Skip to main content

SUNSET AT NOON

Storried Sunset At Noon
By Akinsoto Rotimi
It was a re-occurring tragedy. She could still see and smell the odoriferous smoke forming dark clouds above and could still hear the dying cry of Kunle, her only son licking up in flames.
Who would have believed that Kunle could cry? No doubt, all stoics lose their pride when they burn. She recalled that the people’s eyebrows were not lifted in surprise and she wished she could go back in time. Unfortunately for her, the time machine was a myth. If only she knew before then that it takes a village to raise a child.
Whenever Kunle came home with a cut or a bruise, the question that matter to Joke was, “Who did this to you?!”
It was just the right platform he needed to falsify the whole story to his favor. No matter how flimsy the lies came, she would take it and it wasn’t because she didn’t know that they were lies, but because she felt if someone was to reprimand or spank her son for looking wrong, it has to be her and no other.
Kunle pride himself a stoic, but wasn’t particularly a good liar, he chokes each time he tell a lie. Joke was considered a Mammoth who didn’t need her husband to fight for her or for Kunle, and not now that he’d passed.
“Did I tell you I’m not capable of training my child?!” She would shriek at her accusers before putting her massive fists to work.
Mama Yemi received a barrage of Joke’s massive fists the day she chastised Kunle for speaking needlessly to a woman old enough to be his mother. Joke wasn’t patient enough to hear the other side of the story which is the truth and perhaps the only side to it— and not even after she left Mama Yemi in a crumple of mess. It was what Kunle told her that matter.
At 18, Kunle stopped schooling and became a ring leader of a notorious gang of robbers and no longer needed his mother to fight for him. He’s got “Boys” to do that for him. By the time Joke realized her mistakes, Kunle was already rotten beyond repair. She tried to chastise him now, at 18, as she should have done a long time ago, but all to no avail. Kunle’s wings had spread too wide to be trimmed and it is about time he flew. Gust on gust, the reports of Kunle’s notorious deeds flooded to the house and she wept day in day out more for her negligence in doing the needful at the right time and of her forbidding people to do the same on her behalf.
It was Mama Yemi that rushed to tell her that Kunle had been apprehended after a failed robbery attempt. Kunle’s circle of “loyalist” escaped, but he was so unlucky, he was caught as he tried to escape. He was beaten with clubs and various sizes of fists plunged into different part of his body and all these left indelible marks on his face, yet he didn’t shed tears nor beg for forgiveness, he was uncharacteristically still. His mother never taught him anything about emotions, and he didn’t know what it means to be emotional. Even after his body was ringed with just the right size of tire and after he was showered with a liquid substance, he never thought he was going to die, not until he heard someone say: where is the pack of matches!
By the time Joke arrived the scene, the smoke was already forming dark clouds

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

SALEWA

By Jonathan Oladeji I don’t know how many people have met Salewa before, even if it is not the Salewa I am talking about. What can you say is common about every Salewa? It’s usually their room mates that can testify better. I met Salewa in my 200 level and she told me her name was Sally. I stared at her for hours before managing to pick a seat behind her in the then AUD 2 on the Great Ife campus. Salewa is the typical tall, slim, dark and beautiful (TSDB) girl. I approached with all caution because I wanted to make a good impression. Even though I am not much of a fashionista, I could see her wrist bracelet, earrings and neck-piece were a complete set out of an A-Class boutique. Salewa was not the bend-down select kind of girl. I wanted to break out of that circle too by all means. We talked awkwardly at first, then kicked off with a bit of more fashion related gist as I noticed that was all she wanted to talk about. I actually wanted to talk about drawing boards and painting c...
Post a Comment
Read more

ÌGBÀ ÈWE (CHILDHOOD DAYS)

By Teslim Opemipo Let our mothers come like harmattan haze and swear by the sacrality of ògún if the roof lying above their fathers' house has never been stoned by a boy in love to walk them out for an evening talk. Let our fathers come like a windy rain and swear by the simplicity of òsun if the path that leads to the village stream has never danced to serenades sang by their soles in chase of maidens with braids so long. Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest and swear by the tranquility of the moon if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood fermented with the morals of moonlight tales. In our village, childhood is made of water; kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life and life is the laughter moulded on our lips when we gambol from rivers to trees and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses. Brethren, if you hear an elder saying: growing up kills laughter and joy, do not giggle for they once like us tasted the bliss o...
Post a Comment
Read more
A LETTER TO YOU To you who just wanna throw in the towel and probably end your life already, cause it feels like the weight of 4 planets lay comfortably on your shoulders and your happiness just lasts only as long as a good haircut. To you who has lost the spark to all you hold dear. The passion you once used to feel juggle in your belly just suddenly disappeared. To you who has this excruciating pain (in your body, soul. Every single where, it hurts bad)  that won't just go away. To you who doesn't know yourself. You don't even love yourself first first. You wear the mask every single time so that it's caused bruises on your face. Sores. Scars. You have eroded You. To you who feels getting from where you are to wanna be is a very long thing. To you who don't even know how and what to feel. To you fighting battles. Though ones, you can't deal no more. You have this ugly past that brings plenty voices in your head. You can't tell no one. . ....
Post a Comment
Read more