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ONE

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The first step in recovery, they say, is admitting that you have a problem.

I don’t have a problem.

I came back home from work a few hours ago and there they were, all three of them: mom, Sarah and my best friend Adam.

Sarah is my girlfriend. We met at Borders about a year ago after we both reached for the last remaining copy of When You’re Engulfed in Flames, the brilliant memoir by American humorist David Sedaris.

It was like that one movie where the two romantic leads both reach for the same pair of gloves at the same time on Christmas eve, only in our case, we didn’t argue back and forth on who deserved it more. I let her take it, and she did. In return, she asked me out for coffee — a thank you. She had nice hair and big brown eyes the size of marbles, so naturally, I said yes.

At Starbucks, I asked if I could borrow the book after she was done reading it. It was a ruse to see her again. I’m sure she saw right through it, but she certainly didn’t mind.

“It is our book, after all,” she said and then smiled.

She finished the book in a week, and a week later we had lunch. We met again the next weekend, and the weekend after that I gave her the book back. And we had dinner. We’ve been together ever since, and even though we’ve had our fair share of fights, she’s always stood by me. Those trust exercises they make you do at work — I close my eyes and fall face-down every time because I know she’ll be there to catch me.

Except today, apparently.

“We’re doing this because we love you,” she tells me, and I feel my face smash into the concrete — metaphorically speaking.

I work ten hours a day in the IT department of a Fortune-500 company as an unpaid intern. I won’t say which company, but yes, you’ve definitely heard of us. Yes, you’ve used our products. You’ve ate us, you’ve drank us, and your baby’s bum is probably covered in one of our products this very second.

This company, they made a net-profit of $5.6 Billion dollars last year and they still keep a herd of unpaid interns spread across several departments with not so much as lunch money. No travel allowance. I paid for my supervisor’s parking last week and I’m yet to be reimbursed.

When I’m not getting people coffee and making photocopies, I’m with Bill from Accounting on the twenty-second floor fixing his computer.

Bill is odd. And weird. Redundant, but worth repeating. He never listens. I always tell him not to click on those links. Why anyone would download porn is beyond me. Stream that shit like a responsible adult, I always tell him. A responsible adult probably shouldn’t watch porn in the office, I know, but that’s a tiny insignificant detail I’m willing to overlook for the sake of making my point. I tell him the links are most definitely bogus. Malware, I tell him. Spyware. Trojan horses and worms Bill. They’ll slow down your computer. You’re putting the entire office at risk. Sir. This is a threat to security. Sir. People may die because of you. The world will end.

The whole time I’m talking, he’ll have this grin on his face. He once told me that he enjoys my “youthful idealism” — whatever that means. Maybe that’s why he never listens to anything I say, because a few days later I’ll be back up on the twenty-second floor fixing his computer.

But it’s not just Bill.

Sometimes it’s Mr. Anuar who can’t seem to figure out how to get his company-issued Macbook Pro to work with the projector in the conference room. It’s Madam Ong from downstairs who still can’t find her messages after Mail on OS X downloads them from the company’s e-mail server. It’s Mr. Raj who writes documents in Pages and then complains when they don’t open in Microsoft Word.

It’s fucking exhausting being the “IT guy” at a company making the move from Windows to Macintosh, especially if it’s full of idiots.

Imagine dealing with all this and then coming back home only to have your best friend tell you that you’re not yourself anymore.

Well, no shit.

“You’ve changed,” Adam tells me. “We hate seeing you like this.”

I don’t have a problem!

I wouldn’t have survived as long as I have in that office without any help. Help, in this case, came in the form of Nadira.
Nadira is a fellow intern on the fifty-fourth floor — R&D — who, through methods she wouldn’t disclose, got her hands on a drug still in clinical testing.

A new drug has to pass several tests before human trials begin. There are pharmacological tests to determine the drug’s effects on the human body, toxicology studies to predict potential risks, and other ones that aren’t so obvious.

Human trials usually take place in three phases. Phase one involves just a handful of volunteers to verify the safety and tolerability of the drug. Phrase three involves the largest group, and it happens just before mass production. Phase two is where all the fun is, because that’s where effectiveness and things like dosage are determined.

This particular drug is code-named BC-22 and it’s in Phase Two of its trial. From the little Dira told me, I gathered that it’s some sort of cough syrup that doubles as an anti-depressant. Or maybe it’s the other way round. I’m not entirely sure. Why anyone would want an anti-depressant cough syrup isn’t entirely clear either. All I know is that, even in phase two, it’s pretty fucking amazing. The feeling you get, it’s like you can take anything the world throws at you.

Dira needs it. She’s always on it. All. The. Fucking. Time. Not that I blame her. This place is ridiculous. It’ll drive you fucking nuts if you let it.

But me, I don’t have a problem.

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TWO

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I met Dira at lunch on my very first day at the office. I only had a fifty, so she paid for lunch. She’s really nice like that. I later found out that we live in the same area — practically the same street — but had never met.

Three weeks later, on the train back home from work, I told her how fucking exhausting working in the IT department is. My supervisors don’t respect me, I told her. I get coffee and take out the trash and do the shittiest jobs. I have a brain the size of a planet and they ask me to pick-up a piece of paper and throw in the trash. I told her I wanted to kill myself and actually meant it.

Well, probably.

That’s when she told me about BC-22.

“When was the last time you called your dad just to ask how he is?” asked my mother. “You never visit. It’s the heroin.”

Oh mom, I don’t have a problem.

I’m not addicted to heroin. The active ingredient in BC-22 is 3-methylmorphine. It’s some sort of opium, according to Dira. I think she’s the one addicted, not me. Should the situation present itself, I’ll be willing to bet good money that she can’t function without it.

I work ten hours a day with complete fucking idiots. I take BC-22 to get through my day. I take it because I have to, not because I want to. It doesn’t give me any pleasure. I can stop whenever I want to. Should the situation present itself, I’ll be willing to put my money where my mouth is.

“You think it’s helping you,” mom says “It’s killing you.”

Sigh. I don’t have a problem.

I haven’t sneezed in over three months. I was born with an over-sized adenoid. One in five babies is born with an over-sized adenoid. It’s that gland at the top of your mouth towards the back near your tonsils.

Kids with over-sized adenoids are more prone to colds than other kids. Growing up, most kids on the block my age get the flu two or three times a year. I average six. Everyone thought it was because I was reckless and stupid.

“Stop playing in the rain so much,” mom would say.

“You keep sleeping with your mouth wide open, that’s why,” my dad always says.

Those things too, but I also have an over-sized adenoid.

It wasn’t until after my first visit to the dentist that the mystery of my ever-flowing nose was solved. Well, sort of. The dentist told me that I had a swollen adenoid. I was born that way, so technically, it wasn’t swollen. That’s why I sleep with my mouth open, he told me. That’s why I talk with a lisp. And that’s why I get a cold more than everyone else.

I am special, but mom wasn’t convinced.

“He’s just a dentist after all,” she said.

Later, she arranged for me to see this ENT coming in from Egypt.

“He comes highly recommended,” she said.

An ENT is a doctor who specializes in ear, nose and throat infections. An Otolaryngologist.

“Yes, that’s an over-sized adenoid you’ve got there,” the ENT said after taking a look inside my mouth.

This man traveled all the way from Egypt — crossed the great big Nile like some sort of reverse Moses — only to tell me something I already knew. He said it wasn’t that big of a deal. One out of five people has an over-sized adenoid. He said a lot of people are living with it.

“But if you think it’s a problem, you can get it surgically corrected,” the Egyptian ENT told me.

No sir, I don’t have a problem.

Fast forward sixteen years and I’m an intern at a Fortune-500 company taking BC-22 three to four times a day and I still don’t have a problem. In fact I have it better than don’t-have-a-problem.

How can something that makes me better be bad for me? That’s rubbish. This isn’t some shit I scored off a guy under a bridge in the shady part of town at midnight. No. This was engineered in a high-tech lab by very intelligent people, most of whom went to ivy-league schools and graduated top of their class.

“I miss the old you,” Adam tells me.

“I miss the old you too,” I tell my best friend.

Remember that time we went to the bakery across the road from your parent’s house and you distracted the girl at the counter while I stole a half-dozen donuts?

“We were seven,” says Adam.

Good times.

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THREE

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“Maybe you should think of changing your work environment,” Sarah tells me. “Maybe you should try another company.”

Are you insinuating that I’m weak, woman?

“No, I’m just saying that maybe a change of environment will be good for you, that’s all” she says.

By “environment”, Sarah means Dira. I’m certain of it.

Although they’ve never officially met, Sarah knows of Dira and Dira knows of Sarah and Dira knows that Sarah is my girlfriend. That’s actually the first thing I told Dira the moment I realized we were starting to get a little too friendly, and she replied “Good for you”.

Last week, Sarah was out of town to see her brother, and Dira and I went to her friend’s art exhibition. Sarah wasn’t very happy about it when she found out. Now that I think of it, this whole “intervention” business isn’t so much about my “problems” as it is about finding a way to get rid of Dira.

“You don’t have to be threatened by Dira,” I tell Sarah. “I’m not even sure she likes boys.”

“This isn’t about Dira,” says Sarah, “We never hang out like we used to. You don’t seem to have time for me anymore.”

I’m a working man now. Well, sort of. And at that precise moment, I realize three things:

1. I’ve been standing in this living room for close to an hour. That’s got to be some sort of personal record.

2. This whole intervention business is starting to remind me of the pointlessness of my “job”.

3. It’s been six hours since my last dose of BC-22.

“Excuse me,” I tell the people in my living room and walk into the bedroom. I take off my tie and my shirt and my trousers. I tie a towel around my waist and walk into the bathroom.

I open the bathroom cabinet and my bottle of BC-22 is gone. Of course. Sarah probably threw it in the garbage disposal earlier this morning. Luckily, I have a spare — the one I carry in my laptop bag — and I go get that and take a big gulp.

Sweet silent amen.

I wash my face with cold water from the sink and walk out to the living room in my towel.

“Look, I really really appreciate what you guys are trying to do here,” I tell them. “But can we continue this some other time? I have to wake up early tomorrow morning.”

They don’t say anything, they just sit there and look at me like I’m speaking Sumerian.

“Please leave,” I say, “I have work in the morning.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” says Adam.

I miss the old you.

“But I live here,” says Sarah.

This isn’t about you.

“This is an intervention,” says my mom.

I don’t have a problem.

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*     *     *    *     *     *

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A POLITE REQUEST:

Hi,

If you like this story, please feel free to publish it on your website or blog; e-mail it to that old friend you no longer connect with or your grandmother with Alzheimer’s; make a movie or a stage production out of it. Write songs. Adapt it. Add more chapters. Nothing would make me happier. It’s licensed under Creative Commons CC-BY-SA, and all I ask is that you keep the work free and credit me as the original author — in that order.

Thank you and stay problem-free,

- A.

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FOOTNOTE:

- A huge thanks to Victoria for finding (and correcting) 17 spelling and grammatical errors including: a missing “s”, 2 unnecessary commas and 2 missing periods; an extra space; a lower-case “o” that should’ve been an upper case “O”; a “the” that should’ve been an “a”; and many more. Thank you once again Victoria. You’re awesome!

- SIX more from Victoria. This lady is a grammar-ninja!

**********

The light on his cigarette stick died. He flicked it and the butt landed near my feet.

It’s about time.

The bloody thing was so short I thought the only reason he kept smoking was because it was his last stick.

He reached into his pocket and took out a fresh pack.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

“Do you smoke?” he asked as he handed me a stick.

“No. But thank you”

“Good. This thing will kill you”, he said as he lighted it.

“Do you know Melaka Raya?”, he asked

I nodded.

“Well, a few years ago, I was there playing snooker when I met the two guys,” he started. “They were very well dressed. One of them had on a lot of gold jewelry”

“Like a rapper?” I asked.

“No, like a businessman”

I don’t know many businessmen who wear a lot of gold jewelry; But then again, I don’t know many businessmen. So I just kept quiet and listened to the man.

“They invited me back to their hotel room”

This doesn’t sound good.

“After a few drinks, they told me about this amazing thing they had that can make money”, he said.

“Make money?”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly make money. It replicates it”

“Like a xerox machine”

“No. This was a Chemical,” he said. “They collected fifty bucks from me and put it in a bucket with the chemical and then added in some plain white paper. After a while, they took out the paper and behold, it was another fifty bucks. They told me they could make me a hundred grand easy if I brought them ten thousand the next day”

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!

“And you believed them?” I asked.

“I wanted a hundred grand”

Fair enough.

“So what happened?”

“The next day, I gathered the money,” he said. “The thing was, I didn’t even have that kind of money. I had to borrow from family and friends. My wife thought I had gone mad”

At least she had some sense.

“Thirteen thousand, I gave to them”

“I thought they asked for ten.” I said.

“If ten is good, thirteen must be better, right?”, he smiled. “At least that’s what I thought.”

“And then?”

I already knew how the story would end.

“They doubled it,” he said.

Wait what??!

“What?”

Apparently, I didn’t.

“They gave me a briefcase full of money. And an Adidas jacket,” he said. “But when I got back home, the entire briefcase was just paper. Full of it”, he looked slightly down and shook his head “Not even the kind that’s nice and white. Recycled”

I fucking knew it!

“I ran back to the hotel immediately. But of course, they had already checked out”

“Wow. Did you report to the police?” I asked.

“No. I was too embarrassed”

Poor bastard.

“Didn’t you check the money before you left the hotel?” I asked.

“Of course I did”

“And you’re sure there was money in the briefcase?”

“Yes I’m sure”

No you’re not.

“Then how the hell did a hundred thousand ringgits turn into recycled paper?”

“I’ll tell you how,” he said “Black magic”

Wow. Fucking unbelievable.

“So what did you do?”

“I burnt it. I burnt it all. Even the jacket,” he said “My wife was really mad”

I bet she was.

“But she forgave me,”

“Wow. She must have a really big heart”

“Yea, she’s pretty amazing,” he said. “You want to see her picture?”

“Sure why not?”

He took out his wallet from his back pocket and a few passport-size photographs fell on his lap. One found its way to the ground.

I bent down and picked it up for him.

“This,” he said, referring to the picture I’d just given him “is my father. He came to Malaysia from Singapore sometime before independence…”

By that time, I’d finished taking all the pictures I had in mind. Didn’t like anything I shot.

Part of me was angry at myself for going all the way over there and not getting any decent shots; another was pissed at Hassan for making we wait so damn long. The fool told me he will be there around 8PM. It was a few minutes to nine, and still, no sign of him.

It was in this state of anger and self-loathing that someone tapped me on the shoulder. Obviously I was startled, and even more so when I turned around and saw someone I’d never seen before. He was grinning or smiling — hard to tell. It was quite creepy.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not a stranger,” he said. And just when I though things couldn’t possibly get any more creepy, he added “Just think of me as an uncle”.

Those who know me think I’m a bit misanthropic. Those who really know me know it’s just severe social anxiety. So this random stranger talking to me was in every sense of the word, torture. Add that creepy smile into the mix, and everything becomes so much more scary.

I’m a bit paranoid too.

“So where are you from?” He asked. That’s a standard question. Everyone I’ve ever met over here has asked me that one — even Nigerians.

I told him.

“Nigeria — good in football”, he said and gave me the thumbs up.

Better football than 419 scams.

“So who do you think will win the world cup?”, he asked.

I don’t watch sports. Never really liked it. Used to watch football a while back so that I could have something to talk to the guys about, but the whole thing became too tedious and I gave up.

“I don’t know,” I told him. And I don’t really care.

“No, just pick a team” he urged.

Fine.

“Argentina,” I said.

“I think Brazil”

“Cool”, and there was silence.

“Look, we’re all black here — more or less,” he said. “So relax. Plus, Obama is president”

I smiled. That transition was amusing.

“Do you like Obama?” he asked.

“Sure”

“Do you think he’s a Muslim?”

“I don’t think so”

“But you know he lived in Indonesia”

“Does that really matter?”

“Are you Muslim?” he asked.

“Yes I am”

“So you don’t drink,” he asked.

“No I do not”

“But some Muslims do drink”

“A lot of Muslims do a lot of things that aren’t Islam”

“I don’t drink too,” he said.

“Cool. Are you muslim?”

“No I’m catholic”, and then he added “Actually I do drink, but only on occasion”

“That’s cool too,” I said.

“Like tomorrow, I know I’m going to get drunk”

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“My nephew is getting married”

“Nice”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

“No I do not”

“Why not?”

Beats me too.

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“Is it that you don’t like girls, or that girls don’t like you?”

It was the are-you-gay-or-just-a-loser type question.

Loser, unfortunately.

“Don’t worry, it’s probably because of your body,” he said with a smile “You’re tiny and slim. Girls like a man that looks like a man. Maybe you should think about hitting the gym”

“OK I’ll keep that in mind”

Silence, for a few seconds and then —

“Can you believe this is the first time in a long time that I’m talking to a negro?”, he said.

Really?

“Really?”

“Really,” he said “Last time, these two negros ran away with my money”

“No shit”

“Don’t worry I’m not judging you. You’re obviously a nice guy. There are bad people everywhere — Indians too, those two just happened to be Negros,” he said almost immediately.

Of course. And then I got a brilliant idea.

“What’s you name sir?”, I asked.

He told me. Asked me mine, probably just to be polite, and I told him.

“Can I take your picture, Mr.P?”, I asked.

“Sure, where do you want it?”

“Lets go over there,” and pointed to the area that had a little more light.

We did, and immediately, he posed for the shot.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “Just sit down right here and tell me Mr.P — How did those negroes get their hands on your money?”

“Well,” he started “It was many years ago…”

**********

PART II is now up.

THERE’S ALWAYS THAT ONE GUY

It is an isolated cabin out in the woods. You know the one — it’s in every single horror movie. The one with five college kids — always five. Some have seven, but never even.

I wonder why there’s always that one guy without without a girl.

Two are in the bedroom having sex, and the rest are outside sitting around a fire with an old man in rags. The Old Man tells them ghost stories that he swears by. He tells them not to touch the gold coins in the basement, or play the old tape recorder in the attic.

These things usually unleash unspeakable evil, The Old Man warns.

But of course one of the kids laughs and ridicules the old man. It’s always that one guy without a girl. And sure enough, five minutes later, he’s the first one to be brutally murdered.

“What is this you’re watching?”

The stupid little kid is startled — almost pissed his pants. His ten year old heart starts racing like darts.

It is past midnight and the little shit is in the living room watching an old movie on TV. Except for the light coming from the TV screen, the room is pitch black.

How long had she been standing there? Did she see the sex scenes? Please God no…

“Come on, turn off the TV,” the mother says as she switches on the lights. “I want to talk to you”

She goes into the kitchen to make tea.

“Hot chocolate?” The mother shouts from the kitchen.

Almost by reflex, the stupid shit hits the power button and runs into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”, the stupid shit thinks he can deceive the mother into thinking he switched off the TV when she said he should.

“I said, would you like some hot chocolate?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thank you”

“OK. Wait for me on the table”

That’s the dining table.

The kid sits there quietly, waiting.

“So, I read your e-mail today,” the mother says as she sits in the seat across the kid.

Stupid little shit couldn’t even talk to his mother face to face. He sent her an e-mail the day before. It had something to do with school, in a way.

He could’ve written her a letter, but he was afraid the father would find it. He knew the father would never understand.

But the mother, she would. She was very easy to talk to. Maybe not that easy, but she was very understanding — approachable.

Maybe it was her eyes. She had kind eyes.

“You think I had it better growing up?” asked the mother. It isn’t accusatory, and neither is it a question. It’s one of those things people say to help them transition into long monologues.

In the e-mail, the stupid kid hypothesize that he couldn’t interact with people because of where he was growing up.

It was a suburban neighborhood, with maybe 40 — 50 houses tops. He sees the same stupid people everyday. He never meets anyone new — unless someone unlucky moved into one of the houses in the neighborhood. And those new people are only new until they become stupid too.

The kid envied the mother. Growing up, her father was a High Court judge and the family traveled around quite a lot. The mother had lived in almost very major city in the country as a child.

The kid wants that. He believes the mother is cool because of all the places she’d been — people she’s met.

The little kid wants to be cool.

“It wasn’t that much fun really,” the mother explains. “We moved to a new city every two years or so. I left behind a lot of friends, some who I never saw again”

“But… But why can’t I be cool like you”, the little kid says.

“Don’t worry about that, it’s just a phase,” the  mother assures him. “You’ll grow out of it. Ten years from now, you won’t even remember that you used to have trouble talking to people.”

“And I’ll be cool?”

“Yes”

“Like you?”

“Yes like me”

Clearly, the mother wasn’t a time traveler. But she was a lot of other things the little kid wanted to be.

“So what should I do about Zainab now?”

The mother smiles, “Right, and about the girl,”

Oh yea, and there’s always that one girl…

*****

Chapter 3 next Friday.

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.