Everything good might not come

Everything good might not come

Everything good might not come.

You place the bucket beneath the sink and watch as the dirty water drains off it, as it trickles slowly into the bucket. Above the sink, you wash the plates, turning the bottle – in which you had poured a little quantity of Klin and two cups full of water – upside down and pressing its content into your sponge. After wiping the plates clean, you rinse them again and again until you feel the cris cris of clean plates. You then leave your kitchen and walk into the sitting room, using one hand to shift the curtains you have used to demarcate your home. You sit on the only black wooden chair and drink your surroundings in. It is a one-room apartment, but in it you have a sitting room, a dining room and a kitchen, all demarcated by curtains. You look at the un-plastered walls and the wet ceiling hanging so low, it is just one thunder away from caving in and retching its content onto your head and all your properties.

Your home is an uncompleted building made with blocks. You had begged the landlord to let you stay in one room. It was mutual, he didn’t have enough money to complete the house and you didn’t have enough money to get a decent home. When you told him to give you just one room, “just fix the ceiling and windows and I will be fine”, he thought you were crazy.

You stare hard at the ceiling, wondering what will pour down when its belly is eventually sliced opened. Maybe God would finally notice your misfortune and help you.

You tasted fear long before you saw it. It tasted of poverty and sugar – like your father’s eruku oshodi drink. You later saw it in the clothes bought for you by your mother. They were oversized, the sleeves long enough to become trousers and the dresses wide enough to be bedspreads. The clothes had thick shoulder pads and shiny flecks that dropped on the floors as you walked. Shine shine, you called them. They would have been your favourite, save for the shoulder pads your mother had forbidden you to remove. “They make you look mature and rich. Do your know how many naked children are out there? You should be grateful for what you have. ”, she said when she noticed your eyes brimmed with tears and your jaws drooped in shame. Fear hung on to the helm of all your garments, making them heavier. At first, this fear was a tiny mole that stuck to the laces at the base of your clothes. Then like a carbuncle, it grew steadily, creeping like those wall grasses that covered your fence, until it hid beneath your collars, sucking your blood through the veins that lined your neck.

 

Covering the cemented floor of your room is a cheap carpet, but underneath it is an abandoned felefele foam you saw in a pile of garbage while you walked home from your workplace where you are a senior janitor. When you step on the carpet, it is soft and your feet sink into it in a good way. It feels like the rug in mama Risi’s house. Your furniture is a long black wooden chair, it is hard and stiff and your back aches for days when you sit on it for a few hours. You have a flat mattress, a little higher than the floor and a pillow made up of clothes stuffed into a wrapper. You have a library, they are tattered books used to decorate a tattered shelf. In your dining room, there is a blue plastic chair and a round blue plastic table. On it are three glass cups, a plastic jug, several forks and spoons, and a kitchen knife. You use a fork and knife when you eat, like those people on TV. On your dining table is a pack of Nutri-C. Whenever you are about to eat, you tear a sachet and pour it into your glass of water. The colour changes – like orange juice. It makes you feel rich.

You knew this life was not for you. Every time you saw Risi, you wondered how different your life would have been if you had been born into her family instead of yours. Every time you looked at your parents, you resented them for being poor. When your father spent every little kobo on cigarettes, this resentment grew and when he became too poor that he rolled newspapers into sausage-like shapes, set fire to the tips, and inhaled large black smoke, this resentment slowly converted into revulsion. You became bitter, that this world happened to you. That poverty chose you.
You gave yourself five years to break out of poverty; you would work hard and make plenty of money that will fill up the well in your mother’s shoulders. When you pleaded with mama Risi to give you some money to start a pure-water business, she looked at you with disgust. But when this disgust turned to pity and she gave you some money, you hopped on your feet thanking her and making promises to return the money soon. Then you tell her you will buy plenty food and return all the dericas of rice your family ever collected. You will build a house for your parents and take your family away from the shack you all lived in. Then you will get a big shop for your mother where she will sell food and your family will never be poor again. She watched your eyes widen with excitement and smiled forlornly, as if she knew that those were dreams that would, in future, belch barrenness. As if she knew that you wouldn’t make a fortune out of hawking pure-water, neither will you break out of poverty that way. That this country would toss you here and there, pressing its thorny knees on your neck as you strive to pull your body off the floor. Life has faeces stuck in its bowel and your head is inside life’s anus.
You are on the bed watching your ceiling crack slowly, the rain is pouring heavily outside and the thunder is threatening to strike. The sky looks like it will split and in your heart, you say a subtle prayer. If the thunder cracks the clouds, then it will definitely crack your ceiling.

The wind is making your head whirl with thoughts and again you wonder when you shall break free. When these good things would happen to you. Penury grabs your ankle as you take every step forward and your money slopes into the never-sated belly of financial woes.

Tears are gathering again at the brink of your eyes and you angrily sweep them behind your lids. You will not cry. You take a deep breath and just then, thunder strikes the moon, cracks the clouds, and slashes your ceiling.

Share this:


Like
Like Love Haha Wow Sad Angry
1221
Did you enjoy this story? Then pay a tip:

Tip author


What do you think?

  1. Its really interesting and feels so real,like a kind of life someone could relate with…

    Surely,Everything good might not come,even if it will now come eventually,it won’t come so cheap or easy because life isn’t always a bed of roses you can always get to lay on with just a wish or mere thought.

    So for every life that desires beauty and riches must strife.Even the Bible enjoined us to (study to get our self approved: that is,putting yourself into intense work is needed if you want to place yourself at the center of people’s attention.)…There is always a light at the end of the tunnel when we keep at the good work we do,not giving up when every stone of the day struck you unexpectedly..Keep seeing the bright future,walk towards it and make it real.

Join The Tell! Community

Read, and write on Africa's most creative community for writers, thinkers and storytellers

Get Started 

%d bloggers like this: