My tears touched the paper before my ink did. Dabbing at the fluid only blotted the A4 paper and made thin the embedded fibres. I didn’t bother to reach for another paper. Littered around my desk were balls of scrunched-up notes. Some were still smooth – I hadn’t bothered squeezing them. It reminded me of a Disney musical I watched years ago, where the groom was unable to write his vows.
I didn’t have to write though. I could have called or left a voicemail for you. But I didn’t.
I had written the words repeatedly till the page filled and my wrists cramped. But maybe that’s all I needed to say: you knew
*****
You knew I hated when you and dad fought. It went on for hours after I did my chores and assignments. Dad worked long hours and you would wait for him in faded blue jeans. You stomped around the kitchen until dad came home looking tired and an old argument would flare up. You and dad fought everywhere: at home, at church, at my birthday party. The bigger the audience, the louder your voice. I made a chart for school functions; you attended alternate events and he attended the events you didn’t.
You knew I hated it even more when you and dad divorced. Dad moved far away and I saw him only on weekends. I couldn’t talk to him like I used to. I had to wait; not for him to be back from work, but for the digital clock on the settee to read 6:00 pm. If I waited too long, I had to wait till the next day. And the weekends I spent with dad, you stood by the door reminding him of the consequence of returning me late.
You knew I hated it when you looked at your wedding album because you cried yourself to sleep. When you weren’t crying, you were drinking. I made sure a bottle was always in the house because then, I won’t hear your sniffles when I passed your door. When I hid the album, you found it under my pillow, destroyed it, and still drank. When you first went to my PTA meeting drunk, you cried, apologized, and promised that things would return to normal. When you forgot to turn off the gas, nearly burning the house because you were hung over, you also apologized. And then you forgot to pick me up from school and didn’t apologise. You stopped apologizing.
You knew I didn’t like it when your friends came over. You called them your ‘support group.’ They were loud and I couldn’t study. They visited frequently and sometimes, some of them stayed the night. The men always stayed the night. Before going to school, I had to clean up after them else I didn’t get breakfast. “Taking care of the house is not a one-person job, “you said.
You knew I complained to dad about you. When he brought me home, he demanded to see you privately. He spoke furiously, pointing at your face while I watched through my half-opened door. Your eyes slimed, and your voice increased. His voice increased too until the neighbours complained. He stormed out and you fell on the couch and cried, and I threw a blanket over you. For a few days, your friends did not visit and suddenly they came back ‘en masse’.
You knew I hated coming home to the smell of stubbed cigarettes. The smell of nicotine itched my nostrils and the smoke made my eyes watery. You knew I held my breath to avoid smelling the alcohol covering you like a cologne.
I would rush to my room when your ‘support group’ visited, making sure to lock the door behind me. It was the only way I could sleep. Once, I forgot and woke up with a man sprawled on the floor. I dreamt about him for weeks. Sometimes I still do. But in my dreams, I am asleep as he hovers around me, drooling over my motionless form.
You knew dad was working on a custody case with a lawyer. The lawyer smiled so I knew it wouldn’t be long. But later dad said lawyers were on strike and the judge wasn’t on the seat. He said I had to be strong a little longer. I prayed for the strike to end, but it didn’t, it went on for months. The lawyer said he knew someone in Abuja that would expedite our hearing based on the sensitive nature of the case. I thought I would go mad. Dad promised that it was going to be OK. ‘We were going to get through this,’ he promised with a strained smile.
You knew I hated Andrew. Of all your friends, I hated him the most. He was the one who had slept sprawled on my room floor. It was he who always accidentally brushed my buttocks. He first brought home the white powder. The one I later knew to be cocaine. I saw you give it your first try. You were sceptical, but you did it anyway. And weeks later, I came home from school to find you unconscious on the floor with the powder on your nose. The powder made you happy and jumpy and then sleepy.
You knew Andrew always seemed to mistake my door for yours. I would hear him turning the knob before chuckling ‘oops’ and heading the other way. When I told dad, he punched Andrew repeatedly in the face. Your lawyer prevented dad from seeing me for six weeks, but Andrew didn’t mistake my room again.
You knew we took that picture on my 12th birthday: me and dad. We sat on the bleachers, eating ice cream, and laughing, even as our team was defeated. It was the second time my birthday coincided with a weekend. We smiled because it would be the ‘bestest’ weekend ever. We were going to spend the night at Auntie’s place. We didn’t have to worry that the sun was going down. It was dad’s weekend.
You knew the picture was the only thing I had of him. The only way I knew to keep his memories alive after he was hit by a drunk driver. I couldn’t sleep without the picture beneath my pillow. You knew Andrew seized it and hid it, allowing me to have a peek only when I did as he asked.
Sometimes, Andrew bought provisions. He didn’t “accidentally “graze my skin anymore, but his gaze became bolder. When I rushed to my room to avoid meeting him, he ‘forgot’ to buy food for weeks. And later, you murmured into my ear
“Your father is dead! No alimony, no child support. No money!”
You pulled back as I noticed your wrist, they were finger marks on them from where you had been clawing at yourself. I lifted my eyes to yours but you turned away mumbling something incoherent.
At dinner, Andrew sucked on the chicken leg too long with his eyes fixed on my chest.
You knew I hated going to your room. But you said the picture was by the lampstand.
Andrew’s shadow darkened the door as soon as I entered. I turned, suddenly realizing he was between me and the door.
“Looking for something? “He held the picture in between his fingers.
“Give it back!” I didn’t care that my voice shook. I could feel the cloud that hovered over our roof descend and close in. It became harder to exhale
Andrew smiled. “When did you become so rude? “He laughed as he rubbed his finger on his upper lip. “But my, my, you certainly have grown.”
I picked up the bed lamp behind me. It felt cold and solid. I swung it over my shoulder, but he was faster.
The ashen clouds constricted faster and became a ball lodged in my throat.
I felt the intrusion into my body like a battering ram. My upper body was bent over the table. His arm was like an iron across my back pressing me to the table.
My throat felt achy though you swore I never made a sound. Auntie’s car pulled into the driveway minutes later. She met the three of us in the parlour; me staring into the candelabra, you tracing the floor patterns, and Andrew picking his teeth behind you. I must have said something to you because you shook your head. I picked up the picture beside your feet and walked out.
You told Auntie I just had a case of flu. I never said differently.
****
My tears fell in torrents as I folded the letter into an envelope, hastily scribbling down the address before placing it in my mailbox.
Read – At the End of the Hallway – A Short Story by Masinde Neema, Kenya
——-
The Writers Space Africa(WSA) Magazine is published by a team of professionals and downloadable for free. If you would like to support our work, please buy us coffee – https://www.buymeacoffee.com/wsamagazine
