If Walls could Talk by Fungai Machirori

The boys were audacious enough to place bets when the decadent news about Rumbi spread across the corridors of the Communication Science department and wafted all the way along to the Chemistry labs, lacing their acrid smell with the sweetness of scandal.

Would Rumbi Magona give birth in time to be able to sit the final round of exams?

This story has been selected for the annual StoryTime anthology African Roar 2012, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

If Walls could Talk was written by Fungai Machirori.

Copyright © Fungai Machirori 2011.

Writing about myself.

What a deeply challenging task. When asked to go back in time and tell someone about me, I am never too sure where and when to begin. Should I start with my birth date – April 2, 1984 – or with the beginnings of my passion for writing – which emerged around the time I was 12? Should I tell you about all the frustrating challenges or just about the deeply fulfilling successes?

I am never too sure.

And so I make a calculated guess at what might be interesting for you to learn about me.

I distinctly remember how, as a young girl, I always seemed to have my head buried in a book. It was torture for my older sister as I always recited what I had read to her on our long morning walk to school. I little realised that that natural inclination towards books was grooming me towards creating my own worlds of poetry and prose.

Throughout school, I always did well in literature and won a few inter-schools prizes along the way. But at 19, out of school and trying to make sense of myself, I realised that the world of arching birches and gargling brooks bore no resemblance to my own lived existence. I realised that though my writing was eloquent, it was not true to me as a young Zimbabwean going through the political and financial turmoil that marked our nation’s entry into the new millennium.

So, I would say that my writing career truly began in 2003, when I let go of my false existence and embraced the contemplative, and at times morose and even comic, voice that I recognise as my own.

At 21, I was privileged to participate in the British Council ‘Crossing Borders’ project – a project which sought to link Zimbabwe’s creative writers with mentors from Britain. It was a great privilege for me to sit at the same table as Zimbabwe’s most acclaimed talents – who included Chris Mlalazi, Raisedon Baya, Masimba Biriwasha and Megan Allardice – and have my young voice be heard among theirs.

Simply put, my career has grown exponentially since then. In 2006, a short story I wrote placed second in the national Intwasa short story writing competition – a deeply exciting achievement for me. As a result, I had a short story published by amaBooks in the anthology ‘Long Time Coming: Short Writings from Zimbabwe’. My poetry has been published by the British Council, and I am currently working with three other Zimbabwean women to have an anthology of our poems published in 2010. Also, I am working on my first novel – which I hope to have published in 2010.

Besides being a creative writer, I am also a journalist and blogger with a special focus on HIV, AIDS and gender issues. Thus far, I have been recognised for an Africa-wide award for excellence in HIV and AIDS reporting by the African Network for Strategic Communication in Health and Development (AfriComNet). The prize, which I won as a wide-eyed 23-year-old has done a world of good for my confidence in my journalistic writing.

I am thankful to God, each day that I can see the potential in everything I happen upon to become a story, an article, a poem.

I know that I am on the right course with my life because each day is so full of ideas and alive with adventure.

Parade Boys by Afam Akeh

The bells were ringing when they arrived. Above the noise of vehicle engines and other city sounds there was that clang clang of the church and college bells ringing from their different locations. The bells were close enough with their timing. It was about four in the afternoon when Max and Barry got into Cornmarket Road. Cornmarket was now paved for pedestrian use mostly, but it was still called a road. The people of the city were out in force. There was that Sunday buzz from family outings, tour groups, jugglers, mime and other pavement artists, aspiring musicians and their audiences. But these sights and sounds were not what the two friends had come for. They ignored displayed advertisements for the latest mobile phone gadgets, walking purposefully towards their destination and staying away from shop windows.

Max was nervous about where they were going. He no longer thought it would be as easy as he let Barry persuade him it would be. “We’ll just get in there and act like we are with them,” Barry had said. They were doing it because it was a fun thing to do, he added. As they waded through the crowd and went deeper into Cornmarket, Max wondered if it would be possible to divert Barry towards their favourite pie place at the Covered Market. But he gave up the idea. There was nothing new in that, no adventure, and adventure was what Barry wanted. That early buzz of a ‘Best Pizza’ or ‘Best Pie’ food hunt was all the adventure it could offer. Eating was not what Max and Barry were about.

They had walked to Cornmarket from one of the St. Aldates estates. Barry lived there, in a flat with his mum. She had said her cheery “Back soon, guys”, and waved them on. Max liked Barry’s mum. She was young and pretty, too young to be Barry’s mum, he thought. She was always well dressed, behaved like her son’s young aunty and spoke to the boys like adults. But Max liked her most of all because she smelled so nice. He visited their St. Aldates flat often, jumping on the Route 31 bus from Botley, because Barry was his closest friend – and he liked to see Barry’s mum smiling.

She did not look like someone who was capable of any anger, but Barry had warned Max to keep quiet about where they were going. He said his mum would “kick up a can” if she knew. So they let her believe it was just another Sunday walkabout. The boys, or at least her son Barry, would return, exhausted. If it helped to calm him down and work up his appetite for home cooking, she was for it. A man in his forties lived with them in that St. Aldates flat. Barry called him his step dad. Max did not like the man because Barry said many bad things about him. Barry had never seen his real dad, and often wondered if he was alive or dead. His mum did not like to talk about his missing dad so he learned not to ask about him. “Not worth your bother,” his mum said. “He’s gone, he’s gone.”

“He could be anyone, anywhere,” Barry once said to Max.

“He could even be the Prime Minister,” his friend joked, trying to find comfort in a subject he also found difficult.

“Nah, Max, he ain’t PM material, me dad. If he ain’t dead, he’s a lag somewhere, done for drugs or whatever. Maybe dyin’ in some bog with a bad liver. I know, I know...”

Max smiled. He understood his friend did not really know, and was desperate to find out. He did not really mean all he had said about a father whose face he longed to see, even in a photograph. At least Max knew his own father. He visited often, and Max sometimes went to see him in Cowley, where he lived with the new woman who became his wife. Max’s mum and dad never married but did live together for six years before their separation. Max and his younger sister were the products of that relationship in Botley. He remembered the day his dad moved out. It was the morning after his fifth birthday. He heard his parents quarrelling at night after the family celebrations. It was not the first time. Parents quarrel. Parents stop quarrelling. He was exhausted from all that birthday joy, and soon fell asleep. When he woke the next morning his parents were still quarrelling so he wondered whether the quarrel had something to do with him, or the celebration of his birthday. He had been woken up by the noise and listened in bed to his parents. He knew as his dad packed up to leave that it was not a good morning. But it was later, when his mum said dad would no longer live with them, he understood his mornings would never be the same again.

“The Japs are back in town... The Japs are back in town...” Barry was singing. They had walked further into Cornmarket, passing the KFC restaurant, finally taking up a position at the corner of St Michael’s Street junction. Ship Street was the side street on the other side of Cornmarket, opposite to where they stood. It was the group of fancy-dressed people in that street they had come to see. But Barry’s song was a comment on the long procession of oriental students, which had snaked into Cornmarket from Broad Street. The students cut their way through the crowd into the HMV music superstore.

“They are not Japanese,” Max said confidently.

“No?”

“No. They’re Koreans, South Koreans.”

“Really? And how did you figure that out?”

“I heard them.”

“Oh... You can speak Asian now?”

“There’s no such language as ‘Asian’, silly...”

“Well, whatever the fackin’ Koreans speak!”

“Some speak English. I listened, and heard them speaking English, talking about their home in Seoul.”

“That’s in Korea, right?

“South Korea.”

“Well, Korean or Japanese, Scot or French... all the same to me. If he ain’t English he’s bloody Johnny Foreigner! Irish or worse...”

Max was used to Barry talking like this, but he still turned to look disapprovingly at his friend.

“That’s racist.”

“Racist? Nah, just ‘onest, mate. Look around. There’s Johnny Bloody Foreigner all over the place! And he gets whatever he wants too… He wants the tar taken off Queen’s Street, or Cornmarket, sos they can fill up with tourists and foreign school kids, he gets his wish. He wants the Odeon showin’ some Bollywood, he gets that wish too. It pisses me off! It’s all going to Johnny Foreigner at the moment. Me mam says so, and she’s a hundred percent most of the time.”

“Johnny Foreigner! You’re talking about the likes of Dwayne, man.”

“Nah... Not Dwayne. Dwayne’s a mate... Top bloke. Born here, been here all his fackin’ life. Black as a mamba, yeah, but a right ‘un... He owes me one though, Dwayne. Next time we’re at the chippy, I ain’t the one paying.” He stopped, seemed to hesitate, and then added perfunctorily, “Dwayne... he takes it up the arse, you know?”

“You are so crude, Barry!”

“Wha’? Everyone knows about Dwayne…”

“Yes, everyone suspects... but no one has actually seen him…”

“Okay, mate... Awight? But it ain’t what you think. I don’t mind Dwayne being that way, you know...” He hesitated again, as if uncertain about how much he could say – what he could confide in Max. “I like Dwayne… He’s cool, man, knows this city better than I do... the hot places... and up Cowley. Night time is the best time, mate. Me and Dwayne... all tossed up like we was the mayor. I had me bowler last time. And was it fun, man, was it... argh! Adventure!” He pushed Max playfully for emphasis.

“I’m off to tell your mum.”

“Fack off,” Barry said with a grin, gently pushing his friend again.

What Barry said about his mum’s attitude to newcomers in Oxford disappointed Max. He tried to imagine that sweet-smelling woman of St Aldates, who was always nice to him, saying such crude things, couldn’t bear to believe it, and decided it was not her fault. She was most likely channelling the words of her man, the one Barry called his ‘step-dad’. He was rough, and Barry did call him the beast, so it was a case of Beauty and the Beast. It had to be that The Beast was the source of all that rot coming out of Barry’s mouth, and the heart of his beautiful mum. Anyway, there was nothing new in all that for Max. He was used to talk like that from Barry. It was just talk. Max did not think of Barry as a hateful person.

He was more worried about these nights out Barry said he was enjoying with Dwayne, but he said nothing about it. Barry could take care of himself, night or day. It seemed as if he had made up his mind that Max was his day-friend and Dwayne his night-friend. Max was not a night person, and on the rare times that he stayed out late, at a friend’s birthday party usually, there would be those phone calls from his mother – just to make sure he was alright, she would say. Barry was different. Nightfall seemed to light him up. It was from these nights out with Dwayne that Barry got many of the stories he told Max, always with a glint in his eyes, as if he couldn’t wait for it to get dark again.

This was Barry of the hidden night life, the Barry some of their school mates called ‘Wacky Barry’, the Barry of rebellion and fury, but not the only Barry known to Max. There was also Barry of the soft centre, troubled but willing to learn, the one Max’s mum thought she knew as her son’s friend. Barry only ever came to visit Max in Botley when he was “in the right mood,” meaning when he could bring himself to dress sensibly and behave in the way he knew would please Max’s mum...“like a polite kid.” You could reach the softer Barry, Max knew that. It had been a factor in bringing them together as friends. Max did feel at the beginning as if a cyclone had swept into his life, carrying him along a path determined by it. Everything was adventure. Every day. Barry drank, swore, and ate his chips in overflowing mouthfuls. He didn’t care much about speaking English properly. All the things Max’s mum preached against.

A shout of affirmation turned their attention to what was going on across the road in Ship Street. Before the boys arrived, the groups converging there had been moving from one street to another, in carnival procession. There were banners and placards distributed among them. Max read one of the banners: OXFORD PRIDE PARADE.

“Looks like fun,” Barry said.

“I am sure it is.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? I‘m goin’ in...”

“No, wait!”

“Why? Scared or what? I say we go in now and rock ’em.”

As Barry spoke, there was that familiar sparkle in his eyes. Max knew at once which Barry he was now speaking to. The aroma of deep-fried chicken wafted in from the take-away bags some were carrying out of KFC. An amateur juggler in front of the old St John and St Thomas Church missed a skittle, and had to start again. This parade in Ship Street was new to Oxford. When they spoke about it earlier, Barry said he hoped it would become big, “as big as a carnival”, like the much bigger parades in other parts of the world – “all good fun, really”.

Max had said no, instinctively, the first time his friend suggested that they should join the parade, just to see what would happen. That was, well, taking fun too far, he thought. His mum would go crazy with worry if she ever heard he was in a pride parade! Everyone knew about the parade. You did not join unless you belonged, or you were a campaigner, and neither he nor Barry was any of that. And they were not old enough. But Barry was persuasive. It seemed to matter to him. New experience. Another adventure. Max gave in to his friend’s wishes. He would accompany Barry in this adventure as a friend. He even allowed himself some curiosity about the parade. Why was there so much hugging and hand-holding? All that public show of affection…

Now they were in the city, within sight of the parade he realised that neither he nor Barry had come in fancy dress like many of those in the parade. He felt overdressed just watching them. Some wore naughty student or nurse uniforms, pyjamas, lingerie and extremely short PVC skirts. One participant wore a crown of feathers, a skin-coloured vest and more feathers providing cover around his loins. From where he stood Max could not easily see if he wore anything else under those feathers below… flesh-coloured tights perhaps? Some wore masks or face paints. It was one thing to find clever disguises for getting into night clubs, as Barry said he had sometimes done with Dwayne, or bribe your way through, or use older people to buy alcohol and other stuff shopkeepers were barred by law from selling to the underage. The parade was one trick too many. And what if the folks in Ship Street should identify them as intruders? No, Barry, no.

“Still scared, Max?”

“I’m not scared...”

“Oh yes, you are. You are shit scared! We had a deal, mate. This ‘ere is why we came, but you got the shivers!”

“But, Barry, what are we going there for? We are not dressed for it and not even old enough.”

“What’s ‘old enough’, mate? No one’s got fackin’ figure sixteen waxed on the forehead!”

“We are fifteen...”

“That’s nearly sixteen, mate... enough age to fill up yuh girl well good... if you had any. Watch... I’ll show you...”

With that he swaggered off across Cornmarket towards the parade. It was, perhaps, this restraint Max had that first drew Barry to him. But Barry was also often irritated by it. He liked the fact that Max was not wild. His friend was a blank slate he could write on, someone he could endlessly show what it meant to let go. Max inspired him that way. But there were times he thought of Max as a hopeless mummy’s boy. A wuss, yes, that was the word he was looking for.

Max followed Barry with his eyes until his friend’s departing form became one with the parade. He felt suddenly alone and excluded, but also strangely satisfied he was right and Barry was wrong. Then he began to worry that his friend would be found out, and there would be trouble for both of them. There were police officers staying close to the parade in an unobtrusive way, as they usually did with approved public gatherings involving masses of people. The parade may welcome Barry, take no notice of him, ask no questions, but what if the watchful police spotted him? Max rested his hopes on the fact that his friend was at least the right height. All he needed was a cap or some face paint to disguise his youthful face. But Barry did have expressive, streetwise eyes so that could help the face in looking the right age. He was also well practised in acting older than he was.

It became obvious to Max as he looked that not everyone in police uniform at the parade was from the police force. Some were just parade participants dressed up like the police, with batons, which they waved at intervals, or raised to hail the speeches and declarations of their colleagues. Max guessed that most of the participants were from the colleges of Oxford University, since it all seemed so controlled, without violent, drunken behaviour. Students were no angels, especially after a drink, but if you are a student and behave badly in the city you could more quickly be identified than if you are just anyone from possibly anywhere outside the university.

Well, Barry had chosen to go off on his parade adventure. Max decided he could not just stay rooted to one spot, worrying about him. He would spend the time on his own adventure. There were shops to enter, varieties of street performances… and girls in small clothes all over the place. With the girls he could do no more than just look. Barry was the daring one, with a sense of mischief. Barry could make anyone laugh, especially girls. Barry could chat up any girl… but he mostly preferred the adventures with his pals. Max accepted that he was not Barry.

His mobile phone rang. He fished it out of a pocket and read the identity of the caller. Mum… just being faithful as usual to her practice of checking up on him whenever he was out. It embarrassed and sometimes irritated him, but he understood it was for her comfort. She had become that way with Max and his sister since their dad left. He let the phone ring out, and then put it back into his pocket, deciding he could not risk a conversation with his mum. What if she asked him what they were doing in the city?

He counted out the time from another round of clanging bells in college towers, including the bell of St Peter’s College. An hour had gone since Barry crossed over to the other side of the street. He was either having the adventure he was seeking at the parade, or something had gone wrong. Max waited and then waited even more, deciding he would not go searching for his friend in the parade no matter what happened. He would wait. Barry was easily bored and would soon come out. His phone began to ring again. Mum. This time he decided to answer.

“Hi Mum...”

“Hi love. Where are you? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mum. Still in the city with Barry. Be back home soon.”

“Okay, dear, take care… Oh, Dad is here. He’ll be staying for dinner. Bye love.”

“Bye Mum.”

Now that he had said he would be returning “soon”, a worried tone would creep into his mum’s voice if he was not back home in good time and she had to call again, as he knew she would. The sun was going west rapidly but his friend was still at the parade. He did not want to leave without being sure Barry was safe.

Max’s mum changed when her husband left home. Meal times and bed times were sacred. So was study time. Waking up time. And she got herself and the children involved with the St Aldates Parish Church. Max began early to do some of the housework his father used to do, helping his mum and keeping her happy. As the years passed, the word ‘forgiveness’ came into their home and gradually paved the way for the return of their dad – but only as a visitor. For Max and his sister, the years had brought their healing magic late, only after settling their father in a new family. They got both parents back but when they were together there were too many things everyone knew but no one would talk about. Max’s mum gradually eased the rigour of her watch over him, but ‘homecoming time’ was still important to her.

He had homecoming time in mind as he hurried back to the junction of St Michael’s, searching across Cornmarket Road for his friend in the opposite street. This was not easy because Cornmarket was busy. Max hoped he would see Barry from where he stood, because he did not want to cross to the other side of the road where the parade and his friend were.

The groups in Ship Street began to disperse, some in procession, still in parade mood, going towards Broad Street, perhaps home to their colleges down the street. Others just walked off in different directions, as couples or individuals. The police watch had gone in response to calls from real trouble spots in the city. The parade had its share of merry people but no trouble-makers, and it was closing anyway, another year of funny dresses passed without incident as far as the police was concerned. More people went away and Max could suddenly see Barry. He was part of a younger group that seemed to have organised themselves within the larger parade crowd. Max could see Barry at the centre of this group, which did not seem to have any desire to disperse and move on like others were doing. Max saw that he seemed even more animated than usual, waving his arms, and then strumming an air guitar. That was another trouble with Barry. He was always overdoing things, and could never easily walk away from trouble, or anything he found enjoyable.

Max called out his friend’s name and jumped with one hand held up. He hoped Barry would soon hear his voice, or see him, and come over so they could go home.

“Come on, mate, you’ve had your fun!” Max said, more out of frustration than with any hope of being heard by Barry.

Then he saw another boy snuggle up to Barry and both boys wrapped their arms affectionately around each other. Max knew who that other boy was. It was their friend and school mate, Dwayne. Being affectionate like that with other boys was not an unusual thing for Dwayne. But Barry! Had Barry been drinking at the parade? There was a moment in which Max was uncertain about what to do, then he decided to cross that forbidden stretch of road and go to the other side. He would take that step if it was needed to get his friend out, and take him home. He was convinced his friend had been drinking at the parade. Being Barry meant being up for any adventure or experiment. Max took one step forward and then stopped, tried to take another but was transfixed by what he was seeing across the road. Barry and Dwayne, who had been holding each other, were kissing. They were really kissing. Snogging! Barry and Dwayne… Barry and Dwayne?


His Route 31 bus was late. There were questions he could not answer bobbing up and down in his thoughts. Did he really see what he saw? Was he rushing to conclusions? Was it a planned or chance meeting at the parade – Barry and Dwayne? Could he have missed something about his best friend? Or about those night adventures Barry enjoyed with Dwayne?

He had walked from Cornmarket, after what he saw. He just kept going for some time without direction, or particular interest in the things around, until another round of clanging city bells reminded him of his waiting mum. He realised then he had missed the bus he could have taken. He got to a bus stop and read the electronic schedule. It indicated that the next bus would arrive later than expected. He imagined his mum at home pacing up and down, and phoned home to pre-empt another call from her. He was at a bus stop close to the railway station, hoping to be home by dinner time, he told her. The bus was running late but he still hoped to make it. His mum seemed happy to hear his voice, and repeated again the information that his dad was visiting, hoping to see him and have dinner with them. Did he want to say hello to him on the phone? No need for that, really. He was on his way home, anyway, so he would meet dad soon. His mum said bye, love you, and all the other things she sometimes said, and then was off. He switched off too and tried to put the phone away but it rang. It was a text message.

Bn lukn 4 U matey. Gone hom or stl around? D parade woz a blast, man. Neva bn zo appy! Cal bak. I wanna tok.

Max read the message once, then held his phone in front of him for what seemed like an eternity before putting it away. He did not respond to the message from Barry. The only other time he could remember feeling like this was the morning he woke up to discover his father would no longer live with them. At the bus stop a queue was quickly forming as people saw the red colours of the expected Route 31 slowly approach through heavy traffic.

His phone rang again. It was another text message.

Whereabouts a U? Wayne and I been up n down lukn 4 U. Fantastic parade. Totally changed me life. Shudda bn dia, mate. Gi us a buzz pls… xxx…

Again, Max took his time reading the message from Barry. Then slowly but resolutely he put his thumb on the off button. He put the phone in his pocket and joined the bus queue. Soon he was in his preferred back seat position. The evening was darkening and a train rumbled overhead as the Route 31 passed under Botley Bridge taking him out of the city.

Parade Boys was written by Afam Akeh, and is part of a forthcoming collection set around and about Oxford, with the working title Oxonians, intended as a centenarian tribute to Joycean aesthetics and the achievement of his collection, Dubliners (1914).

Copyright © Afam Akeh 2011.

Afam Akeh is the author of Stolen Moments (1988), a collection of poems. His poems, stories, essays and work in journalism have won awards and appeared in various journals and anthologies.

He has qualifications in Political Science, Publishing and Creative Writing from Oxford Brookes University and the University of Ibadan. Founding Editor of African Writing, he is working on new projects for the development and promotion of poetry from Africa.

Letter Home, a second collection of poems, and How to Read African Poetry, a collection of personal and literary essays, will be published in 2011.

Parade Boys is from a collection in progress with the working title Oxonians, intended as a centenarian tribute to Joycean aesthetics and the achievement of his collection, Dubliners (1914).

Commitment by Olalekan Olaifa

The fan is squeaking again, its blades turning slowly; its own form of protest against the perpetually low voltage of our power supply. Sometimes the television also protests, solid black lines will move across the screen vertically in quick successions like rollers innocuously grinding out the bones in the figures. Then the figures on the screen wobble as if they were made without bones and formless. My father never bothers about any of them before ten pm, once it is ten, we put on our generator and the electronics stop grumbling and even our refrigerator wakes up from its hibernation. At ten in the evening every day, my father listens to the evening news. It is the last major event of a regular day in my family, as after the news we pray and everybody goes off to bed. However, in the last five months, since my brother got the job on Lagos Island, another major event has crept into our schedule gradually.

Dele is the pride of my family; the first born of my parents. Though he is my immediate elder brother, he is ten years older than I am. They said they had problems with childbirth; they had almost given up hope when I came and were pleasantly surprised when I was followed almost immediately by my sister. My brother went through school with flying colours, winning prizes and awards at all levels. He received a first class in the university and was quick to get a job with a major accounting firm on the Island after his youth service, five months ago. It was all celebrated with great pomp in my family and my father even bought him a car to ease his long commute. All our family friends congratulated my parents and wished their children were like my brother. When my father looks at him I see great pride in his eyes and my mother prays an extra hour for him every day. She believes you need to pray about good things so they don’t go bad. My brother was not about to go bad, instead he was getting better. Four months into his new job he started an executive MBA programme and everyday he would come home to tell us about action learning, distributional analysis and all sorts. We would all listen with rapt attention, my mother with gleaming eyes and my father feigning distraction with some newspaper, but I always knew he was listening because he never reads the papers in the evenings. However, there was a little problem.

At about quarter to eleven every evening, Dele arrives from work. A practice my parents were not happy with, they have complained and implored incessantly but my brother has refused to make adjustments. Last week Monday, he arrived late again. After Ahmadu the gateman let him in, he walked into the living room jauntily holding his bag. My father did not need to look at the wall clock; the one-hour news was in the sports section. On such days, before his arrival, my mother would be extremely worried pacing up and down the sitting room expectantly; starting from 9pm. She would start to recount tales of dangerous events that occur daily in Lagos; how they killed a man, took his car and all his money; how they ambushed a whole highway and searched the vehicles in turn, stealing, beating, killing and raping. We would not pay her any attention and at intervals, my father would interrupt her soliloquy by pointing at the television and saying “please let’s hear what is on the news”, like it did not matter to him if my brother came home or not. The same events reoccurred before he arrived that Monday.

Dele entered with his hung over bag, my father ignored his greeting then leapt up from his seat and shouted at my brother “Where are you coming from?”

“Office sir”

“What is the time?” A question that is never answered.

“Daddy I had a lot of work to do and there was a lot of traffic on third mainland bridge”, he explained, with splayed palms like he did not understand what all the noise was about.

“You must be very stupid, which third mainland?” Then, my father launched into his usual tirade.

“When every well meaning person is safe on their beds, you gallivant around this deadly city then come back home to tell me there was traffic.” He was shouting and gesticulating with his hands, pointing at my brother as if he would strike him.

“What such nonsense!” He continued, “Just last week a man and his family were shot dead in cold blood just about five minutes drive from your office. And you are telling me about a lot of work at the office!” These kinds of examples always vary; sometimes I think he gets some material from my mother’s horror stories.

All the while, Dele was standing with his arms behind his back like a sinner seeking penitence. Then my father added a threat for effect “As from today, I will tell Ahmadu to lock the gates by 9pm every day,” he tried to be considerate “maybe 9:30pm because of your work, if you don’t come early you’ll have to find another house to sleep in”, and added “nonsense”, that means a period and an end to his conversation.

My brother bowed low and said “sorry sir, sorry ma” to both of my parents and the whole episode was forgotten. My mother glad that he was finally safe offered him food and we retired to sleep. After that episode, my brother returned home at 9:30pm on Tuesday and Wednesday. Then, he reverted to his normal routine that provoked similar episodes after two days of getting home by 11pm. It was a vicious circle.

Monday this week, after the threats and abuses of the previous week, Dele returned home by 8pm! A big surprise, even before my sleep loving younger sister had retired to bed. Everybody was happy, I hugged him, and my mother said a prayer for him. Father even chipped in a comment “good” with great emphasis, “that is how to live in this dangerous city of ours, you are now becoming responsible.” We all had supper together and then settled down to listen to my brother’s experience at school the previous week.

He started “A very important aspect of managing a business and employees is to know that” and paused; my great brother usually does that before delivering his punch lines. Then he continued, “Complaint means commitment.” My father had already picked up a newspaper, pretending he was not listening again. I wondered at what he meant, my mother asked him to elucidate, I am sure she used that word to remind him that she was learned too.

Dele had the floor, the way he loved it. He shifted to the edge of the sofa and began to teach his non-executive MBA class. “When you own a business and you have employees, you must realise that they have a level of commitment to your establishment that is why they complain about anything” another pause for the students to assimilate “they feel they have a stake in the business, so they want things to change for good.”

“Yeees, yees” That’s my mother drawing on the yes’s, urging Dele to go on.
My brother continued bolstered by the enthusiasm, “It even happens in the family, for example, every night when I come home late and Daddy starts to complain...” I look at my father, he does not even move a muscle at being referred to; he never lends his attention to such conversations. He once told me, “Men only discuss with men and children with children”. I guess for him women fall in the latter group.

Meanwhile, Dele went on with his lecture “Of course we know it is because he is committed to my safety and well being, if Ahmadu comes home late I am sure he will not be that concerned.” My mother and I nodded in understanding. “As such commitment can be measured from complaints, the employees that complain the most are usually the most stable”. Then he raises a finger in caution, “there are exceptions definitely but often times, the employees that complain the most will never leave abruptly. They don’t harm the business, when they make threats, they never actually carry them out, and they are the safest”. He was about to continue when my father hushed all of us, “It’s time for the news.” We put on the generator, relieved our electronic appliances of their complaints, listened to the news and went to bed with prayers.

On Tuesday, Dele did not return home even after the sports section of the news, my usually frantic mother was more disturbed than ever “He never used to stay this late” she repeated in between her tales of Lagos mishaps. My father remained unperturbed; I decided to stay awake to see where this episode would end. After endless pacing, my mother called my brother on his mobile phone but he was not picking his calls and she became doubly worried. At quarter to twelve, she was about to go in search of him with Ahmadu when we heard his car horn sound outside. My mother held her head and started thanking God hurriedly.

Dele entered the living room with his bag hung loosely as usual; he greeted my mother and my father bowing low and using his right index finger to touch the tip of his right shoe; a measure of unreserved respect. Surprisingly, my father answered and continued watching the television as if he did not know that the sports section ended about an hour ago. Dele climbed the staircase up to his room not bothering to offer any explanations. After he left, my mother went to sit by my father; she pulled his arm “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“About what?”

“Dele of course” She shouted my brother’s name at him.

My father looked at her for a second too long as if she asked a rhetoric question, when she met his gaze, he answered “my level of commitment has reduced!”

Commitment was written by Olalekan Olaifa.

Copyright © Olalekan Olaifa 2011.

Olalekan Olaifa is a Nigerian writer currently based in Atlanta, Georgia. He studied medicine at the University of Ilorin and worked as a general practitioner in the years afterward. Though he is a medical doctor by training, one of his biggest passions is the written word. He first began putting his passion to paper while in school, and that enthusiasm has since blossomed into several short stories. Olalekan hopes to own his own business someday, but meanwhile he is expanding his collection. For more information, connect with him on Twitter @lilfivepoints.

Two gone... Still Counting by Oyindamola Affinnih (Book Excerpt)

I looked into the eyes of my date; the shiver that ran down my spine was expected. He was my first and I was scared. I couldn’t contain the joy that was almost bursting out my heart when we pulled over at Oxo Tower Restaurant. We had driven in silence past the Blackfriars into Barge House Street. I wasn’t exactly surprised. His taste had always been remarkable. We walked into the restaurant and were escorted to our seats by the waiter. Even though we didn’t get a window seating, we still got a panoramic view of the city, St. Paul’s and all other architectural designs because it was covered in glass. The décor prepared you for a fantastic dining experience. The bulbs in the restaurant shone radiantly from huge chandeliers hung beneath the double-sided louvred ceiling. The tables were covered in white, crisp linen cloth and were a little too close together. It was a busy night and people, mostly whites, chattered excitedly. Looking properly I noticed we were the only blacks in the room. It was a beautiful night. There was so much laughter ringing from every corner of the large room. It was an efficiently run spot. Service was professional, polite and courteous.

We got people staring at us for very good reasons while we perused the menu. We were blacks and my date was three times my age. But what did it matter? He loved people believing what they wanted. It would be understating to call him attractive, with a face wearing well for its forty-five years. He had rich chocolate skin, a slightly protruding midriff that confirmed he fed well and a touch of grey hair, a beautiful streak just above his forehead, the one that made people beg to age. He was tall, even from his sitting position, his six feet plus was unmistakable.

“Tamilore”. He called me that when there was something disturbing to say. And how I loved the way he spoke it. “Would you like your order taken now?”

I smiled, though confused, showing all teeth. What had I done this time? My brain flashed back on the events of the past week. I hadn’t done anything wrong lately.

“Yes.”

He returned the smile too and then beckoned to the maitre d’. He was withholding information. I knew him very well. His black trim tux was worn over a crisp linen shirt. My gown hissed as I moved even closer to the table. It was one of those classic bandage dresses wrapped in expensive boxes from Herve Leger with an amazing price tag. He bought it only the day before. With the gown came a SUSANNE FRII BJØRNER black Phrenite circle necklace too. All packed in a green, Harrods carrier bag. When he shopped expensively for me, I was either in some kind of trouble or he wanted to prove a point. He also loved my face as well made up as it was. It was as if I had dressed to impress him. We both whispered to the maitre d’ and when he returned I wasn’t surprised we had both ordered the crab cocktail as starters. We exchanged uncomfortable smiles yet again, digging in. Besides the frequent stare and half a dozen more smiles, he was quiet. He chose the beef dish for his main course while I went for the Lobster ravioli which was absolutely tasty. Halfway into the meal, when he was certain I was carried away by the food, he coughed to clear his throat.

“Dear,” I guessed right. His face showed concern while he sipped wine from the clear glass. “I saw a young man come home with you from school yesterday.”

I blanched stammering “Emm…yes… he’s my classmate.”

He nodded dropping the flute. He enjoyed my befuddled state.

“I’m sure you understand how hard it is for me to watch you being taken advantage of. It’s the reason I brought you here with me to come and eat expensively. I had sworn to your mother that I’d be your first date.”

I blinked at him, smiling at his mischief. “Daaaddy!”

“Sure, so it doesn’t seem unusual when eventually you begin dating.”

“But dad, Oliver is just a classmate.”

He nodded unconvincingly as if he was jealous. “Besides, what happened to all the blacks in your school?”

“One, Oliver is just a friend and two, I thought you usually tell us never to bother about skin colour daddy.” My eyes bored into his. He smiled knowing I got him on that.

We had a wonderful time together. So was the relationship between daddy and me. He had been a solid confidant ever since I was old enough to acknowledge him as my father. And much as he was dedicated to his job at the HSBC Bank on SE9, his family always topped his mind. He had been in England for years. There he lived, worked and studied. He had graduated with First Class honours at Cambridge and lots of offers had naturally opened for him. Every penny he owned, he had worked real hard for. Mum was a client at his bank. Her own office was close to our Riddons Road, Grove Park home on SE12. She was a self-employed stockbroker who had graduated from the University of Lagos, Nigeria. They had married in Nigeria and had me almost immediately. When I turned two, we all relocated to England for an even better living. Two years after my birth, Areef, my brother, was born. My parents were very close so much so that sometimes Areef and I felt like intruders.

“You still have to be careful, Amani,” He said sotto voce. His voice jolted me back.

“Yes dad.” I leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. He grimaced while he cleaned my lip gloss which now smeared his right cheek, I laughed heartily. Dad made me laugh and I couldn’t get over the love I had for him.

A white couple who sat three tables away had been glaring at us in disgust. Being black I was already somehow attuned to it, but there was something to the lady’s stare that surpassed skin colour. They had had only drinks. It was a Friday night and her companion had loosened his tie, as he swallowed glass after glass of champagne. They had perhaps come to seal a business deal because from my secret glances at them they had signed some papers brought in a flat blue Manila file. Their eyes never wavered on us. I grew uncomfortable despite mummy’s frequent lectures on composure. From the corner of my eye, I watched the lady get up to our table and my heart danced a tango. As she stopped at our table, my eyes shot up. She was upset about heaven-knows-what. Her skin had grown taut and her nostrils flared, making her beautiful face a mask of disgust. Her well-coated lips had gone horribly thin and sealed tight and her jaw was set as she looked down at us in our seats. We were just rounding off on our dessert of Shortbread and Earl Grey tea. She adjusted her navy blue jacket while she eventually spilled the reasons for her anger in very terse words. She had a firm voice, and sounded like an intelligent woman. Only she had got it all wrong.

“I see you are one of those men who take advantage of children by deceiving them with expensive restaurant and cash! Do you know where her mum thinks she is right now? Do you know what her mum thinks she’s doing?” She turned to me. “Dear, trust me, you are ruining your future if this is your idea of having fun.” She muttered an expletive at daddy’s way and just as she turned to go, daddy got up, pulling her arm firmly, yet gently.

“Nice of you Ms…” She hadn’t offered her name, so daddy continued. “But let me have the pleasure of introducing my beautiful daughter to you, Amani. Amani I hope you are not upset by the unnecessary outburst?”

I looked up smiling confidently. “No daddy. I am fine.”

The woman had now turned a very bright pink. She was dumbfounded and I could see the apology in her eyes, only daddy didn’t allow her say it. We left immediately walking past her, heads high, shoulders up. That was one thing dad imbibed in us: self-assurance; say it as it is, black or white.

The only way you can have a white listen to a black is when you have an inherent thing that pleases them, something that intrigues them. First, one needed to be intelligent, creative, honest and, most of all, confident. Areef and I lived on that school of thought and so far it had worked, in spades.


“It’s bad enough to steal my husband for the whole of the night, but when you begin to...” That was mum. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. She just paced the living room bellyaching because I went out with daddy; she wanted a minute-to-minute account on all that happened and because I wasn’t telling she was bickering. The way mum itched for gist was alarming. She cherished meeting Nigerians when we went shopping. It was the reason she preferred the market to the department stores. Market was Deptford, while the store was Harrods and we hardly ever saw many Nigerians in Harrods.

“Darling, you too?” Daddy just stepped out from the shower, and had obviously said his prayers. He was garbed in his pale grey dhallabiyah. He planted a kiss on mummy’s forehead and narrated our experience with the white woman. I sprawled on the couch. Our house was a four-room duplex. The living room was large, with high walls covered in soft blue wallpaper. The couch was leather, beige and brown. Our centre table, which reflected light from the Marie Antoinette 8 light chandelier, was brown too with a glass we had replaced twice because of Areef’s carelessness.

My eyes were glued to the plasma TV that rested comfortably on the wall. Beside it was the guitar-shaped CD rack; stacked full. We put mum and dad’s collections to one side since Areef and I never enjoyed their choice of songs, especially one which excited them so much. We didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain what was being said, only that the word kétékété was sung several times. Then dad had taken time to explain to us–whether we wanted to listen or not, we didn’t have any choice– that kétékété meant a donkey in Yoruba, our language. The lesson of the song was meaningful to Areef and me after dad had explained several minutes later. The musician, he went further to tell us, was Chief Ebenezer Obey, and mum would chant ‘Commander’ whenever dad called his name and the song was evergreen, they told us. For no reason, I took a liking to the kétékété song afterwards, and Areef mocked me to no end, which earned me another nickname in Areef’s book— “Commander”. There was the DVD player lying somewhere on the electronic divider as well as other musical videos Areef bought frequently, and then came the invisible speakers. It was past the top of the hour and I waited expectantly for my luck.

It was the weather forecast on CNN, and I was just in time with the right presenter. I listened but couldn’t pick anything save for Femi Oke’s flawless delivery of the news. Femi was very much Nigerian and she was a presenter on CNN. She was the reason I intended studying journalism, at least so my name might be a household one and I could be a great ambassador of my country.

It’s not that I hadn’t heard of the inefficiency of the Nigerian government, the high level of poverty and even higher level of crime and lawlessness, but dad was always particular about what we ourselves gave back to the country instead of what we were getting from it. He had his big plans on settling in Nigeria after he resigned and though we were sceptical, we always went with dad’s wishes. Although he, hard as he tried to hide it, knew he couldn’t have attained such success ladder early, had he studied in his own country. We however had to work towards giving back to our motherland. I shared at least a good percentage of his opinion and maybe mum did too because of friends and family back home but Areef totally despised Nigeria. It was rare for him to speak about our country and it worried our parents. The most important thing to him was that he was a British citizen and he planned living the rest of his life in England. In fact, he had no black friends. Though dad explained his precarious choice to him, Areef was less bothered.

I got up to my room just immediately Femi got off the screen, glancing at my parents; the smiles I expected to see on their faces were there. Once again they confirmed my interest for Femi and, of course, not the news.

It wouldn’t be fair to call me arrogant at my school on Horn Park Lane. No one knew who my parents were, who our guests were when we held parties, how close dad was to many dignitaries all over the world or how many houses daddy had, home and abroad. I was just seen as ‘one of those blacks’ in school. My clothes were neat and my long hair was always beautifully plaited in cornrows by mum since she did part-time hairdressing for friends. But I loved wristwatches and perfumes. Daddy spoilt me with them. I was always followed around by some notorious Africans in school just by the trace of my scent. The previous week I had unconsciously left my gold wristwatch on my desk to have lunch. I hadn’t got halfway when I remembered; only it had grown legs when I returned. I fumed painfully in silence but couldn’t ask anyone. No one in my class except Oliver, who had left the school upon his relocation to Scotland, ever spoke a straight sentence to my face except jeers. Well I would say the girls were jealous and the guys…well maybe scared, except Kwame. He was Ghanaian and talked to no one other than the instructor. The only day he had been pushed to speak was when he almost beat an Irish classmate who had dared call him names.

One would think Kwame and I would be an item but the boy was eccentric. I recall hearing him speak to me just once, the day my wristwatch was stolen. He had come to my table, his dark skin shining like he used some of mum’s coconut oil she fondly called adi agbon.

“I can’t say who took your watch but pay them no mind. They are just jealous because you are smarter and have a better body structure.”

And then he left. It could have been imagined. “Body structure?” This was someone who hadn’t ever spared me a double glance.

Today was going to be difficult I knew. My classmate’s constant jeers, sneers and bitchy retorts have sometimes rubbed me the wrong way and other times created a tougher coat on my skin, only one couldn’t tell their next move and I couldn’t predict my temper. I took a quick scrutiny on myself and just when I assured myself I was good to go in, they started when I entered.

“Hey! Look who is early today.” Josh, the obese, childish one in the group had alerted as he moved unbearably close. I stood to the roots, my eyes thinning with anger.

“Little miss.” Another of them smiled mischievously.

I counted the imaginary 1-10 so as not to lose it but dear me!


“Haven’t I warned you repeatedly?” I was on my knees in the living room, my hands folded behind my back staring at the floor. I dared not look up at dad. He was boiling with so much fury since he had been called by my school instructor on the day’s incident, rudely interrupted from work.

“But daddy...” I tried raising my head, what I saw, I didn’t like. His eyes were red with rage. “Daddy I was as careful as I could. He sat at my desk running dirty talk about me, my family and... even my country.” I had put in the last one to win daddy’s heart but he wasn’t fooled.

“Amani, that’s no way to fight for your country!” He yelled. I shivered. He never got this irate, especially with me. Areef was a better candidate for dad’s wrath.
“Irrespective of what he said to you, couldn’t you have kept your cool? What kind of lady are you growing up to be?” That’s mum. She bothered more on my being a lady.
My heart beat angrily, rapidly. “But I am always harassed daddy.” I fought back the tears. “The other day it was my wristwatch.”

He turned to me abruptly. “I can remember buying you another and telling you to forget it. What exactly has come over you? Would you consider changing your school?”
“I am not a coward daddy,” I rasped. I said my apologies even though I wasn’t sorry and left for my room. I recalled the incident in class earlier and smiled. I had poked the bloated brat right in the chest when he sat on my desk and somehow he had tripped, falling butt flat on the floor. He had hurt himself real bad. His accomplices had reported me quickly and as expected blew it out of proportion.

As I lay on my comfy bed later at night, a smile of victory danced on my lips. I hugged my fluffy pillow tighter to my chest. Kwame broke his own record and was respected. Even the girls flirted around him trying to get his attention. I hoped to God I be awarded the same respect henceforth. As for the flirting, no way.

It was a Saturday and my parents always slept in after their Subhi. I picked up my article which I had placed on my table the night before to do a check. Pulling the seat back, I slumped into the chair, the soft cushions massaging my buttocks. It brought some comfort to me on those nights I read till dawn for exams. Every item in my room was luxurious, from SECCIO. Daddy believed in us and made it imperative that we be comfortable. My room was the orange room while Areef’s the blue one. It was brilliantly colourful. The Formica of my wardrobe, the shelves, the bed stand and the reading table and chair were of very bright orange and white. The wardrobe was originally white save for an attached orange arc on the left corner. A beautiful, transparent twin handle hung jointly at the centre with a vague inscription. The top of the table was white with some touches of orange while the chair was strictly orange with the crescent moon and star emblem carved out from it. My laptop lay on the table as I checked for received email messages. I always loved surfing the net because it was the only place I had friends and, well, if there was also an assignment.

We were to choose anything interesting about our country to write about and discuss in class some days later. I decided to choose something very Nigerian, something that would not only catch the interests of the teacher but be good enough to divert the attention of everyone to my article. Daddy was whom I could rely on to help me to the top since our views matched. I was sure he would be awake poring over a copy of Financial Times, one of his novels or his Quran. My bet was on the Quran. If it was, it meant I had the benefit of only being glanced and nodded at. He spoke no word to anyone when reading, his concentration unwavering with lips moving silently and eyes constantly doing a runover from line to line. He looked like a child when observing this most precious moment. I threw my housecoat which had been hung on the rack close to my polished closet over the lilac satin and lace lingerie Areef had given me on my last birthday.

Their room was the closest to the staircase, the one right between Areef’s and mine and the biggest. Whenever we had stuff to do and we didn’t want them in, we just tiptoed across. Once dad had caught us sharing some junk right in front of their room; it had been a harrowing week of punishment.

Surprisingly their room wasn’t locked. The door was ajar and they were not asleep. In fact they were wide awake and seated on their VI Spring Super King Herald Supreme Divan bed, with daddy holding mum in his arms. I looked carefully. She was crying! That was alarming. We had all slept in good moods; what could have happened overnight? I was sure there hadn’t been a break-in. When I took an incremental step ahead and was not noticed, I was convinced something was wrong.

Slowly, grudgingly, they glanced at me and like I was a child, they tried to wipe the tears, replacing it expertly with feigned smiles. I was pissed. I took a few steps backwards, slumping into mummy’s large dressing chair. It was mahogany, polished to a very sharp hue.

“Dad, mum,” I sighed. “It will hurt me very much if I ask and you tell me ‘all is well’ or ‘it’s nothing we can’t handle.’ ”

Daddy sighed heavily, mummy was wiping her tears.

Silence.

No one spoke. Nor did they spare me a glance. I looked around to even get a picture of something. Perhaps a phone call but their mobile phones were not even in sight. They found it difficult switching them on on Saturdays.

“I’m sure we are not going to sit here quiet?” I fumed softly. In my family, one needed to remind my parents at every opportunity that I wasn’t a child anymore and was up to the task of handling situations.

Silence again.

“I saw your topic on Yoruba mythology Amani.” It was mum.

My face lit up in a smile at their usual concern only to get into more confusion. What about it?

“Simbi don’t cause any unnecessary...”

“TJ, it’s only fair to let her know.”

Daddy sighed annoyingly in confusion, pacing the room in long strides. It was unusual seeing them like this and even more calling their first names! What happened to good ol’ ‘Sweets’, ‘Dearie’, and the like?

“I have an experience to share with you Amani. You have to listen.” All the while her tears hadn’t ceased. I was by this time certain there was trouble.

“After I had you Amani...” Dad sighed distracting us. He didn’t want this out. What million dollar secret was this? Did dad have another wife stashed somewhere? Do I have half-siblings? And why hadn’t they called for Areef’s presence?

“We just got our visas and we were superbly ecstatic. We were coming into the UK to stay on a more permanent basis and your daddy had been offered a job.” Mummy continued. “Things were going to be a lot easier and we were glad about the development. In the heat of all the excitement, I had had you strapped to my back, since I was cooking and you were cranky from teething.”

Dad turned to mum infuriated, stopping dead in his tracks. “You really have to stop it there my dear. I can’t watch you ruin her. I can’t listen to the hogwash. This means you believe it would happen.”

I looked from dad to mum and then to dad again to beg them of my presence and how much I felt this talk affected me, but my presence was not recognised by either of them.

“The wrapper I had used in tying you had snapped loose. There was the acrid smell of something burning in the kitchen and as I got up to get it...” She burst into fresh tears. “...you fell.” She sat upright to explain shivering with panic. “Amani it all happened so fast, for some seconds your dad and I just watched you there on the floor.

Still confused I tried to find my voice. “Did I hurt?” The last time I checked my brain was very functional.

“That’s where the myth comes in my dear. The Yoruba people believe such a child would never have a steady husband.”

My mouth flew open in dismay. Mum didn’t spare me a glance. Dad’s eye caught mine but he couldn’t keep contact.

“It is said that such a child would face the death of all the men she marries until the eighth one.”

“But that’s gross!” I exclaimed.

Dad lifted his head from his hands. “Amani the fact that it is a belief doesn’t mean it will happen to you. Things like that are called superstitions; they are old convictions.”

“But daddy…I….” I was confused. I felt like I had been given an unexpected punch in the solar plexus. “Why now so suddenly? Why are you just telling me now?”

“It’s because of your assignment.” Mum said.

“And the fact that you are now old enough and have already started inviting male friends over.” Dad put in.

“Oh! This is about Oliver all again?”

“Amani cut that out.” His voice was rigid yet tender.

“But that is not all Amani,” Mummy put in softly, crying. There was more! My eyes cried out. “I was told it had a remedy but… but I couldn’t do it.”

Somehow a wave of anger and hate for my mother ran through me. “Why?” I whispered silently.

Dad burst out. “She was told to run round a large market seven times, naked.” His face wore a horrifying mask of terror. I didn’t get to see him like this often; I looked at him closely, never.

My eyes widened. Daddy wasn’t having fun discussing this, I could tell. He was an organised person. I knew how much this was costing him. I pictured mummy without clothes running all of Deptford market.

“It’s absurd.” I didn’t know I had spoken it aloud. My voice was as soft as I had never imagined it before. “Who’ll want to do anything as stupid as that?”
Dad swallowed a lump. “Yes it is absurd. Please let’s not let this issue be a basis for weighing us down. We have no reason to be sad as long as we remain one. We have loads of superstitions where we come from and so do other tribes and countries. Islam and Christianity have put them all behind us that it is only unbelievers and illiterates that still believe in them. Tamilore come over.”

I went to him kneeling in his presence. We did that always. I could never be bold enough to greet daddy without going down on both knees and Areef would never for anything forget to prostrate with his chest brushing the floor in greetings. It was the way it is done in our culture, we were told. And daddy was a culture freak. Daddy prayed for me. I could sense it with the way his lips moved silently over my head. He was reciting from the Quran, Suratul Falaq for its protection purpose. Then he raised my head up.

“Amani, may God be with you all the days of your life. You shall have no cause to cry.”

“Amen.” Mum and I chorused. I got up.

Just then Areef came in with a tray of sandwiches and tea for dad and mum. He dropped it gently on the bedside stool with the tea label dancing on the side of the teapot. Mummy uncomfortable searched for a reaction on dad’s face. What she expected to see was there. Areef was dressed in his pyjamas with the shirt button unfastened. When Areef acted like this, one could sense the extent of daddy’s disapproval. Areef was male and had no business in the kitchen. Daddy never failed to remind us, and two, there was mum and I present to do the stuff Areef sought pleasure doing. They took turns in reminding him firmly, albeit gently, because Areef had a fiery temper mummy tried her best to cover. Much as he was always almost dragged to do his prayers, he never would believe in the superstitions. So it was better they left him out of it.

Gently the days passed and subsequently, I did my article on the fall from one’s mother’s back. Like I expected, it awed the bulk of the class and I got all the attention I had envisaged. I had written so passionately about it, perhaps because of my own sudden involvement, only I wasn’t fulfilled. I googled it to make enquiries, but I got nothing. It seemed like it was a no-go area. Then I knew the only place to be better informed was in Nigeria, the part where the belief was held strongly.

Two gone... Still Counting was written by Oyindamola H. Affinnih and is an excerpt from her début book of the same name (HoneyMix Productions, Sept 2010).

Copyright © Oyindamola H. Affinnih 2010.

Oyindamola Halima Affinnih was born in Nigeria in 1982. Her short stories have been published in magazines and newspapers. She also writes scripts for television. Two gone... still counting is her first novel.