Everything We Ever Called A Family || a short story
I look into his calm face again, his bandaged head and the different tubes plugged into him…
I.
Today’s dawn never broke well.
I should have known since the moment a good-for-nothing stray bird decided to make a toilet out of my opened glass window. My sixth sense should have told me that the watery white shit punctuated with brownish contents, splattered in a triangular arrangement on my window, was not a good sign.
But no, I was never the type to patronise superstitions. Not especially ones about some thoughtless deeds of a random sunbird cruising innocently past my bedroom. Not until this afternoon, when after recovering from choking on my own saliva, I somehow twisted my left ankle in the few steps between my bedroom and the sitting room. Not until some minutes ago when Mum returned from an outing and ignited a fierce argument with Dad.
I have no interest in whatever is the issue, so I ignore their noises and enter the bathroom for a shower. Now I hear a loud bang followed by the sound of something smashed.
What’s that?—
I freeze for a moment as an instant rush of dread overwhelms me. My heart begins beating rapidly, as though in a race to outrun itself.
Everything is happening so fast now. Clangs and crashes rent the air, as though there’s a contest of breaking things in our house. I’m too shell-shocked to continue bathing. With soap foams on my face, I inch closer to the door, press my ears hard against it, and listen with growing fear to every sound my ears can catch. Every movement suggesting anything ruinous. Under my breath I mumble some prayers, urging God to forbid evil, to forbid tragedy from paying us another visit since the accidental suicide of my only brother. But something tells me it’s already too late, that I should have presented my supplication earlier.
Soon I hear Dad going crazy in the sitting room, his bawls full of enough evil energy to increase the dread of my racing heart. Mum yells back at him, her voice getting raspier by the second, filled with pain and frustration.
But God, what’s going on?
Now I hear some smashing from the kitchen side. I can feel the fury with which the utensils are being flung against the wall. So wild, and I earnestly hope I'm dreaming. I hope whatever is going on beyond this bathroom is nothing but a silly prank. My head is almost reaching its boiling point, yet I can't pour some water to cool it down. I worry about why these are all happening, why it must be today of all days. Today, a day after Dad’s fiftieth birthday. Today, exactly two weeks after their twentieth marriage anniversary.
And now, their voices both seem to stream from the same place. They must have collided in the sitting room, each screaming their guts out without waiting for the other to respond.
Eii God, what’s all this trouble?
Then comes a shriek of pain, and at once I know tragedy has finally struck. As an uneasy silence falls, my heart thumps harder. I feel a burning sensation inside me, somewhere deep down in my heart, and even though I grab where my heart is supposed to be, the burning is beyond my reach.
At the same stretch, I feel the soap now peppering my eyes without mercy. But the pain is nothing compared to the pitch silence that has been lingering for more seconds than expected. And here is where things get scarier. With my teeth gritting and my body shaking, a new fear level has been unlocked. At least the noises attested to the presence of life, right? But what do I make of this abrupt silence after a scream of pain?
Now I hear Mum wailing, “Ah, help me, help me! Everyone, help me!” I want to rush out but my legs won’t cooperate. And this fastened heartbeat weakens me the more. This agony I feel is beyond explanation. I’m afraid tragedy has barged in on us eventually. I’m afraid this is the end of everything we ever called a family.
When I manage to rinse my face and grab my towel, I open the door gently, afraid of what I'm about to discover. I hear hurried footsteps of people rushing into our sitting room, all alarmed.
“Jesus! Carry him, carry him,” I hear someone shouting.
I block my ears and collapse on the floor. The tears in my eyes partially blur my sight and I struggle to stand up not minding my weakened knees threatening to give way. I wipe off the trickling tears and take a few steps to the sitting room.
No, God, no, let this be a bad dream, please.
A car zooms off in an emergency and I’m the only one left behind. There is a broken line of red dots punctuating the cream tiles all the way from the sitting room to the verandah.
God, please, this is just some spilt red paint. No, God, please, this isn’t Dad’s blood, no!
II.
Today’s sun doesn’t set well.
It’s evening, and Dad is now a vegetable. He lies in a coma at the ICU, gentle, unresponsive. I still can’t wrap my head around how it all happened, how in a blind rage Mum clobbered his head with a small stool in the sitting room.
An unfortunate accident, Mum would say, but who would believe?
Sitting by his bed now, my fears have been overlaid with deep-seated sorrow. I stare into his calm countenance, not knowing what to think. For a long time Mum and I have suspected he has a side chick, a mysterious ‘client’ he always makes excuses for going to see. But he has always found a perfect way of dismissing the suspicion as nothing but a baseless accusation. Until recently when Mum discovered, beyond any doubt, that he does not just have a side chick but a whole family outside. A second family, with two children bearing his name.
In the waiting room some hours ago, Mum said she almost lost her mind upon discovering, and that she only came home this afternoon to hear him admit it. She was going to let it slip—God knows—but even with the undeniable evidence she presented, Dad denied point blank. The denial was what led to the arguments and provocations that have now landed him in this struggle for his life.
I look into his calm face again, his bandaged head and the different tubes plugged into him… and I feel a repugnant blend of sadness and bitterness. There’s a cancerous thought eating deep into me, and questions I wish I could tap him awake to answer. I want to confirm from him if truly my whole two decades and five years have all been an accumulation of padded lies. Have I really ever been his favourite daughter? Or that’s what he ever wanted me to believe? Or that’s what I could have been had he put his mind in one place instead of two?
And oh, to think I could have sworn on my life that he is the best dad in the whole universe. Yes, he may not have all the money in the world, but he makes his best obvious in keeping the family running. But who would have thought?
A line of tears rolls down my cheeks, and I scold myself for allowing it. Does this man even deserve the littlest drop of my sympathy? I'm angry. I'm hurting. I'm not myself. And yes, he caused it all.
I’m shocked and awed, for how could a man I call my father be so ill-talented? He played me and Mum so easily, like a smooth criminal. Only a genius could have pulled this off. He has no real friends I’m aware of, or I could have said they corrupted his mind and led him astray. And what could have prepared me for this ending?
Fresh tears stream from the rivers in my socket. This time, I let them flow unhindered. Maybe I'm not in the best place to judge this man. Just maybe.
No matter what has happened or will happen, I want to see my father again. I want to hold his hand and feel his coarse palm and smile as he calls me his princess. I want to feel like his favourite again. I don't want this memory of him to be the last I would ever have of him. Because in the end, to err is human and to forgive is divine.
***
Joseph Olamide Babalola is a creative writer of evocative fiction and poetry bothering on critical issues of everyday life.
A two-time finalist of the African Writers Award, he was shortlisted for the 2022 Toyin Falola Prize and the 2021 K&L African Prize. Some of his creative pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetica, Lunaris Review, Kreative Diadem, Praxis Magazine, The Christian Century, The Moveee, Nzuri Magazine, Agape Review, Liennek Journal and elsewhere.