An hour has passed since breakfast. Me and Peace are in my room.
Although it’s sunny outside I leave my curtains closed. I like the way the sunshine passes through my blue curtains and gives the room a slight blue glow.
Peace sits at the small desk where my laptop is; she’s listening to music at high-volume through headphones.
I’m reading a book I picked from the small shelf on my wall. “Things Fall Apart”.
I’ve had this book for a long time now; this is the second time of me reading it. The first time I read it, it was just out of interest. I didn’t focus too much about the issues raised in the book. As time went on I began to focus on them more. I related myself to the son of the main character; he also had an over-bearing father.
OK, maybe my father isn’t as bad as the father in the book, but they both have a rift between them.
I begin thinking of what things will be like years from now between me and my father. I doubt they would be anything good.
I try hard not to think about the argument at breakfast. I feel a bit bad. Now everyone in the household is in a bad mood.
I close my book and ponder whether I should go and talk to my dad. Half of me says I shouldn’t bother; half of me says I should.
I hear heavy footsteps come up the stairs. It’s my father. I recognise the sound of his steps. Peace turns to the door curiously. Though she can’t hear anything with the headphones; it’s as if she can feel him coming.
My father enters my room (without knocking) and looks at me then Peace. Peace gets up and leaves. My father sits on the chair at my desk and looks directly at me. He is dressed smartly in a pure white shirt and a deep-red tie. He probably has a morning meeting.
He looks on at me. If I was a teenager I would be scared no doubt. But I’m grown now; the feeling now is more like a feeling of cautiousness.
“Mikel?” he calls me.
“Dad?” I reply.
“Ok. Your mother suggested I come and talk to you.
I pause to think for a moment. This seems too easy. My father rarely listens to what I have to say; and rarely does he ever approach me to speak. I remain silent.
“Why are you silent? I’m giving you the chance to speak.” His voice is calm yet authoritative. Even as now I can have my say, it seems like he’s the one who orchestrated it. The control he’s given me is under his control…if that makes sense.
I break my silence.
“Why can’t you just let me be?...since I can remember you have always controlled every choice I’ve made. Why do…” my father cuts me off.
“Because I’m scared.” He says weakly. He looks away from me. This is now scary. My father never shows signs of weakness.
“I’m scared that if you don’t become a success tomorrow, it will mean I have failed as a father; and everything I’ve worked to provide for you would have been for nothing. I may seem controlling, I may seem pushy; even to a point where it angers you; but you must see why I’m doing it. It’s all for your own good. You may hate me today but you’ll love me tomorrow” He stops speaking.
He comes and sits next to me. “Son” He continues “…my actions towards you are not done on purpose. They are done because if I let you slip just once, I’ll regret it 100times” he then hugs me.
Once again all that I wanted to say just evaporated from my mind. The only difference now is I’m not upset about it.
“It seems you have a lot you want to say. When your anger towards me has subsided, please come and talk to me…your mouth is silent but your face says many things”
My father has a habit of talking in metaphors; but only when he is serious.
I look at his face as he gets up. I don’t see any seriousness. His face seems almost apologetic; it scares me a bit. For the first time in years my father is showing signs of emotion.
“Now I have to go and quickly see Peace before I go out…Please son, don’t hate me for loving you”
He leaves closing the door behind him. Finally my mouth works.
“I don’t hate you, dad.” I say quietly. I doubt he heard me.
Friday, 27 August 2010
Friday, 20 August 2010
Morning after the Night Before
Last night I hardly slept. Too much was on my mind.
I sit up on my bed and begin my prayers.
When I was younger mum made it clear to me and Peace that we must ALWAYS say our morning prayers. No matter what…even if the ceiling was collapsing; you must still pray.
The bulk of my prayer was about the issue with me and my father. Peace also.
I get out of bed and go straight into the bathroom. It’s a mess!
It seems some of Peace’s habits haven’t changed since I left. Her towels are on the floor, which is very damp. She’s left the cap off the toothpaste, the mirror and window are steamed up, and her shampoo and hair-care products are scattered near the sink.
I brush my teeth and go downstairs into the kitchen. I greet my family. My sister and mum are having hard-dough bread with butter and Milo. My father’s eyes make contact with mine. He doesn’t look angry, nor does he look happy either. It feels as if he’s been waiting for me. I look away and my eyes fall on his bowl; he’s just finished his Quaker oats.
“Would you like breakfast?” my mother asks sensing some tension.
“No thanks; I’ll just have some Milo”
I make my Milo with cold milk; that’s how I like it. I sit down and drink slowly. The silence in the kitchen is close to agonising. My father must feel the same ‘cos he decides to speak.
“Mikel, don’t think last night is over” he voice sounds deep but tired. I guess he didn’t get much sleep either.
“Over? We’ve barely started” I say with total abadon.
Mum looks slightly shocked. “Obi!..Are you mad?! Don’t speak to you father that way.”
“Sorry mum…sorry dad.”
My dad laughs softly. It’s the kind of laugh that he does when he wants to hide anger.
“Well, seeing as you’ve made it clear that you no longer want to listen to me, I’ll leave you.” He says calmly.
I’m surprised. I was expecting more of a challenge like the night before.
“My son has now become the parent, it’s as if he wants to throw away years of good upbringing.” My father continues.
One thing my father had a habit of doing was trying to play on emotions; it was his way of trying to make someone feel guilty.
“Biko, I want there to be peace between us…”
My father interjects. “There will be peace, once everyone knows their place.”
I know he is referring to me.
“I know my place definitely isn’t being suppressed by you” I say.
“Suppressed?...So me your father is now suppressing you” he says poking his chest.
“Yes. Ever since I was a child you have done it. I have NEVR been good enough. You have always found fault in what I do.” I say this all in one breath.
My mum gets up to speak. But I get my words out first.
“…And it’s affecting Peace too”
All heads turn to her. She sits looking at us nervously.
“She feels like she can’t exceed in anything with you; all she does is just good and nothing else.”
My dad now looks confused. My mum looks sad and confused. I try myself at playing my father’s game.
“All the negative attention you placed on me has had very negative affects on her.”
I feel like I’m exaggerating a bit, but hey, I guess I get it from my father.
Peace looks more worried now. I don’t like seeing my sister upset. But things needed to be sorted out.
“Adannaya?” my father calls Peace by her Igbo-name. “Adannaya, Have I not done my best with you? Have you now joined your brother to…”
Peace cuts him off.
“Dad, he’s right. Everything I’ve done has been good to you, but you never tell me how I could make it better. You push Obi in everything, even when he doesn’t like it. But not with me.”
Peace stops speaking and gets up. She places her plate and mug in the sink.
“I’m going to clean up the bathroom.” She says. She walks out; I hear her quick and light footed steps on the stairs.
I know it took a lot for my sister to speak out. It took me a lot too.
Anything that comes close to challenging an African parent was never a good idea. Even being grown, things like this brought back that fear of a child.
“All I want is a happy family! Is that too much to ask?” My mother says looking upwards as if praying. I hear the tones of frustration and sadness in her voice.
I leave my cold Milo unfinished and attempt to walk out. My mother calls me back.
“Mikel Obiora Nwadiké! Come here! What has gotten into you?!”
“Nothing mum. It’s just that I’m tired. I do love dad, but he needs to change his ways.” I talk as if he isn’t there.
I hear my sister’s footsteps again. Peace comes back in. I look to her.
“Everything’s fine Peace…come on, lets go; I’ll help you clean up the mess YOU made in the bathroom.” i tell her.
Me and Peace walk out. As we walk upstairs we hear our mother voice.
“You see what you have caused?! Albert! I said this will happen! I told you in the beginning that if you don’t change something like this may happen!” she ends by kissing her teeth.
The slip-slap sounds of my mother’s slippers sound out through the kitchen and she cleans the rest of the table.
I guess mum has some issues she needs to sort out with dad too.
I sit up on my bed and begin my prayers.
When I was younger mum made it clear to me and Peace that we must ALWAYS say our morning prayers. No matter what…even if the ceiling was collapsing; you must still pray.
The bulk of my prayer was about the issue with me and my father. Peace also.
I get out of bed and go straight into the bathroom. It’s a mess!
It seems some of Peace’s habits haven’t changed since I left. Her towels are on the floor, which is very damp. She’s left the cap off the toothpaste, the mirror and window are steamed up, and her shampoo and hair-care products are scattered near the sink.
I brush my teeth and go downstairs into the kitchen. I greet my family. My sister and mum are having hard-dough bread with butter and Milo. My father’s eyes make contact with mine. He doesn’t look angry, nor does he look happy either. It feels as if he’s been waiting for me. I look away and my eyes fall on his bowl; he’s just finished his Quaker oats.
“Would you like breakfast?” my mother asks sensing some tension.
“No thanks; I’ll just have some Milo”
I make my Milo with cold milk; that’s how I like it. I sit down and drink slowly. The silence in the kitchen is close to agonising. My father must feel the same ‘cos he decides to speak.
“Mikel, don’t think last night is over” he voice sounds deep but tired. I guess he didn’t get much sleep either.
“Over? We’ve barely started” I say with total abadon.
Mum looks slightly shocked. “Obi!..Are you mad?! Don’t speak to you father that way.”
“Sorry mum…sorry dad.”
My dad laughs softly. It’s the kind of laugh that he does when he wants to hide anger.
“Well, seeing as you’ve made it clear that you no longer want to listen to me, I’ll leave you.” He says calmly.
I’m surprised. I was expecting more of a challenge like the night before.
“My son has now become the parent, it’s as if he wants to throw away years of good upbringing.” My father continues.
One thing my father had a habit of doing was trying to play on emotions; it was his way of trying to make someone feel guilty.
“Biko, I want there to be peace between us…”
My father interjects. “There will be peace, once everyone knows their place.”
I know he is referring to me.
“I know my place definitely isn’t being suppressed by you” I say.
“Suppressed?...So me your father is now suppressing you” he says poking his chest.
“Yes. Ever since I was a child you have done it. I have NEVR been good enough. You have always found fault in what I do.” I say this all in one breath.
My mum gets up to speak. But I get my words out first.
“…And it’s affecting Peace too”
All heads turn to her. She sits looking at us nervously.
“She feels like she can’t exceed in anything with you; all she does is just good and nothing else.”
My dad now looks confused. My mum looks sad and confused. I try myself at playing my father’s game.
“All the negative attention you placed on me has had very negative affects on her.”
I feel like I’m exaggerating a bit, but hey, I guess I get it from my father.
Peace looks more worried now. I don’t like seeing my sister upset. But things needed to be sorted out.
“Adannaya?” my father calls Peace by her Igbo-name. “Adannaya, Have I not done my best with you? Have you now joined your brother to…”
Peace cuts him off.
“Dad, he’s right. Everything I’ve done has been good to you, but you never tell me how I could make it better. You push Obi in everything, even when he doesn’t like it. But not with me.”
Peace stops speaking and gets up. She places her plate and mug in the sink.
“I’m going to clean up the bathroom.” She says. She walks out; I hear her quick and light footed steps on the stairs.
I know it took a lot for my sister to speak out. It took me a lot too.
Anything that comes close to challenging an African parent was never a good idea. Even being grown, things like this brought back that fear of a child.
“All I want is a happy family! Is that too much to ask?” My mother says looking upwards as if praying. I hear the tones of frustration and sadness in her voice.
I leave my cold Milo unfinished and attempt to walk out. My mother calls me back.
“Mikel Obiora Nwadiké! Come here! What has gotten into you?!”
“Nothing mum. It’s just that I’m tired. I do love dad, but he needs to change his ways.” I talk as if he isn’t there.
I hear my sister’s footsteps again. Peace comes back in. I look to her.
“Everything’s fine Peace…come on, lets go; I’ll help you clean up the mess YOU made in the bathroom.” i tell her.
Me and Peace walk out. As we walk upstairs we hear our mother voice.
“You see what you have caused?! Albert! I said this will happen! I told you in the beginning that if you don’t change something like this may happen!” she ends by kissing her teeth.
The slip-slap sounds of my mother’s slippers sound out through the kitchen and she cleans the rest of the table.
I guess mum has some issues she needs to sort out with dad too.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
A Moment of Peace
A moment of Peace
I came out to my garden for some quiet time but my mind is full of thoughts which just cloud my head. My mind won’t shut-up. I’m alone and it’s still hard to get some peace.
“Mikel, are you alright?” my sister asks grabbing my arm trying to scare me.
I’ll admit; she does take me by surprise.
“What are you doing out here?” She asks smiling triumphantly
“I’m just thinking…trying to clear my mind and get some quiet time.”
I’ve been standing out here for 20 minutes; the small argument with dad just plays over and over in my mind.
My legs begin to get tired; so I sit down on the grass; my sister sits next to me. She has changed into her purple-baggy silk pyjamas; they match her nails.
“I heard the convo between you and daddy.” says Peace.
“Seems like there are a few issues that need to be sorted out.”
“There is nothing to sort out.” I reply boldly. “Do you honestly think anyone can get through to our family-dictator?!”
Peace looks at me then takes my hand.
“Dad just wants the best for you…he may seem harsh, but you know him, that’s how he shows his affection.”
Instantly I get frustrated and try to keep my cool. Peace senses it and she leans on my shoulder. She used to do that with our parents too; when they were angry with her.
She squeezes my hand tighter. “You know how African parents are… especially dads. Tough love is what they…”
I cut her off before she can finish. She knows little or nothing about tough love! The golden child cannot tell me anything about tough love.
“Peace, please don’t go there” I say releasing my hand from hers. “You’ve had it easy compared to me. You’ve rarely had your decisions made for you.”
My sister opens her mouth to say something but then changes her mind.
“Has dad ever made a decision for you without even asking how you felt about it?” I ask rhetorically. Peace doesn’t answer.
I turn and look at her. Though it’s dark out here, I can still see her slightly from the light coming through the kitchen window.
“Has he ever scrutinised every piece of work you’ve brought home?”
Peace remains silent.
“Has he ever, even once said to you ‘You didn’t try hard enough’ when deep down you know you tried your best?”
“No…not really” she replies hesitantly.
“There you go then. Dad rarely shows displeasure in what you do. You’re as good as gold. If I could have had have half of your treatment….” I end my sentence there.
I love my sister a lot and I don’t want this convo to cause any bitter feelings between us, so I wisely end it. My grievances lie with my father, not with Peace.
“Mikel? Have you ever wondered what it’s like for me?” she asks.
Her question is sudden and slightly confusing.
“huh?...what do you mean?” I ask back.
“For years dad has always focused on you…when you’re not around it’s only you he talks about. He goes on about how you’re gonna make him proud, how you’re gonna do this and that, blah blah blah…”
What Peace has just said has thrown me into a slight confusion. I try to say something but now I’m the one who is lost for words. Peace continues to talk.
“You know sometimes…” she pauses for a second. “Sometimes I wish dad could fuss over me the way he does with you. Dad is just content with what I do. With you he’s always trying to make you better, trying to make you achieve more; but with me, what I do is just satisfactory… and nothing more.”
I cast my mind back to when we we’re younger and our school reports came home. Dad would go through Peace’s report, nodding his head approvingly; then he would say something like “Very good Peace, you have done well”. I realise what she just said is true.
With my report, he would sit up in his seat and his face would turn serious. After reading it he would say “It’s good but...” from there he would just break me down piece by piece.
I’m tired of the garden now, so I stand up and stick my hand out to pull my sister up. I’m sleepy now and I know my sister is too. I pause for a second before moving and hug my sister.
I hold my sister tightly. I never realised that the affects of my father’s action on me also affected her.
Peace was right; there are definitely things that need to be sorted out.
My father, Peace and I will need to have a serious talk...
I came out to my garden for some quiet time but my mind is full of thoughts which just cloud my head. My mind won’t shut-up. I’m alone and it’s still hard to get some peace.
“Mikel, are you alright?” my sister asks grabbing my arm trying to scare me.
I’ll admit; she does take me by surprise.
“What are you doing out here?” She asks smiling triumphantly
“I’m just thinking…trying to clear my mind and get some quiet time.”
I’ve been standing out here for 20 minutes; the small argument with dad just plays over and over in my mind.
My legs begin to get tired; so I sit down on the grass; my sister sits next to me. She has changed into her purple-baggy silk pyjamas; they match her nails.
“I heard the convo between you and daddy.” says Peace.
“Seems like there are a few issues that need to be sorted out.”
“There is nothing to sort out.” I reply boldly. “Do you honestly think anyone can get through to our family-dictator?!”
Peace looks at me then takes my hand.
“Dad just wants the best for you…he may seem harsh, but you know him, that’s how he shows his affection.”
Instantly I get frustrated and try to keep my cool. Peace senses it and she leans on my shoulder. She used to do that with our parents too; when they were angry with her.
She squeezes my hand tighter. “You know how African parents are… especially dads. Tough love is what they…”
I cut her off before she can finish. She knows little or nothing about tough love! The golden child cannot tell me anything about tough love.
“Peace, please don’t go there” I say releasing my hand from hers. “You’ve had it easy compared to me. You’ve rarely had your decisions made for you.”
My sister opens her mouth to say something but then changes her mind.
“Has dad ever made a decision for you without even asking how you felt about it?” I ask rhetorically. Peace doesn’t answer.
I turn and look at her. Though it’s dark out here, I can still see her slightly from the light coming through the kitchen window.
“Has he ever scrutinised every piece of work you’ve brought home?”
Peace remains silent.
“Has he ever, even once said to you ‘You didn’t try hard enough’ when deep down you know you tried your best?”
“No…not really” she replies hesitantly.
“There you go then. Dad rarely shows displeasure in what you do. You’re as good as gold. If I could have had have half of your treatment….” I end my sentence there.
I love my sister a lot and I don’t want this convo to cause any bitter feelings between us, so I wisely end it. My grievances lie with my father, not with Peace.
“Mikel? Have you ever wondered what it’s like for me?” she asks.
Her question is sudden and slightly confusing.
“huh?...what do you mean?” I ask back.
“For years dad has always focused on you…when you’re not around it’s only you he talks about. He goes on about how you’re gonna make him proud, how you’re gonna do this and that, blah blah blah…”
What Peace has just said has thrown me into a slight confusion. I try to say something but now I’m the one who is lost for words. Peace continues to talk.
“You know sometimes…” she pauses for a second. “Sometimes I wish dad could fuss over me the way he does with you. Dad is just content with what I do. With you he’s always trying to make you better, trying to make you achieve more; but with me, what I do is just satisfactory… and nothing more.”
I cast my mind back to when we we’re younger and our school reports came home. Dad would go through Peace’s report, nodding his head approvingly; then he would say something like “Very good Peace, you have done well”. I realise what she just said is true.
With my report, he would sit up in his seat and his face would turn serious. After reading it he would say “It’s good but...” from there he would just break me down piece by piece.
I’m tired of the garden now, so I stand up and stick my hand out to pull my sister up. I’m sleepy now and I know my sister is too. I pause for a second before moving and hug my sister.
I hold my sister tightly. I never realised that the affects of my father’s action on me also affected her.
Peace was right; there are definitely things that need to be sorted out.
My father, Peace and I will need to have a serious talk...
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
BREATHE
“Obiora, welcome back”, says my father as he hugs me. “It’s good to have you home. Nnọ”.
My father’s voice reminds me of James Earl Jones; his voice has a tone of authority and royalty.
As my father speaks, I feel the base in his voice rumble against my body. He releases me from his hold, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.
His pure-white shirt looks immaculate and well ironed; not a single crease. His navy-blue silk tie and trousers match perfectly and his black shoes shine proudly.
As he takes his seat I look at his physical stature. He has a head of jet-black hair with a small grey area above his left temple.
6’3 and built solid, my father has the body of a warrior. Although my father has never set foot in a gym, he is naturally big; and unlike some of my uncles, who have a typical West African diet, he hasn’t got a pot-belly. My father is in pretty good shape for someone in his late 40s.
As I take my seat, my family and I join hand hands, and we close our eyes. My father clears his throat and begins praying. I’m little bit grateful he’s the one praying, if it was mum she’d go on for ages.
After my father ends the prayers we all begin to serve ourselves and eat. My father piles a large serving of rice, stew and meat on his plate.
As I chew my eyes slowly drift up, so do my sister’s eyes. We give cheeky smiles to each other. I giggle quietly.
My mind flashes back to when we were younger and we used to pull faces at each other at the dinning table. Seeing as I was the eldest and the one who’s supposed to set a better example, I received the slaps over the back of my head. Peace only got the stern looks to make her stop giggling.
“Obiora, what is so funny?” my mother asks
“What? Oh, nothing…nothing. I’m just remembering something from when we were kids”
I return my concentration to my food. I then look at my father’s plate. It amazes how he can eat such a large portion. But it makes sense, a man his size eats to his ability.
“A King size-meal for a King” my father says as he catches me staring.
I focus back on my food and continue eating. I’m so grateful to be home. Now I can eat proper food and not the sardines and maggi-cube rice dish I used to make back at uni. I guess I should have listened when mum said I should learn how to cook; and not just my sister.
In the corner of my eye I can see my father. I can sense him working out in his mind what he wants to ask me; and the answers he expects me to tell him. This makes me apprehensive. I feel short of breath.
Through my late secondary school years and most of my college years, my father was always on my case. Every subject I took was decided by him. The college I went to was decided was decided by him; even the car I have was my father decision. 'No' wasn’t even an option. Life before uni was sometimes suffocating.
Time slowly passes and we finish our dinner. My sister heads straight to her room. I and my parents are in
the living room watching a Nigerian film. I sit watching uninterestedly; the over-the-top acting, poor sound quality and melo-dramatic storyline annoys me.
“Obiora, now that you have finished university, have you decided where you want to work?” My father asks without moving his gaze from the screen. Once again I feel short of breath.
The question puts me off totally. I’ve barely been back a day and already he’s on my case. This is exactly why I studied away from home in the first place.
“I don’t know yet, I’m still thinking.” I reply.
“But you’re not a small boy; I didn’t send you to university for fun. You should know what you want to do by now” he says as he turns to looks at me.
“I said I don’t know” I reply nonchalantly, “Probably something to do with accounting, after all that’s what you made me study.”
“That’s what I made you study?” He repeats. "How do you mean? Didn’t we both agree that…"
I cut him off in mid sentence. I decide to give my true opinion now. As he said; I’m no longer a small boy.
“Dad, I didn’t make any agreement. It was you who decided that should study accountancy. It was you who pressured me.” I speak calmly.
I avoid his eyes and twitch my fingers nervously.
“A whole graduate such as yourself and you don’t know what you want? Is that what you will tell people outside? Do you want to shame me?” my father raises his voice.
I take a deep breath
“But it’s not really about you” I reply even quieter than before. I try to control my breathing pattern.
“Not about me?” He says standing up. “Do you hear yourself? Who will they blame if you become a failure tomorrow? Whose name will they call if you achieve nothing?”
“Biko, let us not argue now. It’s too soon. This nice time we’re having, let us enjoy it” my mum says trying to calm things down.
“Gladys please, let me talk to him. Just continue watching the film.” Now my father is standing looking at me.
I stand up to leave the living room; my father’s presence is now choking me. I hold my breath. I then walk out. Surprisingly he doesn’t call me back; but I can feel his eyes on me.
I walk through the hallway into the kitchen and step out into the garden.
The cool night breeze comforts me as I try to clear my mind. How dare he say all those things?
If I become a failure then it’s on me. He still has his status: Barrister Albert Nwadiké.
My own life choices, should not affect him; but then again that’s how my father is; he’ll take things twist them and make them about himself. I’m honestly sick and tired of him. I need to breakaway from him no matter what it takes. It’s MY life.
I look up at the night sky; finally…I can breath.
My father’s voice reminds me of James Earl Jones; his voice has a tone of authority and royalty.
As my father speaks, I feel the base in his voice rumble against my body. He releases me from his hold, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.
His pure-white shirt looks immaculate and well ironed; not a single crease. His navy-blue silk tie and trousers match perfectly and his black shoes shine proudly.
As he takes his seat I look at his physical stature. He has a head of jet-black hair with a small grey area above his left temple.
6’3 and built solid, my father has the body of a warrior. Although my father has never set foot in a gym, he is naturally big; and unlike some of my uncles, who have a typical West African diet, he hasn’t got a pot-belly. My father is in pretty good shape for someone in his late 40s.
As I take my seat, my family and I join hand hands, and we close our eyes. My father clears his throat and begins praying. I’m little bit grateful he’s the one praying, if it was mum she’d go on for ages.
After my father ends the prayers we all begin to serve ourselves and eat. My father piles a large serving of rice, stew and meat on his plate.
As I chew my eyes slowly drift up, so do my sister’s eyes. We give cheeky smiles to each other. I giggle quietly.
My mind flashes back to when we were younger and we used to pull faces at each other at the dinning table. Seeing as I was the eldest and the one who’s supposed to set a better example, I received the slaps over the back of my head. Peace only got the stern looks to make her stop giggling.
“Obiora, what is so funny?” my mother asks
“What? Oh, nothing…nothing. I’m just remembering something from when we were kids”
I return my concentration to my food. I then look at my father’s plate. It amazes how he can eat such a large portion. But it makes sense, a man his size eats to his ability.
“A King size-meal for a King” my father says as he catches me staring.
I focus back on my food and continue eating. I’m so grateful to be home. Now I can eat proper food and not the sardines and maggi-cube rice dish I used to make back at uni. I guess I should have listened when mum said I should learn how to cook; and not just my sister.
In the corner of my eye I can see my father. I can sense him working out in his mind what he wants to ask me; and the answers he expects me to tell him. This makes me apprehensive. I feel short of breath.
Through my late secondary school years and most of my college years, my father was always on my case. Every subject I took was decided by him. The college I went to was decided was decided by him; even the car I have was my father decision. 'No' wasn’t even an option. Life before uni was sometimes suffocating.
Time slowly passes and we finish our dinner. My sister heads straight to her room. I and my parents are in
the living room watching a Nigerian film. I sit watching uninterestedly; the over-the-top acting, poor sound quality and melo-dramatic storyline annoys me.
“Obiora, now that you have finished university, have you decided where you want to work?” My father asks without moving his gaze from the screen. Once again I feel short of breath.
The question puts me off totally. I’ve barely been back a day and already he’s on my case. This is exactly why I studied away from home in the first place.
“I don’t know yet, I’m still thinking.” I reply.
“But you’re not a small boy; I didn’t send you to university for fun. You should know what you want to do by now” he says as he turns to looks at me.
“I said I don’t know” I reply nonchalantly, “Probably something to do with accounting, after all that’s what you made me study.”
“That’s what I made you study?” He repeats. "How do you mean? Didn’t we both agree that…"
I cut him off in mid sentence. I decide to give my true opinion now. As he said; I’m no longer a small boy.
“Dad, I didn’t make any agreement. It was you who decided that should study accountancy. It was you who pressured me.” I speak calmly.
I avoid his eyes and twitch my fingers nervously.
“A whole graduate such as yourself and you don’t know what you want? Is that what you will tell people outside? Do you want to shame me?” my father raises his voice.
I take a deep breath
“But it’s not really about you” I reply even quieter than before. I try to control my breathing pattern.
“Not about me?” He says standing up. “Do you hear yourself? Who will they blame if you become a failure tomorrow? Whose name will they call if you achieve nothing?”
“Biko, let us not argue now. It’s too soon. This nice time we’re having, let us enjoy it” my mum says trying to calm things down.
“Gladys please, let me talk to him. Just continue watching the film.” Now my father is standing looking at me.
I stand up to leave the living room; my father’s presence is now choking me. I hold my breath. I then walk out. Surprisingly he doesn’t call me back; but I can feel his eyes on me.
I walk through the hallway into the kitchen and step out into the garden.
The cool night breeze comforts me as I try to clear my mind. How dare he say all those things?
If I become a failure then it’s on me. He still has his status: Barrister Albert Nwadiké.
My own life choices, should not affect him; but then again that’s how my father is; he’ll take things twist them and make them about himself. I’m honestly sick and tired of him. I need to breakaway from him no matter what it takes. It’s MY life.
I look up at the night sky; finally…I can breath.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Meet the Family
As I pull-up outside my family home in Enfield in my 2nd hand car, (which my father once owned), I feel anything but excited to be back here. It isn't the dirty London streets, the terrible traffic or wailing sirens of police cars that bothers me; in fact living away from London I've almost missed these things. It is my household that I have mixed feelings about.
There is my mother, Gladys, who still treats me like a big kid, even though I'm the eldest out of two children.
There is my younger sister, Peace (yes, that's actually her name) who is the only one I can really tolerate. My family see her as the golden child. Peace is little Miss Perfect and can do no wrong… if only my parents really knew.
Finally there's my dad, Mazi Albert Aloysius Nwadiké. Albert, my father is the decision maker in our family. At times my father acts like a dictator; he has this might-is-right mentality sometimes and rarely displays his emotions. He is the main reason for my apprehensive feelings.
I step out of my car, leaving my luggage in the boot; I walk up to the door and ring the bell; a few seconds later I hear a click and the door opens. I'm greeted with jubilant welcome.
"Mikel! Mik-Mik, you're back!" My sister screams; she giggles and throws her arms around me.
As we embrace, the smell of herbs and spices softly tickle my nostrils. She's probably helping mum out in the kitchen.
My sister lets go and takes a step back to look at me; I stare back; her sleeveless black top and knee high tight jean-shorts show-off her naturally toned arms and legs. It’s as if her body had been carefully sculpted. Her peanut brown skin looking flawless as usual. I know guys would probably be casting looks in her direction by now.
“Mikel, so you decided to update you’re wardrobe.” She says cheekily.
“Yeah, well you know you gotta live a little.” I reply, unsure if she is complimenting me or teasing.
She tugs at my new Ralph Lauren top and looks my jeans. I smile back proudly. I had a bit of money left over from my student loan so I decided to treat myself.
I head straight into the living room and slump down on the sofa. My sister plants herself down right next to me and yells out to mum.
“MUMMY, Obiora is home! She screeches, almost damaging my ear-drum.
I hear the slip-slap sound of my mother’s slippers getting closer. I get up and hold out my arms as she enters the living room. My mother practically charges at me and squeezes me, pulling me tight against her frame. She has to tip-toe to kiss my cheek. The smell of African cooking hangs on her clothes.
“Nwa’m, kedu? My son how are you?” she asks smiling brightly.
“Fine, thanks mum. How have you been?” I ask smiling back.
“Well, we thank God. Anyway my son, we can talk later. Biko, you must come and eat, Mummy has prepared food. Peace, oya! Come and help me set the plates; your father called and said he’ll soon be home.”
As they leave to go set the plates I hear a car pull up outside. I go to the window and peak to see who it is. A tall and regal figure of a man walks up to the house.
“Obiora come and eat!” my mother yells from the dinning room.
I enter the dinning room and take my seat opposite my sister. Just as I get comfortable the tall and regal figure enters. We make eye contact. I force a smile and rise to greet the man.
“Hello Dad”...
There is my mother, Gladys, who still treats me like a big kid, even though I'm the eldest out of two children.
There is my younger sister, Peace (yes, that's actually her name) who is the only one I can really tolerate. My family see her as the golden child. Peace is little Miss Perfect and can do no wrong… if only my parents really knew.
Finally there's my dad, Mazi Albert Aloysius Nwadiké. Albert, my father is the decision maker in our family. At times my father acts like a dictator; he has this might-is-right mentality sometimes and rarely displays his emotions. He is the main reason for my apprehensive feelings.
I step out of my car, leaving my luggage in the boot; I walk up to the door and ring the bell; a few seconds later I hear a click and the door opens. I'm greeted with jubilant welcome.
"Mikel! Mik-Mik, you're back!" My sister screams; she giggles and throws her arms around me.
As we embrace, the smell of herbs and spices softly tickle my nostrils. She's probably helping mum out in the kitchen.
My sister lets go and takes a step back to look at me; I stare back; her sleeveless black top and knee high tight jean-shorts show-off her naturally toned arms and legs. It’s as if her body had been carefully sculpted. Her peanut brown skin looking flawless as usual. I know guys would probably be casting looks in her direction by now.
“Mikel, so you decided to update you’re wardrobe.” She says cheekily.
“Yeah, well you know you gotta live a little.” I reply, unsure if she is complimenting me or teasing.
She tugs at my new Ralph Lauren top and looks my jeans. I smile back proudly. I had a bit of money left over from my student loan so I decided to treat myself.
I head straight into the living room and slump down on the sofa. My sister plants herself down right next to me and yells out to mum.
“MUMMY, Obiora is home! She screeches, almost damaging my ear-drum.
I hear the slip-slap sound of my mother’s slippers getting closer. I get up and hold out my arms as she enters the living room. My mother practically charges at me and squeezes me, pulling me tight against her frame. She has to tip-toe to kiss my cheek. The smell of African cooking hangs on her clothes.
“Nwa’m, kedu? My son how are you?” she asks smiling brightly.
“Fine, thanks mum. How have you been?” I ask smiling back.
“Well, we thank God. Anyway my son, we can talk later. Biko, you must come and eat, Mummy has prepared food. Peace, oya! Come and help me set the plates; your father called and said he’ll soon be home.”
As they leave to go set the plates I hear a car pull up outside. I go to the window and peak to see who it is. A tall and regal figure of a man walks up to the house.
“Obiora come and eat!” my mother yells from the dinning room.
I enter the dinning room and take my seat opposite my sister. Just as I get comfortable the tall and regal figure enters. We make eye contact. I force a smile and rise to greet the man.
“Hello Dad”...
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