A Little Too Spicy

TW: Physical abuse

Mama sat down, and placed the food tray she held on the table, knocking Papa’s glass of cheap wine over in the process. Mama muttered an apology, fetched a napkin from the door handle, and daubed furiously at the tablecloth before the stain settled in. Papa only grunted, bobbing his shiny bald head in displeasure, light from the florescent bulbs reflected on his head.

  I watched her daub at the wine-soaked tablecloth, wanting very much to help her – my legs were heavy. Too heavy to walk.

 We seldom ate in the dinning room – unless there was something “brutal” to discuss. The word qualified matters of pressing importance. The room was where we held "brutal" discussion on academics.

The dinning room was dingy and tiny – even now, it looked smaller than it originally was.

Two pillars spanned the room, a somewhat blue curtain hung from a iron rod nailed over the pillars. Familiar books were stacked on the wash-hand basin fitted into the room.

  Apart from the clinking of spoons against plates, the room was quiet. My sister stared at the bowl of soup in front of her. She wouldn’t eat, and wouldn’t look up. I didn’t drink my soup either, I let it slide from my spoon back into the bowl, ignoring the chunk of fish in it. 

 The air was thick - thick with aroma of steaming hot Pepper Soup¹, and tension. My brother didn’t feel the tension, perhaps he just didn’t care. He dipped slices of yam in salted palm oil², sucked at his fish, sipped soup from his bowl and chugged large quantities of pineapple juice.

 Papa cleared his throat, and clasped his hands together in the typical brooding lawyer fashion. Palms not touching – fingers meeting.

  “We need to talk,” he looked from my elder brother, to my younger sister, and then to me.

  “Brutally,” he added, earning a smile of approval from Mama.

  “Tim, “ he paused to spoon the content of his bowl into his mouth

“I have thought hard and long, and I have decided… You can’t be normal.” 

   Tim’s spoon stopped mid-way the journey to his mouth. His face didn’t give his thoughts away. His eyes were blank and void of emotion.. Lips pressed into a thin line.

  “ What child in his right senses will defy his father who has more experience in his field than he does? I’m a lawyer, Tim. It’s been thirty-eight years, that at least should mean something to you.”

 “I am normal.”

“You can’t be…” Papa started to say, but stopped as Tim kicked his chair and stood up. 

 Papa hated people walking out on him, it brought out the “man” in him. My heart tightened as Tim made for the door. God, no...

  Papa’s mouth hung open, his eyes widened in disbelief. He shifted his gaze to my mom, his protuberant eyes rimmed with red lines. Papa was angry.

“I’ll go fetch him,” Mama said. Her voice came out squeaky and small. She looked tired, and small. Her petite frame bent over with worry.

 “Please,” Papa muttered, voice laced with distaste.

She lingered for a short while, her eyes held uncertainty – her posture also.  

No sooner than later, Papa resumed eating. The veins in his forehead appeared and disappeared as he swallowed. He held the bowl up and drank from it, slurping.

“Esther,” 

 “Sir?” my younger sister looked up from her food. Her brown eyes glistened with unshed tears.

He sucked his teeth, and worked his jaw, this way, that way to get rid of the stubborn pieces of meat between his teeth.

“You had 180 out of 400 in your exam. That’s the lowest in the history of this family, and you know it.”

Esther nodded slowly. She looked like she was sick. Her whole body trembled as she sobbed into her hands. I wanted to reach out for her and wrap my hands around her.

“Now, that isn’t even the problem. You told your mom you want to study architecture.”

“I have always wanted to…” 

“Shut up! Always wanted to what? It is obvious you want to change from Medicine and Surgery to Architecture because of your score, no?”

“No, Papa. I…”

“Not a word from you! Stupid girl. I remember asking you if you have read enough, you had the guts to tell me you did.”

“I read. It was the examination board, almost 65% of the candidates failed, Papa.”

Papa chuckled. He swung his bottle of water to his mouth and downed the content in two big gulps.

“I don’t want to hear that from you. You didn’t read.”

“I read.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Esther,” Papa bellowed. His eyes were completely red. He didn’t look himself. 

I nudged her, and gestured her to keep quiet. She threw me a look that could kill, and shot right out of her chair.

“You weren’t even home, how would you know?”

Papa’s thin thread of patience wore out. He lunged at her and slapped her. The sound bounced off the walls, and ringed in my ears. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end. No one does.

Esther grabbed her plates and sauntered towards the kitchen. Her fingers wrapped into a fist. Either she was trying not to touch her face, or she was restraining herself from hitting him back.

“Sit back down and eat.”

“I don’t feel up to eating anymore.”

  Papa slammed his fist into her jaw. Hitting softness and bone. Esther’s plates dropped from her hands and clattered, splashing a little on her, and on Papa’s white trousers. 

“Mama!” I screamed. Where was Mama?

 Papa pulled his belt from his trousers. He didn’t even bother to hold it up.

 Everything seemed to happen slowly. Papa’s belt swooshed, rolled, and uncurled before landing on Esther.

 Esther spat blood. She lifted her chin in defiance, and a look of utter contempt seeped from her eyes.

“You are not my father,” she said, wincing a little.

Papa’s belt swooshed, rolled and uncurled before landing on Esther.

“Esther, Papa, please stop it,” I sobbed. Both of them wouldn’t look at me. Papa seemed to be daring her to say anything. Not with words, his eyes spoke volumes.

Papa’s belt swooshed, rolled and uncurled before landing on Esther. Not once, not twice, I lost count.

She bent over and coughed. The metal buckle had landed on her this time. She was spent.

"Useless man," I heard her say.

Papa didn't beat her, maybe he didn't hear her, or maybe he had finally put a leash on his anger.

Papa washed his hands in the wash-hand basin. He didn’t pick my books from it, he washed his hands on them. My books were soaked through and through with water, all of them.

 “Thank God I have Matilda," he muttered, as he wiped his hands on his trousers.

He looked at me and smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Study law for me, eh? I’ll fix you up in the ministry of Justice as soon as you graduate.”

I wanted to tell him English literature was what I wished to study, and not Law, but the words clung to the roof of my mouth. I nodded slowly - his will was mine.

Mama’s car hummed in the garage. She was back, a little too late to the party.