Lola stared at her mother, whose face had now gotten flaming red. She puffed and heaved, adjusting and retying her wrapper, even though the innocent fabric was definitely not in need of retying.
"Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," Lola said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Upset me? Upset me? You think this is about me being upset? This is about respect, Lola. Respect for our traditions, for our ways. How can you even think of such a thing?" Her mother's voice rose with each word, filling their small living room.
Lola looked down at her hands—her left hand specifically—the source of this current storm. All she had done was mention that she wanted to learn to write with her left hand. She had always been fascinated by how her cousin Tunde could use both hands with equal dexterity. But mentioning this innocent desire had unleashed her mother's fury.
"In this house, in this family, we do not use the left hand. It is the hand of the devil, of bad luck, of disrespect. Your father would turn in his grave if he heard you talking like this," her mother continued, invoking the memory of Lola's father who had passed away three years ago.
Lola bit her lip. She wanted to argue that times were changing, that many of her classmates at university used their left hands without any divine punishment befalling them. But she knew better than to challenge her mother further when she was in this state.
"I understand, Mama. I won't mention it again," she said, hoping to end the conversation.
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "This is that university filling your head with foreign ideas. I knew I should have listened to Uncle Bayo when he said girls don't need higher education."
This stung. Lola had fought hard for the opportunity to attend university, to study engineering. Her mother had eventually supported her, against the wishes of many family members who believed a woman's place was in the home, preparing to be a good wife.
"Mama, please. The university has nothing to do with this. I was just curious, that's all."
Her mother sighed deeply, some of the anger seeming to leave her body. She sat down heavily on the worn sofa across from Lola.
"You don't understand, Lola. These traditions, these beliefs—they protected us. They gave us structure in a world that often made no sense." Her voice had softened, taking on a tone Lola rarely heard—vulnerability.
"What do you mean, Mama?" Lola asked, sensing there was more to her mother's reaction than simple adherence to tradition.
Her mother was quiet for a long moment, her eyes distant, as if seeing something far away. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible.
"Your grandmother—my mother—she was born left-handed."
Lola's eyes widened. This was news to her. "I never knew that."
"No one talks about it. When she was a child, they tried everything to make her use her right hand. They tied her left hand behind her back. They beat her when she reached for things with it. They told her she was cursed, that she would bring misfortune to everyone around her."
Lola felt a chill run through her body. "That's terrible, Mama."
"It was the way things were done," her mother said, though there was no conviction in her voice. "Eventually, she learned to use her right hand for everything. But she told me once, when I was about your age, that it always felt wrong, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet."
"Did she ever try to use her left hand again?" Lola asked.
Her mother shook her head. "No. The fear was too deep by then. But sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, I would see her touch things with her left hand—just touch them, as if remembering what it felt like to use the hand that came naturally to her."
Lola felt tears prick at her eyes. She had never met her grandmother, who had died before she was born, but suddenly she felt a connection to this woman who had been forced to deny a fundamental part of herself.
"When your grandmother died," her mother continued, "I found a small notebook hidden among her things. It was filled with writing—beautiful, flowing script—all done with her left hand. It was her secret rebellion, I think. Her way of being true to herself when no one was watching."
"Do you still have it?" Lola asked eagerly.
Her mother's face clouded. "No. Your grandfather found it too. He burned it, said it was evidence of her defiance, her unwillingness to conform."
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of this family history hanging between them.
"I'm sorry, Mama," Lola finally said. "I didn't know."
Her mother looked at her, really looked at her, for what felt like the first time in years. "No, I'm sorry, Lola. I reacted from a place of fear, from memories that still haunt me. But you're right—times are changing. And perhaps they should."
She reached across the space between them and took Lola's left hand in both of hers. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent.
"If you want to learn to write with your left hand, then do it. Break the chain that bound your grandmother, that still binds so many. But understand that for some of us, these old fears run deep. Be patient with us as we learn to let them go."
Lola squeezed her mother's hand, feeling a new understanding bloom between them. "I will, Mama. I promise."
That night, as Lola lay in bed, she thought about her grandmother's secret notebook, filled with the words her left hand had longed to write. She made a silent promise to that grandmother she had never met: I will write with both hands, freely and without shame, and in doing so, I will remember you.