ADVENTURE OF SALVIN SAWYERR

THE SLAP

Calm down, don't react to the picture yet. I'll tell you all about it. Note, this is not humour, don't think I'm trying to crack a joke — I made sure I ommited every sarcasm.
It was just three years ago while Dad and I were in a tough argument about writers. As British, he'd always supported Williams Shakespeare. And of course, I loved Shakespeare. The only problem is that, in my gene, there is always this force to oppose every notion whether right or wrong (this was the last day I ever did this). Just read this to the end.
"I shan't stoop to comply that Achebe shall ever in a million years beat the legacy of Shakespeare," said he.
I laughed a somewhat cackle laughter — for mockery sake — before saying, "Dad, d'you not know that Achebe himself has already erected a legacy for himself?"
Dad arched an eyebrow then adjusted his glasses on the bridge. "And how is that, son?"
"You'll agree that despite the fact that Achebe is African, every existing continent has either read his book — ‘Things Fall Apart’ — or heard of it—"
"Listen to yourself, Salvin, the whole world has only heard about the mentioned book; we're talking about knowing him and appreciating his legacy."
"Oh, please!" I retorted. "Remember that while Shakespeare is a man of success, Achebe is of value. It brings to mind the saying of Albert Einstein, and I quote, ‘Try not to become a man of success but rather to become a man of value.’"
When I thought I was killing Dad's point, I heard him say, "Achebe — the coward behind the paper. He was so afraid even to speak his heart directly. So he told stories in an inoffensive mannerism—"
"Huhn?" I cut in.
"Use your head son, do not be blinded by the main objective of his narration. He was against the British taking over African's culture and traditions—"
"But both of his parents were Christians, him inclusive."
Dad sighed as though I were a child asking who taught the birds to sing.
"So, what d'you suppose is the main message of his narratives?" he asked me.
I didn't know the angle he was tugging at, but I wanted to be discreet, less he pulls me off guard. So I spread my palm under my delicate chin, and adjusted my pair of binoculars.
"I'd say, in ‘Things Fall Apart’, he was only trying to draw a picture of how Africa was civilised off their superstition, tradition and culture, though not replaced, only modernised. And how the foolish died.—"
"Naw!" he exclaimed, throwing both hands in the air. "That's where you're getting it all wrong."
I smiled, gathering points in my head for his next points — it was kinda predictable.
"He was writing the same thing his contemporaries wrote about — Soyinka, Mandela, et cetara — though he was more a cowardice than expected. It reminds me of a popular saying of Shakespeare, "A coward dies a thousand death... a soldier dies but once."
It sounded so stupid to my ears that I threw my hands up and said to myself, "That's stupid!". Now listen, I thought it was in my mind I said it, only then did I recognise the words under my voice spill out from my lips. I, immediately, was about to rephrase when my dad's five fingers — palm inclusive — landed on my face. It landed as though the transformer in our neighborhood had exploded. My brain radiated, vibrated, call it what!
Now this was how it felt: three hundred and twenty-nine cells dislocated, causing a brain-disparpling effect, such that a quick neurosis evolved me. I felt a cold snake run down my spine, and I could feel cell division running in my body — though, unusually fast — causing me to age. One who'd just walked in would think I was hit by a train, but brother believe me, it was just a slap. I forgot I was still in Africa.🤦🏼
It was just last year I recovered from this. Now, you can comment your "awwn," and move on. Thanks for reading.🛌🧘🤺🦹🕵️