My story My song

1. O. A. K.

I wake up to the sound of my alarm. It is unusually cold this morning, given the fact that we are in the middle of September.

      I am tempted to snooze my alarm and snuggle my bed covers for a little longer but I remember it is supposed to be my first day at a new school today. A blanket of fear and anxiety seem to hold me down to my bed at the thought.

     It wasn't always like this, especially in the days when my father was around. He was my rock, my friend, my everything. He died in a car accident two years ago. It really was an accident. I try to convince myself against taking that lonely dreadful guilt trip as tears sting my eyes at the memory.

"I've got today to deal with," I advice myself. My eyes stray to the alarm clock. 6:30.

I'm fully awake now. I hear sounds of activity downstairs.

The workers are usually up very early in the morning to make sure things are in order for the day. No one wants to incure the wrath of my mother.

Last time a cleaner woke up barely five minutes later than she should have, my mum fired her after barraging her with a thousand mean words. I could feel the shame and embarrassment washing over the poor lady in that instant!.

The workers know better than to plead with her when they get unfortunate. My mum has a temper that has only gotten worse over the years. She's so easily dissatisfied. She's hired three cleaners in the space of two months. The poor ladies work so hard and all they get are the perpetual  disapproving looks and comments.

When mum's not around, I overhear their discussions and they don't sound really happy. But the country's hard enough to make anyone put through with just anything, as long as it puts a meal on the table for them.

They call my mum "the iron lady". They say she's got a heart of steel. She wasn't always like this. There were happy times. Times when she didn't even need to employ workers because she wanted to play the good "homely wife" role well. I was so little then I wonder how I can even remember.

There's a faint tap on my door,  quiet but  discernible enough. I shuffle into my slippers and make my way to the door.

"Good morning master Obiajulu. Please is it convenient for me to arrange your room now?. I'm done with the rest of my chores with just yours left. And you could  leave your laundry in the basket sir, I'll take it downstairs to the laundry room," Ene, the cleaner greets as I open the door.

She hesitates a little before she adds,"That is if you're okay with it, sir".

I don't bother to correct her for calling me sir, she seems programmed to do it anyway.

"Aunty Ene, please like I've always told you, I can handle these things myself. I'm not a kid."

"Okay sir. Sorry sir. It's just...", she hesitates for a second, picks up her cleaning tools and hurries down the hallway.

I quickly fix my room and make sure my school bag has all that I'll be needing in school before I head into the bathroom.

After I'm done with preparing for school, I go downstairs to the dining area where I find my mum seated over a cup of tea with her face buried in a news paper.

"Good morning mum."

"Morning Obim.", she replies barely lifting her eyes up from her newspapers.

'Obim' is the shortened version of my first name; 'Obiajulu'. My parents called me that when they wanted me to feel special, which was all the time especially with dad. It means 'my heart' in Igbo language.
Mum calls me 'Obim' mostly out of habit these days.