Coma

Mother probably didn't envisage this kind of life!

The story from this point is told by the protagonist, Keji. Every character in this story is introduced from her perspective and she analyses them according to her own views_(prejudiced or not).

Don't forget our protagonist is a teenage girl and the mind of a teenager is programmed to be conflicted, so, some of you just might think she's too brazen but she's just being a teenager.
Enjoy!

The continuous bang on the door jerks mother from her sleep. She gets up from the bed abruptly, tripping over Olivia and I cuddled up on the floor.

I feign sleep,knowing she'll be worried that I was still awake at this time of the night. I hear her mumble some words in annoyance, probably angry that we almost made her fall.

She covers us both with the blanket which now only covers me due to Olive's bad sleeping habit.

Olive didn't move an inch even when Mother placed her head properly on the pillow. Mother had always said Olive could sleep in the den of lions unperturbed. Truthfully, she wasn't joking

The bang came again, harder this time reminding Mother why she woke up in the first place. She rushes into the sitting room. I glanced at the wall clock at the extreme end of the room.

"1am?','would could that be?"

I hope it wasn't a thief or anything, The memory of thieves that attacked the Victor's family, a classmate of mine who lived just down the street came to my mind.

I instantly regret snickering at the story Victor told in class about the incident. The part where the thieves had flogged his father after the miser had claimed he was penniless seemed scripted, like a scene from one of those bad Yoruba comedy movies Father watches with his friends.

We didn't own anything of value except some of the electrical appliances in the house and father's little black box which for some reason he despises anyone touching.

It must be of value since he reverences it even more than his children.

Anyway, nothing in this house could do a thief any good.
I immediately knew it was father when I heard;

"open the door this good-for-nothing woman"

Father, he has not been home for two nights. After his fight with Mother on Sunday afternoon, he left to God knows where and he's back again _definitely drunk.

I wish Mother just stopped letting him in.

I shut my eyes as I hear the wooden door creak open. Mother had unhinged the lock

"you dare lock me out of my own house" I hear father yell.

I said a silent prayer that this does not become an issue and warrant the neighbors intervention_again.

The sound of slaps and curses radiated the apartment. Being a small apartment with thin walls, you could hear what the person in the other room was doing.

I hear Mother beg in between muffled tears
"I'm sorry I didn't know you'll come tonight "

"crazy woman!" Father bellows probably hitting her again.

I find it hard to believe that Mother was the same woman I saw in the photos lying deep in the cartoon under the old shelf in the bedroom.

The woman in the picture was happy, young, beautiful with a strong gait. Different from the woman in the sitting room beaten by an alcoholic man. The woman in the picture looked like she was posing for a magazine cover.

The picture was old, probably years before she got married.

I wondered if at that point, Mother envisaged this kind of life. She probably thought she'll be riding in limousines and attending fan meetings.

Mother had once unconsciously bragged of being a model in her college days. I didn't believe until I stumbled on that forgotten picture.

"Matthew, you'll wake the children" mother said in raspy voice.

"I don't care about those bastards" I hear a squeaky sound as father slump on the old and only settee in the room mumbling gibberish to himself.

I sigh in relief that no neighbor came to knock on the door complaining or Father pushing Mother out to sleep by the front door. It could have been worse.

All the while, Olivia was sleeping peacefully in my arms. She really could sleep in the den of lions.

I hear Mother's muffled cries mixing with father's heavy snoring before I drift off to sleep.

Thanks, for reading. This part is dedicated to my favorite& African best writer Wole Soyinka.