MEMORIES

“Why do you want to kill a neighbour?” he asked calmly. “it bothers me…”. The
broom, her weapon of choice, was in her hand, she had answered before realizing
that he had just called the lizard their neighbour and so, she laughed gently. “He
seems peaceful. I mean she” he said, correcting himself after remembering the dull
brownish colour of its scaly skin. He had learned in senior secondary school biology
that it was the males that were a deep indigo with orange heads. The females
needn’t be pretty as they were the ones to be attracted. That was almost three years
ago. His mother, their mother had died of breast cancer a year ago and this was one
of the many days that followed in which she’d merely fade away in their minds, a
memory to present itself only when it saw fit and with increasing rarity. “What is the
memory verse about the one who hates his brother?” he asked. His more frequent
bible study had made him always have a bible verse ready for situations like these,
where a person had to make a small decision. “he who hates his brother is a
murderer. Its from first John although, I cannot remember what part.” she answered.
“we learned that in children's department” he said, thinking to a moment lost in over
twelve years of passed time. “I remember auntie Pat” he remarked about their then
Sunday school children teacher. “Auntie Pat, yes.” She had stopped sweeping now,
allowing the memories to come. “She probably has a bunch of kids with a husband
now.” He imagined aloud “…simpler times” he said before continuing “I love teaching
because it’s like you take some paint and paint your self into children’s life and many
years later, some random child will be remembering you”. “I remember all of them”
his sister began “auntie Imi, bro Cletus, uncle…” he wasn’t listening now. He was
remembering something else. “…and mummy Biggie”. “I remember the bomb” He
had waited for her to finish before he spoke. She was five years older than him.
“what bomb?” she asked, thinking. She had finished sweeping and they were now at
the balcony watching the people in the street. “I don’t know what I was doing
outside the children's department …or was I inside? Anyways we all heard the bomb
blast and were outside. We saw the smoke rising. A neighbouring church had been
bombed…” he kept quiet. They had lived in Zaria, a city in northern Nigeria where the
Boko Haram had been very active in their war against the church and western
education. Because she was not remembering it, he did not mention how their
mother had come out of the adult church and gathered the four of her kids together,
how they went home immediately afterward in their small Mercedes. He did not
want to remind her that she had a mother that was no more. He thought more about
the woman, gathering her kids like a hen does its chicks when there is danger. He
also decided that he had likened his mother to a chicken too many times. He excused
himself saying there is no better mother than a hen.
WEAK AND SAFE
In my family, love is weak and safe. One can even say it’s lazy. We do not use energy
to love, we just share our space, talking together and not really saying anything,
relating stories but not really relating, and everyone keeps their problems well
hidden under their bed sheets. It’s an easy going cohabitation in the way that
undisturbed things are easy going. It seems also, that I’m the only one that is
bothered by this, everyone else is aware but they all seem comfortable in this love
that is safe and easy, I’m the only one that dares to ruffle things, “God forbid we talk
about important things that matter and how we feel about them, definitely not with
each other. oh look! Here comes kelvin with talk about important things and how he
feels about them”. I’ll give an example
One day I was having a bad day and so I went exploring my workplace and found an
office that was not in use. This discovery gave me a childish thrill, it was my office in
that moment, and I felt a sense of accomplishment and I sat at the conference desk
and texted my sister. I told her about my day, how my boss shouted at me for being
late and how he told me to take the day off and how I found the office in a
quatenned off area of the factory during an idle wander. She chatted with me about
the things and more, things I cannot now remember and in a heightened moment of
this sibling-hood and bonding, I told her some things. I told her that I was struggling
with those unspeakable things as porn addiction and debating math and even
homosexual tendencies. I told her she did not need to worry about me as God has
been helping me through them and I just felt she should not be in the dark about
such things as this about me. She asked questions and I answered her questions, her
curiosty and academic approach making me feel heard and important, and then she
lectured. I did not need a lecture and I think she knew that but she must have done
it as one did things that one felt one ought to do and so I listened to her or rather
read her, agreeing here and assuring there and lastly, she encouraged me. After it all,
I did not regret telling her but felt lighter for having told someone so close something
so dear.
And so in the light of this, a few days later, while we were having a conversation at
home, she fanning the flames of our abacha stove and I cleaning the dirty dishes, she
was saying something about the fact that despite all the nice things I’m doing with
my life, because they're not what our father, who knows nothing about us by the
way, wants, he practically hates me. And I feeling we were already on such firm
waters as this said in response, “I’m basically being the ideal young man that
anybody would want to call a son and yet, he treats me so badly. What would he do if
he found out that I’m not exactly straight?”
“what?” she asked me, her then held expression dissolving from her face, and the air
became heavy with uneasiness.
“I wonder what he would do if he finds out I’m attracted to boys”. I said, the words
heavy on my mouth and her response would have stung if I wasn’t already too busy
trying to collect the scattered pieces of my security.
“eww, don’t ever say that again.” she said and with that, a silence came that changed
the subject by itself without needing any words to do that. And I considered it, while
participating in the easy and empty conversations that followed, I saw how, after the
day I’d confessed to her, she had never mentioned it again, never followed me up,
never asked a question to see how I was holding up or said any words of
empowerment against the things I’d shared, it was like we’d never had that
conversation and, I saw that she had buried what I told her so fast and had willed
herself to forget, so that she forgot, because it was not weak and easy but serious
and complicated and, I felt then like a choreographer, laughing when I was supposed
too, showing surprise at the right moment in her story music and I fought the urge to
enter into a cupboard and hide.