The sun was a burning eye of fire. Its rays pelted everything beneath it. To some, it cast shadows, to others it emitted sweat. I wiped my face from the effect of the sun’s smile. The yard was marred with silence. People seemed not to be home. Three children including myself sat at the verandah rolling our “okoso”.
Our mothers had left to attend the evening service. They left our safety at the hands of the sleeping fathers and security men. As I sat waiting for my turn to roll the dice. My stomach rumbled. The rumbling was a result of little or no food. I stood, hovered around the place, and informed my playmates of my thirst for water.
They nodded in affirmation.
“Don’t be long so that I don’t take your chance?” one of the kids said. I walked away as my feet caused a stem of dust beneath them. When I got to the door, I knocked several times. No answer. I knew my dad was in but not opening the door got me alarmed. I leaped thrice before my hand connected with the knob, turned it open, and walked in.
“Daddy!!” I called a couple of times. Dashed into his room. Only to see his bedsheets scattered, empty of his frame. I landed two punches on the bed in frustration. I have been tricked again. Whenever he wants to bail out on me. He gives the assurance of being around then disappears through the backdoor and back gate.
I left his room and remembered that my taste buds thirsted for water. I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and poured myself some water. After the first two gulps. My eyes darted around, and then I saw it. A slightly opened pot. Seated on the stove. The pot that housed the delicious stew mother had served us for lunch. My mouth watered as I reached to close the pot.
Then a sinister voice from within urged me to open it. I did and saw obstructions in the thickened soup. My conscience pricked me. It warned me to walk away but the sinister voice urged me on. I took the first, munched and swallowed, and then the second. On the verge of taking the third, I felt a sharp swirling breeze close to my ear. At that instant, I knew I had company but before I turned, a heavy slap landed on the back of my head, pushing me head-first into the pot of stew.
My cry rang out, it tore from my throat and echoed in the neighborhood. I couldn’t tell if the cry was from the slap or the peppery stew that blinded my eyes. Then his voice came.
“Ōkwa Kama iga ekwu na agu na agu gi. Ibia na ezu oshi anu.”
“Daddy bikozienu,” I could mutter with a croaky voice as he led me to the backyard and washed the stew off my face.
The series of punishments that ensued are better imagined than told.
© Stephen Toochi
#StephStories
