It’s raining outdoors however the solar continues to be excessive up within the sky, golden and spherical. I can hear the kids downstairs singing-
“It’s raining, the solar is shinning. There’s a boil on the tortoise anus”.
I’m in father’s examine. A room stuffed with books, quiet and grave with data. There are many work on the wall, a wood desk at a nook, a fluorescent bulb lighting the room a little bit. This isn’t the place I learn, this isn’t the place I write, that is the place I cry.
However that is the place father writes, that is the place father had written for twenty 12 months, that is the place he had been writing since mom left. That is additionally the place he talks to himself so much. I generally hear on the door, my seven 12 months previous ft raised a little bit. His phrases are at all times incomprehensible. And every time I seemed by the keyhole, I see him smiling into area. Father has a number of literary works to his credit score, a number of awards that got here with shiny prizes. Mom had as soon as known as him “a wealthy previous author who talked to himself so much” in a feat of delicate irritation. However I had by no means understood why mom left. So I used to be left with father, his books and his brown ceramic mug I served him espresso with each morning.
Father did not care a lot about his wealth- his lands in Isolo, Ikeja and Oshodi. His fleet of automobiles, his quite a few accounts cumbersome with naira notes. Years after mom left, he had written extra usually, staying too lengthy in his examine and I had anxious he did not get sufficient relaxation nor meals nor recent air.
However I had lived the prosperous life, the cash enabled life, smiling by training with ease, getting a job at an organization and happening holidays at will. And one night, I had returned and located father in his examine, bent over his books, lifeless. His morning espresso now chilly and black and I had recognized I’d perpetually hate espresso. However I hadn’t observed the tears roll down my eyes, the slimy catarrh slip previous my nostrils over my mouth. I had walked out to the verandah and seemed into the streets, to the individuals who have for a few years seemed as much as this mansion father had inbuilt admiration. I had cried on the verandah and let the world see my tears.
It has been 4 years since father died however I nonetheless return from work and test his examine. I nonetheless hear on the door to listen to his soliloquy and if all the pieces is silent, I stroll in, shut the door, sit at a nook and cry.
So on this sunny-rainy afternoon, whereas the kids sing downstairs, I sit in a nook of the room, on the naked ground desirous about father, about how strangers would think about my life; it’s pure for individuals to really feel jealous of the wealthy, to think about the lifetime of the wealthy, their choices- what they like and what they dislike. To really feel unsure in the event that they use the bathroom or not. However individuals by no means think about the wealthy have feelings, that their feelings could possibly be expressed by tears. That they may cry. That they do cry.
I start to cry. The tears are scorching and salty. I have no idea why I tasted it. I don’t discover the rain has stopped. However I’m in fathers examine and am sure of 1 thing- the world won’t ever see my tears once more.
Trending Merchandise
