MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'

 

THE MIGRANT

 

PROLOGUE

The air-conditioner grumbled vigorously as delightful cold air emanated from it. Four years running, it was alright to tag it as old, but besides the vibrations, which we had grown accustomed to, its output was still effective. It ought to have been replaced but it was family. You don’t replace family. You let them die and then you bury them. Or in its case get rid of them. The AC’s air burst gave the cream ceramic tiles beneath my feet a pleasantly chilly, almost ticklish feel. Our living room was large, large enough for a family of twelve. The wide blue leather sofas could sufficiently cater for a family of twelve. The flat-screen, LED TV was 44 inches, black, glossy and efficient. Father had a fanatical flair for paintings so every wall of our living room, and in fact every other room in the house, was adorned with a piece of artwork, one distinct from the other. They were all African. Nothing foreign. A stranger could come to conclude that our house was a mini gallery of some sort.

Father was slender, athletic and handsome. A short sleeved polo and a pair of beach shorts adorned him. The only visible, anatomical feature of his I had inherited was his slightly wide ears. Oh yes, I wasn’t bad looking either. But not as good looking. Every one of my friends, male and female alike that had the opportunity to encounter father, affirmed this. Every other aspect of my visage, I got from mother – the brown inquisitive eyes, the aristocratic, almost arrogant nose, an uneven front tooth, even my embarrassingly teary nature. All from dear old mum. Father was grinning as he set aside his plate of obliterated jollof rice and goat meat.

‘Pass me the Fura, please,’ Father said, grinning, flaunting a perfect set of white teeth. Sometimes when he grinned I felt like he was trying to put me in my place, a corner reserved for folks with less perfect dentition. It was a silly thought, I knew, and yet when it came, I nursed it for a bit, indulging its ridiculousness. Uncle Mohammed once told me that the ladies at father’s workplace swooned over that smile.

His love for Fura, the traditional yoghurt made locally was peculiar. On account of his one-time constipation after consuming a brand he had purchased from a super market in Ikeja, Lagos, he had decided never to eat one again. But Uncle Mohammed had persuasively reintroduced him to it a mere two weeks after our arrival in Jos. That was over eight years ago. The rest, as they say, is history. Father still praises Madam Falziat, or Falzy as he popularly called her, for coming up with such a milky delicacy.

I handed him the bowl of desert. Father would be forty-three in a couple of weeks and really should watch what he stuffed himself with. ‘Perhaps you should start trying the light, fat-free kind. You are no longer twenty,’ I informed as though it was a new discovery.

 

‘Falzy doesn’t make that type. And getting that kind from a fancy supermarket is never going to happen. Besides, still fit as a fiddle,’ he said licking Fura residue off the spoon. ‘Hmn.’ His spoon sunk into the bowl for another scoop. ‘Besides, I use that,’ he pointed to the treadmill at a corner of the living room, ‘as often as possible.’

‘Bi-monthly, at most, you mean?’ I teased

‘As often as possible, I meant.’ His concentration was on the yoghurt. He looked like a toddler enjoying the pleasures of an ice cold Chapman on a sweltering sunny day.

‘Perhaps you should make that often more often,’ I insisted.

‘Hey no fun young man,’ he arched his brow at me. ‘Are you a member of the fitness police? Or my mother, perhaps?’

I laughed and he followed suit. ‘Concerned about your health, that’s all.’

‘I know. I’ll put in more exercise days.’

And I knew he meant it. He had always been a man of his words. He was renowned for that too, and not just by the ladies. ‘Okay.’ He was almost half-way through the bowl. ‘I thought that was meant for the two of us.’

‘Assumptions can be treacherous,’ he laughed in his deep voice before sliding the bowl over to me.

Just then a rumbling boom blasted from a distance. Not close enough to do any damage and yet close enough to be heard and vibration felt. Father frowned. ‘These religious fanatics are at it again,’ he said. ‘All these lives lost, wasted for one group’s baseless ideals.’

 Worry lines formed on my forehead. ‘We should consider moving towns, dad?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he said. ‘Work is here. I can’t just up and move.’ His eyes fixed on mine, every trace of humor wanting. ‘Colleagues around the nation wouldn’t exactly want a swap, would they? You can, though. You should.’

‘Not a chance,’ I infused before he could go on and on. ‘I only get to see you a few months a year, after all. Not a chance.’ 

‘I am starting to feel quite irresponsible. You can always stay with Jennifer till the ruckus clears here.’ A slightly worried expression creased Father’s forehead. ‘I will visit as often as possible.’

I was beginning to regret broaching this subject. ‘Aunty Jennifer?’ I pronounced with derision. ‘Are you kidding me? I’d rather get blown up by the turbaned extremists.’

Father chuckled. ‘No need for morbid exaggeration.’ But he knew exactly how insufferable I found his only cousin.

Aside his brother in England, Aunty Jennifer was the only other surviving relative he was close to. I had spent a week with her some years back and they were some of the worst days of my existence. Recalcitrant, incessantly loud kids, constantly inebriated husband, the blasted turbulent German shepherd that chewed off huge chunks off my shoes, and an aunt that found everything wrong with any assistance I offered. Definitely, not the best of places. Absolutely, the worst of places.

‘Well, she isn’t the best of choices. But extreme situations deserve extreme-’

‘Not that extreme,’ I interrupted, intensely put off by the thought. Cutting my father short would have been classified by Nigerian customs as rude. However, we were not an average Nigerian family. But I had all the reverence for him in the world. ‘Let’s drop the matter, already. I’m sorry I brought it up.’

‘Agreed. No more of that Aunty Jennifer nonsense. We’ll be fine,’ Father said. He loved his cousin but it was refreshing to know that he would always have my back. I could detect a little wave in his voice. But I believed him. A few weeks from now we would be going on our first family trip. ‘Can’t wait for our first trip to England,’ I enthused.

‘Yeah, it should be amazing. Remember the Ghana -’ A pained visage swallowed the rest of that sentence.

I knew exactly why he hesitated.  ‘I miss her too,’ I said.

‘Yes, me too.’ And just like that the almost morose look was gone. ‘Sorry about that. I am looking forward to it too. Goodness knows we deserve some quality father-son time.’

Another explosion from a distant somewhere went off again.

‘If we don’t get blown to bits,’ I laughed.

For some reason, he didn’t find my sense of humor as effective as I thought. ‘Don’t speak morbid, Francis,’ he scolded. ‘It could have dire consequences.’

‘Point taken, Mr Morbid.’

We laughed.

‘It’s been a while since I schooled you in Scrabble, Oh Scrabbler.’

Ever since I won Mahmood Bank’s North Scrabble Tournament, Scrabbler was the name Father had coined. He also had the habit of adding the Oh for dramatic effect. Annoyingly, he won most of our matches. He was an expert scrabble player and most of the skills I had attained over the years came from him.

‘Your reign of terror might just be over, dad. I have added a few more killer words to my vocabulary.’

‘A few won’t make any difference,’ he laughed.

‘It’s Scrabble dad. A few could make all the difference.’

Kreate is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.