The Confrontation: Chapter 1

by Al

This is a continuation of the story. If you haven’t read it yet, here’s the Prologue.

MOTHER. MOTHER. MOTHER. THEN YOUR FATHER.

” — and that’s how the system works,” I say and close the laptop screen as I conclude my presentation.

We are in my brother’s bedroom — I sleep here for the 3 weeks I’m home for. There are no corporate knights in suits or a round table for my presentation. There isn’t even a projector. But I don’t need knights or projectors for this one. The only audience I need right now is him — My Father.

It’s a primal thing, I guess, the thing with sons trying to impress their fathers. Freud came up with a name for the condition, probably to impress his own father.

Does he like it? I can’t tell. I look at his face. It’s very difficult to read the man. Maybe my intelligent system isn’t quite as impressive as I thought it would be.

But this wouldn’t be the first time I unsuccessfully made something that I was convinced would blow everyone away.

In my art class back in secondary school, I made a white rabbit out of Plaster Of Paris. It was like something out of a Lewis Carol story, but weirder and with so much more substance. People would bow down when they realize what a genius I am, I thought. But No one liked it, and I was terribly confused why everyone couldn’t see my art. Took me three years to realize that the art was lost in the pretension.

Maybe this is one those times. I’ll probably look back at this moment three years from now and realize how ridiculous I must’ve looked over-selling this shitty system.

I didn’t even design this shit, like I claim I did. Six of us did, and I only made the stupid flash thing in the opening. I copied it from a crappy movie I once saw — which explains why I can’t remember the name.

Ahem!

He clears his throat.

Moment of truth. I feel like I’m in the hot seat, just like in the TV show.

“You asked me why I did not comment about the thing with you and your mother,” he starts.

Oh crap! That’s right. I e-mailed him a few months back asking why he stood there like a casual observer without any intention of interfering, while all these things were happening between me and my mother. He didn’t reply.

“I was waiting for you to come back, that’s why”

I came back about a week ago.

After a 17-hour flight and 2 hours in the airport waiting for my luggage, I finally made it to the Arrivals area.

For the longest time, I had been wondering who was going to pick me up from the airport. Well not exactly. I was only wondering if my mother was going to be there.

I had not seen her in over a year, and we weren’t speaking to each other. Not since the incident, that is. Meeting her at the airport would’ve been weird for both of us.

See also: Awkward.

See also: Uncomfortable.

Which was why my heart was racing when I dragged my luggage sluggishly out the gate marked “Arrivals”, anxious to see who was there to receive me.

I saw my brother. He was taller and a little darker than I remembered. And his face was covered in acne. A lot can change in two years. I hugged him, unfortunately for him. He should write a book on what it felt like to hug someone who hasn’t had a shower in over 24 hours. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re travelling — especially on the plane, it’s very different. Must be the elevation or something.

As we walked to the car, I asked him if my mother came along.

She’s out of the country on a work related trip and wouldn’t be back till the end of the week.

Relief.

Outside standing by the car was my baby sister. She was 9 when I last saw her — now she’s almost a woman. I hugged her too. They should co-write the book.

My dad drove them. I shook his hands and smiled.

On the way home, I remember him saying,

“When I was your age, I didn’t need glasses,” a reference to the huge Hunter S. Thompson type glasses I was wearing.

“At your age, you didn’t stare at a computer screen for the better half of the day”

He laughed. I laughed. I felt at ease.

This is home.

“… frankly, I don’t want to know what caused everything.”

He must’ve kept on talking when I zoned out five minutes ago.

“She’s coming back today,” he continued. “And when she does, you must apologize. She’ll be travelling again in two days, so you must fix things before then”

“OK but…” I started.

“No buts”

The whole scene was like a poorly written episode of Brothers & Sisters.

See also: Telenovela.

See also: Super Story.

“You know what the prophet said when asked about who you should be most respectful to in this world,” he started.

I think I know this one.

“He said your mother –”

Ummuka.

“– Your mother –”

Ummuka.

“– Your mother–”

“– and then your father,” I concluded.

“So you know,” he said, more statement than question.

I nodded all the same.

“Knowing, and not doing anything about it is worse than not knowing at all,” he said.

Trust me, it sounds deeper and more philosophical when said in Hausa.

He walks out.

Did he at least like my presentation?

That thought passes almost as soon as it came.

There are more important things to think about. Like, should I tell him my side of the story. Maybe he won’t listen. But does it really matter? Knowing, and not saying anything is worse than not knowing at all.

Yes, I have that wisdom gene too.

So I run after him.

I hear someone touch the front door. Must be him going out for some air. He usually does that kind of thing at this hour.

So I go for the door.

Standing at the door, just back from her trip, and seeing her for the very first time in over a year, is my mother.

*****

Chapter 2 next Friday.