Dress for Asabe
The day Momma and Poppa died seemed such a long time ago, Asabe thought as she stepped into the third dress Auntie had given her. Up here, so high up in this tall building, this famous city, so far away Kaduna seemed and so grown up she was becoming.
London had given her food and health and some friends to play with—yes, her cousins, they were nice, and her Auntie, she had seemed like a new momma. A new family God had given her. But for the last week, Asabe had been learning.
Yes, that is how Auntie always put it, "Time to earn keep, to grow up, be good woman. Practice make perfect, Asabe, practice make perfect."
This dress looked a little funny, tight around her bottom but when she looked in the mirror, she felt good, she saw her Momma's face look back at her. She was growing up, it was true and she felt it, saw it, wanted it. Made her smile.
Auntie was back again in the room, and Asabe knew what came next, what she must do.
"Come on, Asabe, child. Practice make perfect, do what Auntie show you."
But, it did not feel good, not like looking at momma's face, wearing the beautiful woman clothes. Asabe pulled the little shirt above her head but it stuck, caught in her hair—she saw her Auntie's face change, her shoutings coming.
"Asabe, girl, sort yourself out! You is woman, we all is women! I cannot pay for you all time, you must earn, you must be credit to your Momma, do what Momma wanted! You hear, girl?"
Asabe thought of dear Momma, tried again, danced a little with the hips as Auntie had taught. Soon, she stood in her underclothes, felt naked.
"That is good, Asabe," Auntie clapped, "You see what Auntie tell you—practice make perfect. You have your first man in two day time. Must be perfect for that."
Asabe looked back at the mirror, saw herself, her lucky life. "I a woman now," she said slowly, "I a woman now, Momma. I make you proud."