or necklaces. No favorite perfume. In the movies, she saw how fathers embraced mothers from behind as they washed dishes, how the mothers turned to a surprise, something she had been wanting for a while, something that elicited a smile even in the dreariest corners of domesticity.

So, Ada didn’t know what love was when it found her.

She believed a honeyed tongue coated with lies.

She thought a warm touch could never turn cold.

Fated to repeat the sins of her mother.

About the author

Fejiro Okifo is a Nigerian-American resident physician and writer living in Detroit, Michigan. Her work has been published in Tahoma Literary Review, Sou’wester, Litro Magazine, Eclectica Magazine, Gasher Magazine, and upstreet. She was also named a finalist in the 2021 Black Warrior Review Contest.

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