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...
Showing posts with label nwadike. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nwadike. Show all posts
Thursday, 12 August 2010
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.
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