By David Amodu
He staggered in that night. He jarred the door ajar not minding who was behind. He belched continuously and the stench of liquor filled the air. His eyes rolled round the room, he looked terribly wrong that we at once knew that a fountain of liquor had been unleashed in his head and he wasn’t himself.
‘Where is my food?‘ he inquired. He had begun to bounce on his heels, although, he staggered endlessly. When he was leaving the house earlier that day, I asked him for some cash. He only gnarled at me saying ―don’t squeeze life out of me, shogbo! His baritone voice pierced through my ears, head, and the room. I jerked in fear as I recoiled into Mama’s arms. She sobbed bitterly. I tried to comfort her, but soon, I too broke down in tears.
‘He isn’t the loving husband I married. That certainly isn‘t the Aremu I loved!’ Mama wouldn‘t mince these words as they slid out her mouth. I often wondered if he had once been the caring father I see in movies. Daddy was what I called him. We only spoke on two occasions and in two languages: English and Yoruba. When he wanted me to wash his car, polish his shoes, or run other errands for him, he instructed in Yoruba. I played the other role. Whenever I wanted something from him, I would ask in English. If I spoke in Yoruba, he would give excessive meaning to whatever I say and conclude I was rude just to be truant.
English has always been the perfect language of request, and Yoruba, of instruction. That night he came in, I found it difficult to greet him ‘welcome’ in Yoruba. We had talked about “Responsible Parenthood” in our Social Studies class and I felt my world falling apart when Dozie, a boy in our neighbourhood, stood before the class and said ‘Akin‘s father drinks so much, he also beats his mum’. Before Uncle Ben, our teacher, could silence the class, the news was everywhere.
He flung the door open. Mama and I maintained our stances as he came in. We both feared him that we couldn‘t move; if we dared, we were dead.
‘Akin, come here!’ He instructed in English — an unusual language of instruction. That moment, I knew something was odd. Either something was going to be wrong or something had gone wrong. As I moved towards him, he blessed me with a slap. Mama tried to defend me from further slaps. He blocked Mama’s raised fist, and quickly pushed her on her chest. Her head hit the wall, and I saw my own mother fall lifelessly in a pool of blood. She was dead.
He made for me, and made his palm restrict me from shouting. ‘Sshhh!’ He ordered vehemently. He locked my back to his torso, and I couldn’t move an inch further. I felt his manhood right behind me and managed to hit him. ‘Yeeeh!’ He screamed, but not for long. His voice went into thin air while I made for the kitchen. He paced on and followed me. I held my back against the kitchen sink with one of my arms behind. ‘Come here!’ he instructed again, but this time I had to defend myself; Mama had gone. He came moving towards as fear overwhelmed me. He attempted to grab me, but I escaped his grasp. I plunged what I held, a knife, in his left side, just below his ribs. I recoiled in fear and trembled at the realisation of what I had just done. My own father fell with a great thud in his own cold blood. He never breathed again.
English Writers' Association - FUOYE 