STORY TIME!!

 Hi everyone,

Happy Sunday. How is the weekend going?

I said I would post the short stories I wrote for the contests I didn't win because they can't be sitting on my laptop doing nothing. Here is one, I hope you all enjoy it.

TITLE: HIS FATHER'S SON

Peace. A simple word, yet it was never found in my home. 

I never knew the meaning of that word in the home I grew up in. It was either Mom screaming at Dad or Dad screaming at Mom, and it didn’t help that I was the first child. If Dad didn’t hit Mom, he would hit Gbenga, who had to shield Atinuke and Ayobami from the chaos at home. Anything could trigger the fights; living there was like avoiding the burns while walking on hot coals. People always say there is love at home, guess what? In this home, love was far from it.

Sometimes I hated Dad, other times I hated Mom. If the salt was not enough in the food, there would be a stream of insults on Mom, but it wasn’t like she kept quiet as the insults came.

“Ah, shame on you, Ronke. You cannot cook. Obinrin ti ko wulo A useless woman”

“Useless man, when you will not drop money for me to go to market, we will eat it like that oh.”

“It’s you and your children that will eat this rubbish, I will not eat this” He moved the seat backwards and stood up, pushing the plate to pour its contents on the floor intentionally. 

“Ewúrẹ ni eda eniyan fọọmu Goat in human form” My mom said as the food poured onto the floor. She called me to sweep the food that was poured.

 Sometimes, I wondered if they wanted to kill each other, maybe, if the thought pleased them. ‘How did they get married if they hated each other so much?’ I would ask myself several times. I often thought marriage was like that, but as I became a teenager, I saw my classmates and friends always happy to go home; they spoke about their parents with so much glee, and I just knew my parents were the problem. Anytime I looked at my parents' wedding pictures, I could notice the obvious stress lines on their faces now. They looked like they had been married for forty years and not twenty years. On the days when the slaps and blows came and my mom received them, she would use extra makeup to cover the signs on her face, the swelling around her eyes. I hated their marriage so much, and I promised myself that mine would not be like theirs.

2018. The year I met her. Miss Omowumi Joshua. A 22-year-old entrepreneur with a First-class degree in Business Administration, she graduated from the University of Lagos two years after I graduated with a Second-class degree in International Relations from the same university, but we never met in school. Omowumi was stunning, her perfect white teeth, her spotless dark skin, her long legs, her full natural hair, her cute big eyes flawlessly placed on her round face, her pointed nose, her full lips, her hourglass figure. She was everything, and I felt undeserving of wanting her. She had the right amount of beauty and character. God really took his time on her because she was the type of girl you only get to read about in a novel. The day I met her was the day I knew I wanted to get married.  

 I met her at a bookstore. She was holding a book ‘No More Mistakes by Victoria Akumute’. I walked up to her without knowing what to say first. I begged my brain not to ruin this moment.

“This looks like a lovely book, I hope it’s as nice as the cover” I said.

“I’ve read some lines and I’m intrigued” She replied and looked up at me.

“I guess, I’ll get it then” I smiled and picked up the book from the section where it was kept. “Hi, my name is Gbenga Peters”

“My name is Omowumi Joshua. Nice to meet you. Do you read often?”

“Nope, but I would love to read the books you prefer”

“And why is that?” She smiled at me. I hoped she was feeling what I was feeling because my heart was beating faster than normal.

“I don’t know, maybe because I find you interesting”

“You just met me like five minutes ago, you don’t even know me” 

“Well, we can fix that, can’t we?” I asked, searching her face for hints of annoyance but I found a smile.

“If the answer was no?”

“Then, I’ll keep trying till it becomes a yes. So, please, can I have your number?” I brought out my phone for her to type it in. She collected it and typed in her number, I saved it with her name. 

“Don’t worry, it’s my real number” she said and then went to pay for the book. I walked over to pay for both books. She wanted to stop me, but I insisted on paying. We walked out of the bookstore, said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways.

I got to my apartment that day, and I just couldn’t wait to call her. For someone who works a 9-5 job as an immigration specialist at a law firm, tired was what I was meant to feel, not excited. I didn’t know when to call, but I just wanted to call. I felt like a kid who just got the candy he always wanted. I settled in, showered, and ate the jollof spaghetti and fish I ordered from a restaurant. I finally called her. She didn’t answer on the first ring. I was scared she gave me the wrong number. I tried again, and she picked up the call.

“Hello” she said.

I smiled from ear to ear, hearing her voice. We spoke till 2:00 a.m., but before I ended the call, I asked her out on a date, and she agreed to go on a date with me.  Her favourite food was Pounded yam and Egusi soup. She was the third child of four children, from Oyo state, just like me. Her father was a businessman who dealt with cars and other automobiles, her mum was a professor of English Language working at the University of Ibadan. She had two elder twin brothers, Adedayo and Adetola, and a younger sister named Yemisi.  I did more listening than talking and realised how similar we were. I was starting to imagine my life with her. A three-year gap didn’t sound bad at all.

We went on the first date, then a second, and we spoke every day. After a month and three dates, we officially started dating. We visited each other often, at home and even at the office sometimes. We shared secrets, jokes, sadness, and happiness. We looked at each other with so many emotions that words couldn’t describe. I knew she adored me from how her head rested on my chest while listening to my heartbeat, how she always wanted me to be a part of her day, and how she cared for me. We fought over little things but always reconciled before saying “good night”.

November 2019. I proposed to her to be my wife. I couldn’t imagine life with anyone else, and she said “yes”. I was getting married. The thought of it both excited me and scared me. I was excited to marry the woman of my dreams, but I was concerned that I might end up being...a monster just like my father. The news of the proposal excited our families and friends. My mom dished out pieces of advice to my fiancée and me. My dad would call me aside regularly and say, “Be a man”. I knew what he meant, but I didn’t want to be that kind of man.

We aimed for simplicity, but when it's your mother’s first son getting married, simple just isn't an option. We did our marriage introduction in her father’s large compound. Omowumi was dressed in her iro and buba, which were a combination of brown and gold. On her head was a gold gele tied to perfection, finishing the look was a pair of gold heels. She looked breathtakingly gorgeous. I was dressed in a brown agbada and black shoes, which had a touch of gold. I was seated with my family and friends with the gifts we brought for our bride on white plastic chairs under a canopy; she sat with her family and friends under a canopy opposite ours. She blushed when we made eye contact. The ceremony went on smoothly with prayers, pieces of advice from elders, an introduction by an elder from my family, and greetings to my in-laws by me and my male friends by lying on the ground according to our culture. My bride confirmed that I was the one she wanted to marry. The introduction ceremony continued with our families mingling with each other. The introduction went well, as did the traditional, court, and white weddings.

18th April 2020. I pledged before God, the pastor, and our families to love, respect, and cherish my wife until my last breath on earth. Seeing her walking down the aisle in a beautiful white lace dress was the most exquisite thing I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. I shed a tear and didn’t even know. Omowumi, the gorgeous bride of my youth. That day was the happiest day of my life., I wondered if my father felt the same when he married my mother.

We started adjusting to our lives, taking in each other’s faces every morning. I was now the man of the house in our new home, the Oga and she was the Madam. We were enjoying our lives without those rules our elders lived by. I cooked sometimes, and she cooked too. The laundry was done by either of us, even the cleaning. Our lives were simple, and we didn’t plan on bringing in a baby yet, so she started taking birth-control pills. 

3rd June 2021. At nine o’clock at night, Omowumi was not yet back from work. I called her like ten times, and her number was not reachable. I went to her office earlier, but they were already closed for the day. I even called her parents to know if she went there to visit, but she wasn’t there either. Five minutes past 9 p.m., I heard a car pull up in front of the house, so I walked over to the window opposite our gate in the living room. It was not her car, and she stepped out of the car after hugging the person. It sure wasn’t an Uber. I sat on the couch waiting for her to walk in as my blood boiled with rage, so much rage that I’ve felt in a lifetime.

“Hi, honey” she said as she walked over to face me. She didn’t notice I was shaking with anger.

“Who dropped you off?” I asked, surprised that she didn’t note the change in my usual tone.

“Oh, that’s my old secondary school friend, Kelvin” I stood up with this response.

“Omowumi, do you think I’m stupid?!” My voice was louder than normal with that question, and her eyes met mine. 

“I di..didn’t say that, I…” She couldn’t finish her statement. In a swift second, my hand went against her face, causing her to fall on the floor. I regretted it as fast as it happened. She moved far away from me, coiled up like a ball. She was sobbing.

“Oh God, I’m sorry” I went to her and knelt down, but as I reached out to touch her, she flinched.

“I swear nothing was going on…my car broke down and was taken…taken to a mechanic. I tried…tried calling you, but I couldn’t reach you. He…he just dropped me off, and I met him there. I swear…”

“I’m sorry, my love. I believe you." I replied and tried to touch her again, and she moved away. she looked up at me, and the look on her face was one I could recognise anywhere. I had seen it on my mother’s face every time my father beat her while I hid in a corner, crying,, wondering when it would stop. My mother saw a monster, a wild beast and as I looked into my wife’s eyes, she saw the same thing. I stood up, walked out of the house, got into my car, and cried. I had broken the promise I made to myself. Was this monster always there, waiting for the right time to show up? 

I cried until I fell asleep in the car while gripping the steering wheel. I woke up the next morning and went back into the house. She had already prepared breakfast.

“Good morning” she said with no emotions on her face or even in her voice.

“My love, I messed up last night." I said as I got on my knees “I trust you. I was just worried” I needed her to say something, but she went silent. When I lost hope and stood up, she spoke.

“The man I saw yesterday wasn’t my husband. I will not stay in this marriage if that person keeps showing up” Her voice was stern. She still didn’t allow me to touch her. I promised her that it would never happen again and prayed that it never would, because not only would she hate me, but I would hate myself more.

And it never happened again, I never raised a finger against her, and we were as happy as we were before. Twenty-two years and three kids later, I never acted that way again. Each time I got angry, I remembered how my mother looked at my dad and how my wife looked at me that day, and it instantly made me calm down. I refused to be the man my father was, the man he wanted me to be. I became the man my family needed me to be. A responsible man, a respectful husband, and a loving father.

Image from Canva.