Walk Faster Than You Can Talk

2

And it was. Not as much as I'd have wanted, but it was alright. My mother called me every day and I gave her as many details as I chose, depending on my mood. The maids were not as submissive as I'd have had them, but they still did their duties. A few of my plans didn't work for various reasons: Hans lived quite far from Uncle Rich's and was not going to come all the way just to hang out with me when he had 'classes to do and a life to live', so there were no dbee girls. Also, after the first day at the gym, I decided I couldn't kill myself for Santasi girls' admiration. But there was still the pool and streaks. My camera quality was not the best, but I enjoyed it, even though it turned out most of them couldn't care less. The only three people who asked me any questions kept it exciting, and it was a different part of the huge house each day also, so they were curious enough to keep asking questions. I decided to answer Hans only, after streaking in the pool on the fourth day, telling him that this was my uncle's house and lying that I had been spending some vacations there and it was going to be a constant thing from now. I was reading his reply when my phone slipped from my palm and sank to the bottom of the pool.

I only saw Uncle Rich in the evenings, when the door handle would turn and his pot belly would poke through the doorway, followed by the rest of him, clad in a long-sleeved French-cuffed shirt, a fashionable necktie, a rich black, dark blue or dark brown jacket, matching shoes, trousers and a suede, Fedora hat of the same colour. A maid would promptly rush to his side, curtsying to welcome him and take his briefcase. At the very same time, my feet would automatically fall off his glass centre table and onto the carpet so I could rise and welcome him. He would smile, pat me on the shoulder and ask how my day was, and then ask me to join him in a few minutes for dinner. I would politely accept and go to get ready. This was how it was every day for five days, of course with a few variations. On the sixth day, he came in, giving me the phone to speak to my worried mother, who got even more worried because she wasn't going to be able to call him every day just to speak with me. After trying to convince her everything was fine, she decided she would call me every three days.

At dinner, the professional Richman Asante would be replaced with an ordinary exhausted, famished but still very busy man. He would apologise for his manners and send voice recordings to his workers or so, talking about being diligent on some projects or some work vehicle that needed checking or something else, but it was always about work. He would do this throughout dinner and even after I had left the table. Thus, since I got there, we had not had a conversation.

It was during dinner on day seven at the Asantes' home when the day's variation came about. Uncle Rich put his phone aside and apologised, again.

'I'm so sorry, it's been what, one week since you've been here? And we haven't even spoken much.'

I smiled, thanking the food in my mouth for being there. It was going to take some time to muster courage and speak English with this man because his sounded like a different version.

'So, how has it been, so far? Enjoying yourself?'

I chewed what I had just been about to swallow some more so I still wouldn't have to talk, and nodded, the smile still on my face.

'That's good to hear. If you have anything you need, just let me know, alright?'

An idea popped into my head. I shut it down at once. Then it came back up, dressed differently. I tossed it about for a while, then decided against it. It wasn't very appropriate, given we hadn't had a proper conversation. But then again, it could be a conversation starter, couldn't it?

'You look like you have something to say,' Uncle Rich's deep voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to him, noticing only then, exactly how much my mother looked like him. I paused a minute, then decided to just go ahead, consequences be damned. It wasn't like if he really killed people, he was going to kill me simply for asking this, right?

'I was just wondering if it was appropriate to ask how exactly you made it this far in life, sir...' I started, scratching my head.

He smiled. 'First of all, I'm your uncle, not your Maths teacher. Secondly, you don't have to be so formal. You could have just blurted it out the first time you stepped foot here and I would have answered you, anyway!' He laughed a deep, rich baritone laugh like he found me simply amusing. My laughter sounded like poverty against his own.

'Maybe I should start counselling you every evening, instead of wasting my time with those imbeciles who know what to do but simply won't do it until you order them to,' he said, a warm fatherly smile on his face, 'want to make it in life, boy?'

Of course I nodded.

'I'll show you how.'