Hello everyone,

New member here. Freelance writer: fiction, non-fiction and everything in-between. I'll be sharing some of my stories here from time to time. Please read and offer your thoughts. I promise to return the favour. Thanks. Here goes:

My father's Man

I was about nine years old when my father started teaching me to be a man. He used to observe, with mute indifference, the silly, childish things I used to do: like cry on rainy mornings because I was being asked to go to school, or shriek when a rat or a cockroach (we had a lot of those in our home) ran across my leg, or refuse to eat the beans because Mama agreed she saw weevils while picking them. But sometime after my eighth birthday, my father started speaking and acting up.

“Wipe those crocodile tears,” he would yell, stomping towards me with this large koboko he had had specially made for him by one of the soldiers at the checkpoint at the entrance of our street. “Wipe them now! What your sister wouldn't do is what you’re doing, crying like a baby. You don’t know you are now a man now, eh? You don’t know that men don’t cry…Oh, you are still opening your big mouth and crying!” He would lift the koboko and then I would shut up automatically, as though my crying was being played on the cassette player and NEPA had suddenly “taken the light”.

My father would charge me everyday before I went to school to take good care of my sister, although she was three years older than me and a lot bigger, warning me that if anyone hurt her, I would be in trouble. I used to get into a lot of fights because my sister had a razor-blade tongue and always got into trouble with boys much older than herself, and in the end, it was up to me to defend her. When I cam home, sometimes with bruised lips, other times with swollen eyes or worse, my father would be very proud, reminding me that it was the man’s duty to protect the woman, to be fearless, bold, strong, and that if a man lacked these qualities, he was not really a man and couldn't speak when his mates were speaking. My mother would always pick a quarrel with him when he started speaking like this, saying he was raising her only son to be a ruffian. My father would then ask if he, himself, was a ruffian. At that my mother would say nothing. Grumbling under her breath, she would walk away.

Little by little, I began to be transformed into my father’s kind of man. I loved it because my friends respected and looked up to me a great deal. In time I also started teaching them how to become men, real men, but something happened that altered my perception forever. This thing happened at night. It was the kind of night where nothing bad was supposed to happen; it was a beautiful night and everyone who lived in our compound was outside. While the children were happy to run around playing children’s games, like War Start, Skilolo and throwing backy, the women, including my mother were contentedly huddled together at the far end of the compound, discussing in low voices, suddenly bursting out in laughter once in a while and shaking their heads saying, “Eh-ya, eh-ya,” while someone spoke. I was sure they were talking about their husbands. The men, on the other hand, were loud and argumentative. Over bottles of beer and ogogoro, they debated several reasons why, with all the oil we have, Nigerians were not supposed to work, but ought to be given monthly allowances like was done abroad.

Suddenly, a car swerved into the compound with all four doors bursting open the moment the car came to a halt. I can’t remember exactly what I saw; what I do remember is hearing these continuous sets of loud bangs, like several knockouts had been combined in one and set alight. People started running helter-skelter. I ran, too, though I can’t remember if I was running with any particular purpose, or where I was headed. It was only when I heard my mother’s voice, hushed and panicked, calling out, “Baro, Baro, Evi, my children, God oh…” that I knew I had made it into our apartment.

I heard Evi say something from the adjoining bedroom about being under the bed.

“I’m here, Mama,” I said, my voice sounding like something coming from a bird’s throat, startling me.

“Where are you?”

“Behind the shelf.”

“Okay, stay there.”

The robbers had begun robbing from apartment to apartment. I heard things crash and break. I heard, “Give me all your money now, or I go kill this pickin for your front.” I heard women begging and children crying and dogs barking, but I did not hear the voices of most of our compound men. I had not heard my father’s voice. I thought, perhaps, he had been shot, or trapped somewhere. I told myself: it’s okay, it’s okay, Papa is a man, he’ll be all right. We’ll all be all right. But my heart was beating fiercely and my body was shivering like someone suffering from a severe cold. Then I heard my mother say, “Please, please, why do you want to do this?” and I thought: Oh my God, they’re here. Papa is not here. I must do something. I must not let them hurt my mother or sister. My fists clenched on their own accord and I wriggled out of my hiding place.

I couldn't see anything because all doors had been closed and window blinds drawn shut, but I could make out the voices. My mother was saying, “Please, Papa Evi, don’t do this to us.”

I stopped in my strides, surprised she was talking to my father, begging him; but for what exactly?

“You know all these robbers,” my father responded in a hushed tone, “they are after us the men. If they come in here and see a man, their bones would become strong and they would start beating everybody and demanding things.”

“That is why you want to leave?”

“I can just open the door quickly and fly the fence. They won’t know. I’m doing this for you and the children.”

My mother began to whimper like a little girl. “Papa Evi, I can’t believe you want to do this to us, you want to leave us with these people.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You are not going anywhere.” Her voice became firm. “If you open this door, we are all going out with you. If you fly that fence, we’ll also fly it.”

“Mama Evi, leave my shirt now, eh,” Papa pleaded.

“I will not leave your shirt.”

“Leave my shirt, this woman.”

“I said I will not leave your shirt.”

“Leave me before the count of five.”

“No. If you want to kill me, kukumah kill me.”

“Leave my shirt one…two…three…”

At that moment someone knocked at the door, announcing that the robbers had gone.

We went outside to meet with the other families and listen to their experiences. They said we were lucky because our apartment was the last on the block and the robbers probably didn’t have time. We said nothing in response. When we got back in our apartment, it was about midnight, but no one was eager to go to bed. Mama put on the kerosene lantern and placed it on the centre table. We sat around the table, we didn’t speak to one another, but everyone was gazing at my father.

He leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Eh,” he began, “it’s not as if I wanted…I was…it is…” He collapsed against the worn sofa and said in a broken voice, “It is not easy to be a man.”

awww lovely work

mhizpeaarl:
awww lovely work

Thanks

SeraSera:


Thanks

ur welcome dearie

Lol, Baba neva ready to die, Nice one

Sugarbabekemi:
Lol, Baba neva ready to die, Nice one

Lol, indeed. Thanks