My brother existed first in the loud prayers of my mother before he was born. Prayers like Lord if you give me this son I am asking for, I will worship you for the rest of my life. I will dedicate him back to you, use him for your glory. Show yourself, Father, let people know that I serve a living God. It happened that my parents counted me Chinonso, as their first bundle of joy. My younger sister Chisomaga, a second bundle of joy, and my youngest sister Chimuanya, the third bundle of joy. Still, three of us are incomplete bundles of joy because we are girls. Daddy came to the conclusion that it must be his portion in the land of the living to bear a son that will hopefully bear more sons who will carry on his surname for all eternity. So mummy prayed, fasted, and used up all her savings from her hair salon business to consult iya sikiratu for potent herbs, pastor daniel for assured prayers, and some doctor from far away. My sisters and I watched her stomach swell until we were sure it would burst. Then daddy returns early from work one day and carried her to that place where Aunty Landa from biology class says women could shit out their babies if given a special injection.

When he comes home to us, he is wrapped in an immaculately white blanket. We run our hands through his black curly hair, pressed his cheeks against ours to inhale the sweet smell of his scented powder, and devised ways to find out if his fingers and toes could fit into our mouths. Several days later, many of our neighbours and relatives occupy our living room clutching white glasses filled to the brim with assorted drinks that mummy will not allow us to sip from. But daddy could drink all he wants just because he is daddy until his eyes turn red and he speaks very slowly when he says;

“My son, this special one I have waited for, for so long will be called Afamefuna Nnamdi.” They all cheer, and some people insert wads of naira notes inside my brother’s blanket before clinking glasses with daddy.

“What does Afamefuna mean?” Chimsomaga asks daddy when all the guests had left, and she was sorting the empty beer bottles into a crate as I mopped the floors.

“It means my name is not lost.”

“Why.”

“Because he is a boy.”

While we grew up in the footsteps of God, daddy, and mummy, Afamefuna grew up in the footsteps of Ben 10, Superman, and Power Rangers. We realized early enough how very special he is. So special that mummy made sure his food was dished first before everyone else. He is exempted from sweeping, mopping, doing dishes, or carrying pails of water from the central tap outside to fill the big black drums that lined the corridor. It didn’t matter that he could curse and not take the curse words back or say sorry. Or that he will often leave his dirty clothes lying on the ground, knowing we will scurry after him to pick them up. None of these things matter because he is our Afam.

The week I turned thirteen, mummy had sister Angela from church bake me a vanilla cake which she set down gently on the centre table. I rush to change from my house wear to my Sunday wear because mummy wants to take pictures with me. When I return in my red polka dots gown, I see that Afam had taken a giant slice of the cake. He did not cut into it with the serrated knife laying by the table, but with his hands, so the cake became smeared. I look at mummy first before staring at Afamefuna in frightful fits as he devoured the cake and licked his fingers.

“Leave him, he is your brother.” Mummy’s voice echoes somewhere over my stares. In between, I hear Chisomaga and Chimuanya say sorry, pardon him, smile naa.

“Afam, afam muooo.” Mummy calls faintly, knowing he will not respond when he runs off outside to play catcher with the other children from our compound.

My sisters and I retreat to the kitchen to feast grudgingly on what is left of the cake.

“This boy’s own is becoming too much.” Chisomaga is saying to the saucer in her hand.

“What should we do?” I ask.

“We can take him to Ewu monastery and dump him there,” Chimuanya says between mouthfuls.

“How will we get transportation?” Chisomaga asks. When none of us replies, that idea is quickly discarded.

I go into the kitchen store and come out with black nylon that contains the white powdery substance mummy uses to kill the rats that darted round the house.

I add a teaspoonful of the powdery substance into the remaining pineapple juice in the refrigerator and shake the carton vigorously before instructing Chimuanya to give it to Afam.

That night boils broke out all over Afam’s body that mummy soaked him in sufficient chants of holy ghost fire. By morning when blood ran down from his nose into his mouth. Mummy screamed for the blood of Jesus while daddy asked me to bring Afam’s hospital card as he loaded Afam into his car.

“Chinonso take care of your sisters for me inugo?” Mummy’s voice is no louder than a whisper as she says to me from the passenger’s side when daddy zooms off.

“I will, mummy,” I reply, waving at her until the car disappears.

– Adaora Raji