Five thirty on the dot. Jason can already hear the customary voices; faint, distant, indistinct, but still loud enough to pass through boundaries, roads, windows, gates and thick plastered walls. He takes a deep breath, braces himself, gets down from the school bus and crosses the road.

A couple of children shout their customary “bye-bye,” as the bus drives off, but he doesn’t turn or wave back; he just keeps on walking forward, to the massive compound with the largest and most beautiful duplex in the estate. Halfway between the compound gate and the front door of the duplex, he stands, for a while, looking at all the cars, wondering what would happen if he turns around, walks out of the compound and then out of the estate gate and continues till tiredness creeps in.

After a while, now looking at the gate, it’s become self-evident; the security guard his father gives money to every morning at the estate gate will stop him and ask questions, and when he can’t answer, the man will just bring him back here. I could try lying, the thought suddenly pops up. Maybe tell him my mother needs something urgently, he thinks.

After a while, he turns to the front door and says “no point,” under his breath. Then he takes a deep breath and marches on… And with every step, the ruckus gets louder and louder and louder and louder. Until finally, he stands in front of the door with his hand placed on the handle. The voices – now clear and distinct, like crystals under the sun – are more than usual and mostly unfamiliar. But of course, they are, as usual – loud, definitely; brash, of course; apologetic, here and there; even soft once or twice, but as always, never mute. Just another normal day, he thinks. Why does it always have to be something, he used to mumble. Not anymore. Not since his birthday a few months ago, when something… snapped. Now, he just breathes and walks in.

The living room (today’s chosen arena) is more crowded than usual. It isn’t just his parents going at it while the housemaid acts as a meek arbiter, with maybe an extra person or two on special occasions. Today, it is packed, like an arena for a sold out Wrestlemania main event. Or at least it reminds him of the one he watched with his brother last month. A couple of uncles and aunts from both sides of the parents divide that he hasn’t seen in a really long time, and a couple of his mother’s friends are standing around, forming a large circle. His parents are in the middle, being held back but still flinging curses at each other like captive monkeys with poo. As usual, even with the larger crowd, no one notices him as he walks in. He stands and scans until he catches sight of his brother and sister; she signals him over.

They are seated just before the sliding glass door to the hallway where the steps are; out of view of all the adults in the arena. “What’s wrong this time?” Jason asks. He feels a bit sad, or maybe just tired. He can’t say for sure.
“I’m not sure, but it’s big!” his brother says, eyes pulled to the scene like iron to a magnet. “They might finally do it!” he sounds happy. A bit too happy, Jason thinks, narrowing his eyes to the back of his brother’s head. His sister merely gives him a look. A familiar look. The sympathetic smile he’s grown so accustomed to over the past few years. Even now, without much effort, if he chooses to, he can still remember the first time she gave him the look. About 4 years ago, when – only six and already introduced to words like womanizer, harlot, ekwensu and prostitutes – she said to him, with that smile plastered on her face as they heard the rumbling from her room, “Don’t worry, they’re just joking around. It’s just how they show affection.” To be honest, it wasn’t a very good… anything. But then again, she was only nine.

He sits beside her, resting his back on the sliding glass door and his right shoulder on her left; she takes his right hand in both of hers, as they watch. It’s mostly just insults flying back and forth, most of them from his mother, while the people around make comments about how the kids should be thought of. But every now and again though, the familiar accusations come up. As usual, it’s talk of finally being caught red handed; a lot of concrete evidence.

Watching, he wonders, as usual, what the point of this is. It’s clear they don’t like each other, so why continue living together? Once in class last year, after being kept up all night by their ruckus, his teacher had asked why he was looking so tired. To answer her question, he asked her about this dilemma he couldn’t for the life of him understand and she replied, “Every marriage will always have problems. It’s about sticking together and working at it. And that is what your parents are doing. Don’t worry, when you are older, get married and have your own children, you will understand.” That was also the day he made a vow to himself never to get married.

“How was school?” whispers his sister.
“Boring,” he whispers back. “I can’t wait to graduate.”
“It’s not like secondary school is any better,” she says.
“At least I’ll be in the same school with you.” She starts to say something but stops, because out of nowhere, their mother, with a flying roundhouse kick, sends their father crashing to the ground, far far far away.

For an eternal minute, the house instantly becomes a graveyard; words become ghosts, eyes become flashlights and jaws simply drop, as if the risen Jesus has just walked in. Then, like a wounded wolf, their father begins to howl. And except for Jason, everyone rushes over to him, even the woman who has just passed the audition for the role of Jackie Chan. “It’s the devil’s handwork,” his mother says, as everyone huddles over his father, as if the man is a loose rugby ball. Others say “sorry,” as if it’s a necessary requirement. His mother is also crying now; so too, his sister and even his brother, who had been so excited minutes ago. Jason laughs a little at this.

After a while, a couple of the men lift his father onto a chair, while others continue echoing the necessary apologies. Looking on, Jason can see blood smeared all over his father’s face and white jalabiya, though he can’t quite make out where it’s coming from. And for a while, he wonders if his father wants to kick his mother back. Probably not, he concludes. They shout at each other all the time, but he’s only ever seen his father hit her once; two heavy slaps in quick succession, two years ago. The next day, he knelt and begged for forgiveness for hours and hours. He was under the influence, his sister had told him. It was only last month he realized what the influence was, when he drank his mother’s wine after she had passed out on the couch.

They try to take him to the hospital; his mother and the rest pleading and pleading, but his father just will not agree. His decision is final – sit here and bleed till whatever happens, happens.

Still looking on, like it’s a bad movie one just cannot look away from, he begins thinking of the technique of the kick; a skill he’s only ever seen in WrestleMania or those American action movies his brother loves so much. “Wow,” he finally declares. “Just… wow.” He also wonders what his mother will say, if he asks her to teach him how to do the kick. Of course, it doesn’t take too long to realize, he’ll just receive a backhand slap and some unnecessarily long and funny insult in Igbo.

Finally, his father agrees to go to the hospital, as long as his daughter accompanies him. And within minutes the house is a graveyard. Seated alone, he starts to think about who he would choose, if they actually decided to split. His sister would choose their father and his brother would choose their mother; that was clear as daylight. And he was sure his parents would welcome the choice. He on the other hand, having no favorite and being no one’s favorite either, could imagine no one actually wanting him. Maybe his father, he suddenly thinks. Just because of his sister, of course. But his mother will probably not want to lose.

He hears the sounds of car engines rising; then the gates opening; then the cars driving out. “Eh, they’re not going to,” he says to no one. “They’re never going to.” Then he starts to laugh, so loudly. There was a time, he had suddenly remembered, when they actually all got along. A time when things were peaceful and nice; though almost impossible to actually remember as scenes, he could swear there was that time. Even his sister and brother speak of those times occasionally. Now, there’s no trace of it. And he can’t even say why. Even when they argue, it seems like they never actually say the thing that’s hurting them. Sometimes their fights remind him of Christina at school, who fights with Greg whenever he talks to Chioma. But the problem is she never actually tells him why. And he still doesn’t know. “At least tell Greg not to talk to her,” he once told Christina. She stopped speaking to him after that.

Brought back to reality by footsteps walking to the front door…
And suddenly, feeling like his bones are turning to blocks…
And wanting to be somewhere else…
Anywhere at all but here…
He gets up and runs upstairs to his room.

Still in uniform, he collapses on his bed and stares at the ceiling.
Within minutes he’s out like a torch with dead batteries.
He dreams of talking to people without faces.

Hours later, just after he wakes up with no recollection of the dream, walking to the bathroom, his sister stops him and says, “Daddy will be fine. He just has a broken nose. He’ll be back in the house tomorrow and everything will be back to normal.”
He peers at her, then says, “Okay,” and continues to the bathroom.

Just before he gets in, it dawns on him — he left his bag on the bus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Mitchell Luo on Unsplash