by Cynthia Ajuzie

They roll over. Tucking their chins into their necks, curving their spines like commas, raising their butts high in the air to throw off their center of gravity and propel forward. They curl onto the floor, diving headfirst with arms outstretched like two crutches meant to bear the impact of their weight. They count down between rolls, 3…2…1…, and lower themselves towards the ground. In this large living room with beige walls, brown couches, and fuzzy T.V. humming, they are gymnasts. 

“Baby girl, I don’t think I can do anymore rolls before I pass out,” Belima says, giggling at how ridiculous they must look tossing their bodies all over the carpet. “I have to put the coffee table back, cook dinner, and finish cleaning before your momma and daddy get home. If they see everything unfinished, they’ll be upset with me. And we don’t want them changing my pay again, right?” 

Belima places her hand on Sophie’s sweet, porcelain-like cheek. Sophie raises her small fingers and holds Belima’s hand, soothed by the contact of Belima’s skin on hers. 

“Can we do it just one more time Bellie, please?” Sophie pleads.

“Okay honey, one more time and then no more,” Belima replies as she straightens her apron.

They move back into formation, across from each other, getting ready to tumble forward. Bracing their bodies for both the fall towards the ground and the excitement that will follow once they resurface from the carpet, standing upright and tall.

Once they sink to the ground and begin rolling forward, Belima hears a pop in her arms. And then in her legs. Sophie stands up and runs to her side. Her face twists and wrestles as she tries to figure out what happened.  

“Bellie, what’s wrong with your body?” 

Belima looks at her tiny face, baking with concern and she smiles, trying to pacify Sophie’s terror.  

“I think I’ve fallen apart, baby girl.”

Belima’s arms and legs are strewn before her like the forgotten limbs of a dismembered doll found lying in hidden spaces, perhaps behind a bed or under a dusty couch.

Suddenly, Belima feels overwhelmed by a sense of embarrassment. She thinks of Sophie and feels saddened that the little girl has to deal with this inconvenience.  

“Sophie? Baby? Sorry to ask you this, but do you think you could help me put my body back together?”

“Yes, Bellie! I can do that,” Sophie replies, eager to fix something broken.  

Sophie picks up Belima’s lifeless arm and tries to push it back into her shoulder socket. She wiggles the arm, hoping it will pop into place without much effort. But it does not work. Her skinny fingers grow tired of trying to jam Belima’s thick, dark arm back into the space it was meant to occupy. 

Sophie starts crying. “Bellie, I’m sorry! I can’t fix your arm. It feels like something is stuck in it already.”

“It’s okay baby girl, calm down. It’s not your fault,” Belima replies. “Can you look at my shoulder and see if there’s anything there blocking my arm from going back in?”

Sophie nods and brings her face down to Belima’s shoulder where the rest of her arm used to lie. Her face twists again as she tries to discern what she is seeing. She realizes that something is there, but remains unsure of what it is. It resembles a fleshy, dark mound that puffs outwards like a bulky jacket shoved into a drawer too small for its contents. Around the rims of the bulge, she sees tufts of black, coily hair.

“Honey, do you see anything?”

“Umm, I think I see something, Bellie.”

“Baby, can you bring me one of the mirrors in your momma’s room and hold it below my shoulder so I can see what’s wrong?”

Sophie nods and runs to retrieve a mirror. She puts it before Belima’s face so she can see for herself. Belima observes a bulging, dark mound with the faint traces of a face.

“Can you bring it a little closer baby?”

Sophie tilts the mirror downward, enough for Belima to make out two small, closed eyelids, perched a few inches above a tiny nose and mouth. She realizes that there is another bulging, dark mound lodged into her other shoulder socket and the sockets on her hips, where her legs were attached. 

“Not again,” she whispers to herself, worried that she may not have time to both push out her children and complete her tasks before Sophie’s parents return.

Cynthia Ajuzie is a Nigerian American writer from Baltimore, Maryland. While attending University of Virginia, she wrote for the theatrical production, The Black Monologues, and had her work performed for the university’s community. After obtaining a BA in Literary Prose, Cynthia taught high school English in Houston, Texas within an underserved community. She is an MFA graduate from Rutgers University-Newark and her work is featured in Quarter After Eight, Brittle Paper, and The Ekphrastic Review.