But I had lived a prosperous life, money enabled me to live, smile through education with ease, get a job in a company, and go on vacation at will. And one night, I came back and found my father in his study, bent over his books, lifeless. His morning coffee was now cold and black and he knew he would always hate coffee. But I hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down my eyes, the slimy catarrh sliding down my nostrils to my mouth. I went out onto the verandah and looked at the streets, at the people who for many years had admired this mansion that my father had built with admiration. I had cried on the veranda and had let the world see my tears. Website design By BotEap.comIt has been four years since my father died, but I still come back from work and check out his studio. I still listen at the door to hear his soliloquy and if all is quiet, I go in, close the door, sit in a corner and cry. Website design By BotEap.comSo on this sunny and rainy afternoon, while the children sing downstairs, I sit in a corner of the room, on the bare floor, thinking about my father, how strangers would imagine my life; It is natural for people to be jealous of the rich, imagine the life of the rich, their choices, what they like and what they don’t like. Not sure if they use the bathroom or not. But people never imagine that the rich have emotions, that their emotions can be expressed through tears. That they could cry. That they do cry. Website design By BotEap.comI start to cry. The tears are hot and salty. I don’t know why I tried it. I don’t notice that it has stopped raining. But I’m in the parenting studio and I’m sure of one thing: the world will never see my tears again.
Black coffee
Website design By BotEap.comIt’s raining outside, but the sun is still high in the sky, golden and round. I can hear the children below singing-
Website design By BotEap.com“It’s raining, the sun is shining. There is a boil in the turtle’s anus.”
Website design By BotEap.comI am in my father’s study. A room full of books, quiet and serious about knowledge. There are many pictures on the wall, a wooden desk in one corner, a fluorescent light bulb that brightens the room a bit. This is not where I read, this is not where I write, this is where I cry.
Website design By BotEap.comBut this is where the father writes, this is where the father had written for twenty years, this is where he had been writing since Mom left. This is also where he talks to himself a lot. Sometimes I hear at the door, my seven-year-old feet kick up a bit. His words are always incomprehensible. And every time I look through the keyhole, I see him smiling into space. Father has many literary works to his credit, many awards that came with brilliant awards. Mother had once called him “a rich old writer who talked to himself a lot” in a feat of mild irritation. But he had never understood why Mom left. So I kept Daddy, his books, and his brown ceramic mug with which I served him coffee every morning.
Website design By BotEap.comMy father didn’t care much about his wealth, his lands in Isolo, Ikeja and Oshodi. His fleet of cars, his many bills bulging with naira bills. Years after Mom left, he had written more often, spending too long in his studio, and I had worried that he wouldn’t get enough rest, no food, and no fresh air.
But I had lived a prosperous life, money enabled me to live, smile through education with ease, get a job in a company, and go on vacation at will. And one night, I came back and found my father in his study, bent over his books, lifeless. His morning coffee was now cold and black and he knew he would always hate coffee. But I hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down my eyes, the slimy catarrh sliding down my nostrils to my mouth. I went out onto the verandah and looked at the streets, at the people who for many years had admired this mansion that my father had built with admiration. I had cried on the veranda and had let the world see my tears. Website design By BotEap.comIt has been four years since my father died, but I still come back from work and check out his studio. I still listen at the door to hear his soliloquy and if all is quiet, I go in, close the door, sit in a corner and cry. Website design By BotEap.comSo on this sunny and rainy afternoon, while the children sing downstairs, I sit in a corner of the room, on the bare floor, thinking about my father, how strangers would imagine my life; It is natural for people to be jealous of the rich, imagine the life of the rich, their choices, what they like and what they don’t like. Not sure if they use the bathroom or not. But people never imagine that the rich have emotions, that their emotions can be expressed through tears. That they could cry. That they do cry. Website design By BotEap.comI start to cry. The tears are hot and salty. I don’t know why I tried it. I don’t notice that it has stopped raining. But I’m in the parenting studio and I’m sure of one thing: the world will never see my tears again.
But I had lived a prosperous life, money enabled me to live, smile through education with ease, get a job in a company, and go on vacation at will. And one night, I came back and found my father in his study, bent over his books, lifeless. His morning coffee was now cold and black and he knew he would always hate coffee. But I hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down my eyes, the slimy catarrh sliding down my nostrils to my mouth. I went out onto the verandah and looked at the streets, at the people who for many years had admired this mansion that my father had built with admiration. I had cried on the veranda and had let the world see my tears. Website design By BotEap.comIt has been four years since my father died, but I still come back from work and check out his studio. I still listen at the door to hear his soliloquy and if all is quiet, I go in, close the door, sit in a corner and cry. Website design By BotEap.comSo on this sunny and rainy afternoon, while the children sing downstairs, I sit in a corner of the room, on the bare floor, thinking about my father, how strangers would imagine my life; It is natural for people to be jealous of the rich, imagine the life of the rich, their choices, what they like and what they don’t like. Not sure if they use the bathroom or not. But people never imagine that the rich have emotions, that their emotions can be expressed through tears. That they could cry. That they do cry. Website design By BotEap.comI start to cry. The tears are hot and salty. I don’t know why I tried it. I don’t notice that it has stopped raining. But I’m in the parenting studio and I’m sure of one thing: the world will never see my tears again.