I brought the blue straw to my lips and the cold liquid of my favourite FiveAlive juice trickled down my throat. The sweet orange taste made me hmm in satisfaction. It was so refreshing; I couldn't stop drinking until I emptied the glass.
Satisfied, I kept the empty glass on the wooden drawer beside the bed and collapsed into the bed, my back caressing the soft and neatly dressed foam. I pulled the sheet up to my chin; they were cold and smelled of cheap detergent.
Morning sunlight crawled in through the open window and so did fresh morning breeze to brush over my face and other parts of me uncovered. I stretched my arms out, closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet air of freedom, that of a new atmosphere. In the quiet of the room, I could hear birds chirping outside the window, car horns, street hawkers announcing their products and loud music from music vendors.
The house was old but it was new to me. All of these were new to me, new town, new house, and new guardians. I looked around the room and it felt odd calling it my room for it was still new and too big to belong to just me. It was the size of our parlour back home, with white walls and old paintings hung all over the walls.
The strangest of them all was a large painting of a half-naked black woman breastfeeding a white child. The white baby appeared to be sucking vigorously at the black hard nipple of the black woman who seemed not to enjoy it. At the left edge of the picture, "For Philomena" was written in faint letters with a pen. Something about the picture kept bringing my eyes to it; plus I couldn't understand the concept behind the painting. Why would a nude black woman breastfeed a white baby?
The part of me that hated change revolted but I quickly reminded him that this was a dream come true. I have always wanted to visit Lagos – the big city, a land of opportunities, where dreams come true, and where bridges are built not just over water but overland. Where buildings touch the sky and lights litter the streets turning even the darkest night to morning.
I wanted to see and experience all these for myself, look for a good job, probably find a wife, get married and begin my life. Promising myself to make the most out of this opportunity I heard my name from downstairs.
"Alex!"
"Ma!" I responded almost immediately.
"Breakfast is ready oh!" Aunt Uka shouted in a voice that mimicked that of my late father. She is the younger and only sister of my father; his carbon copy with full breasts and a huge ass. This woman I have seen only a handful of times was now my guardian and care provider.
After the sudden death of my father from a brief sickness, she sent a message to my mother requesting me to come over. My mother rejected her offer, saying she is a wicked person and none of her children would go near her. About a year after, when things became unbearable for us, she had no other option than to let me go.
"Did you hear me?" she screamed.
"Yes, Ma!" I boomeranged.
Got on my feet and began my venture downstairs to meet them in the dining room. This would be the first time of setting my eyes on her husband and my cousin. To be truthful, I was nervous and unsure of how I would be received. Will it be joyous or filled it with hate? Would they think of me as a village boy who just came to the city? Would my little cousin who is about seven years of age be smarter than me simply because she was attending a better school? How would I impress Uncle Philip her husband?"
"Nna!" she bawled out.
"Allow the young man to breathe in some fresh air!" her husband scolded her in a deep vibrating voice.
"How does calling him to come and eat translate to disturbance?" she replied to him, an element of anger evident in her voice.
"Ma! I'm coming!" I blurted, interrupting whatever was about to erupt between them. I recalled my mother said they are not happily married like her and my father. As I came down the stairs, I wondered why two people who clearly are no longer in love continue to live together?
At the dining table, I took the empty chair opposite Nono their daughter who greeted me shyly in our dialect. I nodded a response to her. Then turned to my right to her father and greeted with a slight bow
"Good morning Sir"
The man took a deep breath and shrugged his lips into a smile as he held out his hand to me.
"Good morning"
I took his hand with both hands, one supporting the other as a sign of respect. Shortly after, my hand was lost in his, receiving a bone-crushing squeeze.
Lines of strain formed on his face and his jaws were set in steady determination. Deep in his goatee, the razor-sharp line of his lips, drawn downward, gave him a stern, don't-mess-with-me expression that didn't bode well.
"How are you?" he asked.
The pain between my fingers forced me to stare up at his face. A canny smile of satisfaction slowly cut across his lips.
"Fine" I muttered, the anguish not allowing the words to proceed easily.
"Good" he nodded. "You are a strong man" he let go of me and the smile disappeared quickly from his face like lightning. Under the table, I gripped my arm with the opposite hand to massage it as I turned to greet my aunt.
"Good morning Ma"
"What were you doing upstairs that you refused to answer me?" she asked ignoring my greeting.
"I was unpacking and arranging my things" I answered trying to hide the pain in my voice.
Uncle Philip's head buried in a newspaper that was dated January 10, 2010, asked in a deep bass "How was your journey yesterday?" the table vibrating with every word.
"It was great sir," I said at first expecting some kind of feedback but none came so I continued. "I couldn't sleep; there were so many exciting things to look at"
Slowly, he turned to my direction with a question in his eyes
"Things like what?"
"Hmm," I thought for a second. "The River Niger, its steel bridge. The long flyovers, the beautiful street lights, the tall building by the river…"
"The street lights?" He questioned in surprise interrupting me.
"Yes, there are none in where he is coming from" his wife replied, a pretty smile warmed up her face.
"Oh! That's true." he nodded.
