TW: domestic violence 

 

The liquor bottles were haphazardly scattered everywhere in the living room. I threaded through the maze of bottles, carefully placing my feet to avoid the treacherous shards of glass that littered the entire floor. My little brother, Udo, sat propped up on one of the single seats in the living room, his eyes fixed on me as I manoeuvred into the kitchen to grab a broomstick, a newspaper and a washcloth. I swept up the shattered pieces of glass and began to tackle the heap of rubbish that our father, ‘the monster,’ had spewed on the floor during his drunken state.

“Boy! How many times have I warned you not to clean after me?” I heard his thunderous voice from the adjacent room. Udo sprang up from the spot he had been sitting, and came to stand behind my form, his eyes red-rimmed from crying all through the night. “Boy!” the monster bellowed again, not moving from his bedroom.
“Stay here,” I whispered to a whimpering Udo, then sauntered into the room, pushing my fear behind my head like a baseball cap – trying to appear braver than I felt. The monster, a thickly built man in his sixties was in his favorite pair of boxer briefs, with another bottle of liquor dangling from his hand. He swung the half-empty bottle in my direction and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. I knew better not to ask him to repeat what he had said. My eyes scanned the room, searching for a potential weapon to defend myself, in case he lunged and came for me, as he had done countless times in the past.
“Effiong, I believe we are in proximity. So, why have you–”
“I heard you, Sir,” I cut him off, gingerly placing one foot behind the other.
“Yet, you decided to–”
“I would never, Sir,” I interrupted him again.

He raised up his head that he kept free of hair, and stared into my face, into my soul, too intensely that I averted my gaze, scared he would see the intentions boldly etched somewhere within. “You’re still traveling today.” I looked at him and nodded curtly, even though I knew it wasn’t a question. “I have been looking for your mother’s portrait. The one we keep beside the television.”
“I don’t know where it is, but I will look for it.” The said portrait was nestled at the bottom of my traveling bag, where I had stashed it the night before while packing. I would go with the picture. It was the only possession I had left of my mother’s.
“You’re still leaving today,” he stated again. I said nothing. The monster nodded and pointed the liquor bottle to the open door, signaling for me to leave.
I bent my head slightly in a bow, before turning to leave.

Udo, standing by the TV and picking at his nails, looked up sharply as soon as he heard me enter the living room. “Come and help me throw this away,” I said to him, and he dutifully carried the shards of glass carefully wrapped in a newspaper down to the bin in the backyard. He had done this several times.

Outside the backyard, we both sat on the low fence watching a group of teenage boys play set ball. The boys had on matching threadbare clothes, and their teeth shone as they laughed heartily and cracked inside jokes. Udo and I sat still, watching them. Our legs swinging rhythmically just like the old times.
“Brother Effiong,” Udo called with his head bent down, as he picked at the scabs of one of his old wounds. He had gotten it on his ninth birthday last year. The monster had inflicted it on him for a reason so flimsy we couldn’t even remember what it had been about. “Will you really come back?” Udo asked, still staring and poking at his wound.
“I will. When have I ever lied?”
“It’s just that anytime someone travels, they never come back.”
“Well, I’m different. I will come back. I’m only going to prepare a good place for us.”
“Like Christ?”
“Yes, just like Christ,”
“And you must travel?”
“Mmm.”
“Okay, Brother Effiong.”

I stared at Udo’s head, lined with eczema. I extended a hand to pat it but seized back my hand. I knew I wouldn’t hug the boy when leaving, because if I did, I would probably never leave. I watched him still, saying nothing, still picking at the dead skin of his wound. His small back shook and I noticed the little trickle of tears falling on his lap, soaking his skin. He suppressed his tears in his throat, only letting out short stammering sounds that broke my heart into tiny little pieces – like the liquor bottles from earlier. “I’m not like Mom who left and didn’t come back, Okay?” I said in a strong voice, laced with anger and disdain.

A nine-year-old was not supposed to cry because of fear. They were meant to cry for frivolous things, like not being allowed to watch their favorite show, or simply not having their way. A nine-year-old was not supposed to tend to the wounds given to him by his own father. He wasn’t supposed to blame his dead mom for leaving him all alone in a world he hadn’t asked to be brought into in the first place, and most importantly, a nine-year-old wasn’t supposed to be scared of being abandoned by his own brother.

That same evening, inside mine and Udo’s shared bedroom, I rearranged the black carry-on bag for my travels to Port Harcourt. From the bag’s side pocket, I dug out a tiny box of chocolate I had been saving for the occasion and pushed it into Udo’s little hand. He turned the box around to read the label and quietly squeaked excitedly.
“When I come back, you’ll have so many chocolates that your stomach will hurt,” I said, and he laughed quietly, covering his mouth with his dirty fingers.
“Brother Effiong, I don’t think I can ever get tired of chocolates.”
“That’s what I said when I was your age. Trust me, you will.”
“Me, I’m sure I will never, ever,” he laughed heartily.
“Pass me my boots from the door,” I said, stretching my hand for them. Udo had just turned to get the boots when the bedroom door went flying open. And in, charged the monster, swinging yet another bottle of alcohol in the air.
“You stupid idiot,” he boomed, staggering towards us.
I reached out and pushed Udo behind me, securing him from the danger which was our Father. “Dad, put the bottle down.”
“You stupid idiot,” he repeated, drowning a round of shots.
“Please, just–” My words hung midair, as the edge of the bottle caught the flesh on my forehead and tore it apart. There was no pain at first, then all of a sudden, I felt the pain surge into every fiber in my body. A black film instantly clogged my vision and I staggered to the bed as if drunk, exposing Udo to the predator. The metallic stench of blood quickly filled my nostrils, blocking out every other smell. I wiped away the crimson blood on my forehead and blinked rapidly, hoping to clear my vision on time before something terrible happened to my brother.
“When I was seventeen, I didn’t dare question my father, but here you are,” the monster’s words slurred as he drank still from the bottle. “Here you are, telling me you’re going to start your life. What stupid life, you bomboclat?” I gulped back the tears brooding in my throat, got up on my feet, and resumed my attempt at packing for my trip. I was more than certain I had to leave now.

“All of you, ungrateful animals!”
“Udo, the boots?” I yelled. Udo had been holding on to them shivering. His forehead, coated with beads of sweat. Udo passed me the boots with shaky hands and tears streaming down his face, then retreated back to his position, beside the door.
I pitied the little human. I wanted to bag him as well and leave without looking back, without ever coming back, but I knew that was a risk too big to take. I was yet to find a place to rest my head – I was only traveling because news had come to Abak-Ikot, that there was a new construction site in Port Harcourt looking for laborers who were interested in making money, and most of the boys from our district had already gone over. The plan was simple: make enough cash, rent a place, and come back for Udo.
It was simpler to say, but much harder to implement.

“That’s how your stupid mother left too and died on that godforsaken road. Serves her right,” the monster spat, and just like mine, his eyes began to fill up with tears. “She thought she was better than me. Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he rattled on, staggering out of the room, with his liquor secured under his armpit.
I zipped up my bag, and with the back of my hand wiped away the new set of blood from the cut that had trickled down my face. “Udo,” I called causally.
“Yes, brother Effiong,” he whispered.
“I’ll come back for you,” I said. Udo gave a slight nod and my heart shattered all over again. The nod had been so tentatively done that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been glaring intently at him. I didn’t hug the boy or pat his head like a caring elder brother would. I simply said, “I’ll come back for you, I promise,” then slung the bag over my shoulder, and walked into the night with a more conviction – that I would return for him, no matter what.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Adriana Drewniak on Unsplash