To Kill Like Santa

07

Dad, in his usual frenzied state, barged into the kitchen, dropped his briefcase on the table and started tucking his white shirt in black trousers. An unknotted tie hung on his roofed collar and his shoes were unlaced.

"Hope it didn't burn." He said after he buckled his belt.

You had already packaged his fried plantain in a flask. You transferred the pack, which contained the food, a bottle water and apple, from the counter to the table. "Chrispy as you like it." You smiled.

"Water?"

You nodded.

"app..?"

"Dad, it is all in there: extra fork and towel."

He smiled, "How is the head?" He reached to knot his tie.

"It is fine."

"The pain should be down by now. Just go and lay down."

You turned and left immediately.

You could already feel the burden lift off your head, but not fully. You also made up your mind not to taste alcohol for a really long time.

Upstairs, you stared at Michael Jackson poster and waited until you heard the front door open and close. Until the car beeped and the engine roared to life and the bumper scratched the little slop linking the asphalt. Only then did you breathe. From the south window, you would see his car drive down the asphalt, but you moved to your little reading desk beside the bed and tore out a sheet of paper. You penned the things you would like to try. You had already drunk alcohol and swallowed medicine without water so you wrote:

Talk to John, tell him I love him.

Smoke

Go to a club

Makeup/ dress different

Climb a mountain

Attend a night vigil

Show people my poems

And many more

You studied the list for a while then changed different to fancy. Dress fancy. Your stomach twirled in a way to tell you were hungry; it gripped the sides. you changed into an Ankara gown and stormed downstairs to eat.

As you ate, you outlined, in order, the ones that could be accomplished that day. You picked a handful of fried plantains and filled your mouth and washed it down with milk. After eating, you washed the bowl, spoons, and frying pan, and hung them in their respective studs. You Looked around, satisfied everywhere was clean enough then ran upstairs to shower.

You played Michael Jackson's 'Bad' on speakers and moonwalked into the bathroom, making little dances as you removed your clothes.

Now, away from those peasants in school, you were not Shyron, Headmistress, or Olodo. You were free; you were you. You just stood still and the water cascaded down your head while you reminisced about the past, about Mum.

You hopped out. Your wet hair matted to your forehead. "You know I'm bad, I'm bad, you know it..." you sang along, creaming your body. But Nepa seized their light and the music died down. The silence became so thick you could touch it.

"Ohhhh...Fuc..." The light tripped on and the fan added effort to its whirling only for it to trip off again. You froze in one position not to jinx yourself. After few seconds, you were sure it wasn't coming back. But as your shoulders slopped defeatedly, the light came on again and the music came alive again.

When you went to Mum's room, you blocked out every detail and grabbed what you needed and ran out. You aligned the makeup you had retrieved from her room on the table. From eye pencil, to lip gloss, to foundation, to concealer, to eye shadow and different sizes of brushes. You sat before the pink vanity, acknowledging the pimples on your face. The biggest pimple swole directly above your right brow. You picked the eye pencil, sharpened it with razor and tried to trace your brow to an arc, but your first stroke made it clear that it wasn't easy. You needed help. You picked your phone and dialed Manda's number. She knew all about it. She was a pro.