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.