Revolt

17. Through The Periscope

“Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.” – Edward Abbey.

•••

“I get it that Burj Khalifa is the tallest building in the entire world, and one of the most sophisticated locations but the Burj Al Arab, is so underrated. There is nothing that beats that oceanic view, trust me.”

Lekan wished he was someplace else, as Tiolu narrated tales of pleasure, that she had encountered on her honeymoon ordeal. It was the evening of Sunday, and twenty four hours since she had showed up unannounced at Anjola’s apartment, bringing an abrupt halt to their passionate, quixotic evening and now he was being made to join her and their parents—Kunle and Darasimi—for an exotic dinner, in a grand, welcoming act back to the country from her vacation.

He still didn’t know what the fuss was all about, and had contemplated requesting to be excused, but he couldn’t miss out on an opportunity to enjoy a homemade, scrumptious dinner prepared by his mom.

They were having Pounded Yam and Efo Riro for dinner, alongside a large assortment of a variety of meat, fishes and champagne. Although the company of his family, wasn’t something to kill for, it flooded him with nostalgia, as his mind journeyed back to the past—before Darasimi fell into coma—when they were one small, consolidated family but now he couldn’t help but feel alienated and out of place, in their midst. Everyone but him—on the table—seemed to have a deeper connection with one another, that transcended that of the surface. Also no one but Darasimi, cared that he wasn’t partaking in the conversation.

“You children of nowadays, don’t know how good you got it.” Darasimi who was seated across him on the table, said. The table’s seating capacity had been reduced to four, to accommodate fluid interaction. Tiolu and Kunle who sat across each other were on his left and right, respectively.

“During our time, your dad and I weren’t financially buoyant enough to go on a honeymoon. I mean, we were barely pulling by and managing the expenses of being independent, but when your dad’s company eventually hit, we spent about three months going from country to country.

“In the past, I used to say that I could never think of living overseas permanently, no matter how beautiful it is because Nigeria is still my country, and I still want to live with my people—and although I’m still here now, trust me when I returned to Nigeria then, I wanted nothing more than to go back. I eventually adjusted back though.” Darasimi finished.

“Yup for like a month straight, your mom kept on comparing certain things in Nigeria here to the way it was abroad and she easily got irritated.” Kunle, who was busy eating like everyone else on the table, was pouring himself a glass of Chamdor wine.

He and Darasimi, were sharing food on the same plate, as their seats were huddled together and didn’t have even space, in contrast to that of Lekan’s and Tiolu. “She was so put off by the way things were bad here, compared to other countries, that I feared she was going to wake up one day and say she was planning to go into politics, so as to rectify the state of things. And we all know how dangerous and dark, being a politician in every part of the world is, not to talk of Nigeria. And it doesn’t help that your mom is an incredibly optimistic person, that would put her all into her goal and assume everything would work out eventually, which isn’t usually the case most times.”

Tiolu chuckled, as she sliced through her mold of Pounded yam, with her knife and spooned it into her fork, which she eventually dipped into her soup. Lekan couldn’t help but scowl, as he watched and wondered why she was using utensils to eat instead of her bare hands. He was in fact tempted, to knock the fork and knife out of her hands in a precise angle, that would catapult her morsel of food right smack into her face. Now that would be an amusing sight.