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Fiction | Short Story SECRETS By Jacqueline U. Agweh B FAMILY ehind the fresh fish market stood our house. A shabby two-storey building that appeared to be tilting to the left, as though avoiding punches from the wind. Inside, it was dark and dingy, even in the sunniest weather. No one could tell what its original colour had been many years earlier. On our street, there were no fences to separate the houses because nobody living there owned valuables worth protecting. In truth, our neighbourhood boasted countless pick pockets and money doublers who preyed on the poorest of the poor. For the first sixteen years of my life, we lived in this neighbourhood; a family of eight, in one single room! There were also at least forty families living in the other ‘face me, I face you’ rooms, and no one could really say he knew all his neighbours. Almost everyone sat outside or wandered up and down the street before retiring for the night as it was always too hot indoors. In our neighbourhood, cooked food business of every variety thrived because few families cooked their meals; the obvious reason being that most kitchens shared boundaries with filthy outdoor toilets and bathrooms in backyards sprouting algae on the floors and walls. An evil fishy stink pervaded the air like an ominous perfume every second, every minute, day in, day out, and became our very nature, such that only total strangers ever commented on the stench. Nobody obeyed the cleaning rosters pasted by our landlord’s madam, whose husband cared less as long as his ever-increasing rents were paid as at when due! Maybe unconsciously, it was this oppressive odour that made everyone avoid the zinc-walled toilets, except when the urge to obey nature became unbearable. It was indeed more convenient to pay a token sum and use the nearby portable toilets and bathrooms managed by brisk business men who had found a niche in the forsaken place. And their merchandise were always in high demand! “Nature” called one morning and unfortunately, there was no vacant cubicle in the usual place of respite so I had no choice but to risk our backyard “horror”. Warily, a scarf wrapped around my nose, like an amateur ninja, I approached our toilets. And that was when I saw my father. He was sitting on an old stool in the stinking backyard, weeping silently as he stared dejectedly at a piece of paper in his hands. He was alone. I was stunned. Father was never 10 • FBNI&YOU • www.fbninsurance.com
sober: a man roughened on all sides by misfortune, eternally cocooned in the fantasy world excessive alcohol created. Something was wrong and yet I couldn’t go to him; we were not friends. I hid and watched, suddenly forgetting my pressing need to use the toilet. A short while later, he wiped his eyes, slipped the paper into his trouser pocket and opened a bottle of locally brewed gin. Sloppily, he tipped its contents into his mouth. It dribbled down his chin, soiling his shirt, and impatiently he scrutinized the empty bottle, before hurling it into the gutter. It scattered into tiny shards and his puzzled eyes stared at the gleaming mess for several moments before he staggered towards the fish market; to hassle mother as usual for money to buy the liquid devil that consumed his world. Father was ill, had been for a long time. His yellowed eyes and scrawny figure told the whole story, but stubbornly, he rebuffed medical care. Even mother’s offer to pay his hospital bills often earned her vicious slaps before he arrogantly staggered out to seek his drinking buddies, whose company he clearly preferred to ours. My five sisters and I frequently defended mother, believing father treated her like filth because she had produced only females. Strangely, mother always defended him vehemently. “He’s a good man at heart,” she pleaded with us time without number, a faraway look in her eyes as she perhaps recalled the husband of her youth. I just knew I had to read that paper in his pocket to know why he had wept. The following morning, I offered to wash his clothes. He was lying on the only bed in the room; we referred to it as, ‘father’s bed’, because years ago, after weaning her youngest daughter, mother had abandoned their bed for our raffia mats on the floor. Mother was delighted, though somewhat surprised because I had stopped washing my father’s clothes a long time ago. He was taken aback, and at first he refused, but mother insisted and he grudgingly accepted. I rushed to the backyard with his clothes and searched his trouser pockets until I found the crumbled and slightly damp paper. It was a retrenchment letter; the words sharp and direct. Dated nine years earlier, the ‘nice’ words told my father the organization appreciated his hard work, he was a priceless staff, but they were right-sizing and his services as a welder were no longer required. They wished him success in his future endeavours. At first, I was dazed, and then bitter tears stung my eyelids; for indeed, my father had succeeded, but only in his drunken endeavors! Long ago, my father had been a strong hard working man, but gradually he had changed. Nobody understood why and we had ceased to be friends: he had succumbed too easily to whatever harsh obstacle life had thrown his way. I couldn’t stand it, as I realized his retrenchment letter was his waterloo. I washed his clothes with all the fury I could muster, battering them, as it dawned on me he was sacrificing us in his protracted cowardly bitterness. Suddenly, I heard his rasping voice calling my name, and silently I turned to stare him. He looked frail, pitiable. And without saying a word, I picked up his prized letter and placed it in his outstretched hand. He clutched my soapy hand and we gazed into each other’s eyes, but it was too late to explain the sad truth of his life to me. I had found him out. After that day, we never discussed the letter; he was too proud. “Take care of your mother,” he whispered sadly one night, his hollow eyes watery pits of regret. By the next morning, we discovered he had died quietly in his sleep. His letter was my secret now, my mother and sisters never knew about it, and I do not know if I will ever let them know his secret, or maybe I will; some day, when I become successful in my future endeavours! Only time will tell… STAYING HEALTHY IN THIS ECONOMY . By Angela Enita Omoru-Obule ..continued from page 8 food instead of fried foods etc. Eat right and well, your body will thank you. Staying healthy can be very affordable. Just commit to it and you’d realise how much misconception you’ve been carrying around. Make it a point of duty to imbibe the habit of exercise and healthy living during and after office hours; this way we live longer lives. FBNI&YOU • www.fbninsurance.com • 11
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