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Courage in a time of doubt

Friday June 15 2018
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Hot, angry sweat is shooting into my armpits from the depths of my soul. I always get this feeling when my father is around. ILLUSTRATION | JOHN NYAGAH | NMG

By MONICAH MASIKONTE

I am not sure what scares me more; that I completed writing the story in one sitting without much of a struggle, or that I sent it to the highly publicised competition.

It is the first time I have submitted a short story to a competition. The more I think about it, the more I keep seeing possible errors that I may have made. I have to stop thinking about it. Maybe telling mother about it will calm me. I dial her number.

“How are you, son?” she answers.

“I’m fine. I finally submitted the story to the…” I tell her.

“I thought you had given up. I wish you all the best!”

“Will you tell him about it?”

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I lie down on the couch and think about my father’s reaction when he hears that I still write, even though I had promised him that I would stop.

Should I feel guilty for going against his orders, or should I be proud of doing something for myself? Some questions are better off unanswered, and I start working on a series that I have been postponing.

*************************

My hands are shaking as I pass the sugar to my father. I regret sitting directly across from him as I can feel his eyes on me. Father’s eyes seem to watch every move I make, and read the thoughts that cross my mind.

Mother senses the tension between father and son and clears her throat.

“What do you usually have for breakfast, son? You have barely touched your sweet potatoes and your cup is half full.”

I look at my plate like it has just been handed to me. I pick up the smallest piece of a sweet potato and shove it into my mouth. I am hoping that my shaky hands do not draw attention. My father’s eyes are still on me.

“He does not have the time to take care of himself,” Father says.

Hot, angry sweat is shooting into my armpits from the depths of my soul. I always get this feeling when my father is around.

“All his time is spent in front of a screen, typing things that we never see,” Father rants on. His statement reminds me of a story that I need to work on as soon as I get back to the city.

“Why is it so hard to please you?” I respond.

Both parents are caught unawares by my question and mother almost chokes on her tea. I am pleased and shocked at the same time. I wonder where the courage to ask him such a question has been all my life.

Mother tries to clear her throat and I can tell that she is looking for the right words.

“You have always been good and…” she starts.

“Let father answer me. The question is meant for him.”

I am not sure if I raised my voice or it is just in my head. I hope the scene does not turn ugly, as it has before.

Father pushes his cup away, towards mother. She does not start clearing the table as expected. She remains seated, perhaps waiting to intervene.

Father breaks the uncomfortable silence in the room.

“You will find out one day.”

He gets up and reaches for the door, then stops and announces that he will be late for dinner tonight. Mother nods and waves at him and before he shuts the door, I blurt out my feelings.

“I will go on with my plan, Mother. I do not need his permission.”

“Remember he is your father and what he says counts.”

I force the remaining tea in my cup down my throat. I do not touch the sweet potato again. I don’t think I will ever come to love those tubers. I find the sugar in them nauseating. Mother is still looking at me.

“I am not counting on what father says,” I say, and start clearing the table.

************************

The afternoon heat is uncomfortable. There is not much one can do outdoors so I choose to stay in the house and finish reading the novel I had started on earlier.

I need the distraction as all I can think of at the moment is how things will be in the evening when my parents return home.

I’m sure that father will hear nothing of what I have to say. I still do not understand why he won’t believe that I can make a living out of my writing. His voice is clear in my head. “You need to get a proper job!”

As I turn to the third page of the seventh chapter, my mobile phone rings and I look at the number.

“Hello. This is Story Kali Short Story Competition for upcoming writers. You are among the seven contestants who qualified for the scholarship. Congratulations.”

I let my breath out realising that I has been holding it for the past few seconds as I was reading the text message. Winning this scholarship is a dream come true. I sit on the floor and keep reading the text out loud to myself as confirmation that it is real.

Later that evening, Father pats me on the back after I show him the text. “All I needed was proof, son.”

Mother wipes the corners of her eyes and I know those are tears of joy.

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