FAIR OR NOT; MY STORY

FAIR OR NOT; MY STORY(Adeosun Olamide) They say and speak lots and lots about Him, They
praise Him, honor Him, adore Him as foliage honors
the wind, we make requests of Him.
They say His tale is unlike fairy tales, they call Him the
good old odd genius one that wields a rod that
removes fun from the face of a mad man and on a lad He puts it to jest at Him.
He heeds to the voice of His own as a mother
hearkens to the cry of her newborn. Above all they
say He is fair yet he creates the boy with no limbs, no
sight and he causes him to be born to a poor widow, a
homeless poor widow and unto a wealthy house he gives a healthy child.
I am aware of his affair with the Israelites as written
in His history, His chronicle. His firmness of care for
them one I wouldn’t see if I compare Israel to other
nations.
He created despair and fear for them that refuse to accord Him and Flared at those who accorded Him. He
repaired them with no pair, scaring other nations
with spear, tearing them unaware yet they say He is
fair. I have never wished to define Him but I know
you failed to tell about Him accurately.
My name is Dennis and I have a story to tell, my story. Fourteen years ago, a one hundred and sixty eight
months ago, I was told I was born, on this day that
day my father died, minutes before I was born. He
was buried, close to my room.
I heard he was brave to his purpose, I heard he was
a fierce hunter who loved meat like he hated animals; I was told he was a good husband. They say he was
loved by everyone except his brother, his envious,
jealous brother.
Isioma is his name, but only few knew him as Isioma,
everyone called him the tiger, a fierce tiger not
because he is as cruel as a cat but because the cat is not as cruel as him.
He would never confess his hatred for my father to
anyone but me, he didn’t love me as he hated me,
and he coddled and cuddled me into slumbering in
the absence of my mother, the absence of her
warmth mostly caused by his doings. I see his heart as golden as the heart of stone as I am aware of how
his duty to me, his onus for me thwarted and
frustrated him.
I didn’t have to mask my hatred from him, it was well
concealed on my face and even a blind man would
see it. Customs, traditions, norms, and patterns they call it
for a brother to inherit everything his dead brother
owns, his wife, and kids weren’t exempted. He
inherited my mother and me.
I have learnt he loved women for pleasure during
leisure as he loved my mother but she had desired my father over him. Ladies sought after my father,
they desired to be his inamorata but he preferred my
mother as his paramour. Series of proposals turned
down upon by my mother’s parent, my dad had
emerged as her husband after a tasking test he
succeeded at. He brought the tusk home to our kingdom and he was ordered to speak of his desires,
he had picked a beautiful young lady as his prior, my
mother, they say they celebrated, jubilated and were
delighted until the day I was born, my birth, the day
he passed on and away. Everyone cried even me, the
whole world mourned him probably Jesus didn’t he was happy to receive Him, they said the clouds didn’t
stop crying as it poured it grief upon all, the sun took
a break and the sad moon was and has never been
as dull as it was.
I grew up in this sea of troubles I find difficult to
understand, with the waves as high as Everest and the difficulty as severe as counting scattered stars in
the sky.
My mother made it seem safe and sound feeling my
needs.
I use to sneak out of the house to the rugged rock
where all the village rugged rascal use to run round, close to the rock was a dull, cheerless sullen garden
with few fruit trees, it was like unlike desert air as we
the rugged rascal never let it bloom not to mention
wasting it. We lavished scanty vigor to it and every
Sunday evening there is always a new fruit found on
it. Sunday morning use to feel real good, not because of
sneaking out later in the day but because of the
winds that blows the soul and mind in the
parsonage.
We attended the Anglican Church not very far from
the stream and the graveyard the church they say is as old as the Bible and my forefathers were forced,
compelled to build it rumors had it that those that
told and taught about Christ had the bible in one
hands and arms in the other, those that built it were
buried beneath it we had to cross the stream to get to
the church, so we swim every Sunday morning probably it contributed to the chill I feel only in the
church, the church was beautified by flowers
blooming colorfully, and remain of withered leafs of
trees beautified it the more, we could see the grave
yard through the window, the broken wooden
windows. It is as it was an abode of selfish friendly people
filling all it quarters, paying full attention and
concentration to the motivating preacher man; he
was in his thirty s and he looked so calm from
outside but within you won’t have to guess much,
with my New Testament bible though not new made tattered by an invisible rat, I listen to the falsely true
sermon with so much passion, even the tree trembles
during sermon, with so much obsession, he would
scream, you could see the zeal in his eyes, such zeal I
haven’t seen again after his passing. He was killed by
a lustful, thirsty, hunger filled snake after a vigil with the choristers’ mistress in his room, making the bed
his altar.
He would say husband love your life as Christ love
the church that He gave His life for it, and then he
would say again wife be subject unto your husband
as unto the lord for the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church. Most Sundays
his wife comes late into the church with bruises all
over her and a black eye, she will sit so calmly with a
black scarf over her; the black scarf wasn’t enough to
cover her hurt which was far glaring than the scarf,
what a bitter sweet love she enjoyed from the cruel kindness of the preacher man.
People and their regret, I also have one, my failure to
fear fright itself, it is the only thing I have failed to fear
and it brought up the darkest secret in me fuelling
dark desires that aroused in me. It defined my goal
as long as I breathe and that goal was to stop there breathe, to puff life out of them.
I won’t tell you about my dad’s brother, about his pot
tummy and his love for beer and women, I won’t tell
you his favorite quote is that the evil that men do
lives after them, I won’t tell you.
What is not impossible is that he could change, my mother would later bear him kids, and they will
become my half siblings, he is about to change but I
mustn’t let him, he must not remember that the egg is
the father of the cock and now I must prove it
without hurting my mother or her children,
apparently it is absurd but it is true, I have gotten liberty in the stead of death and even the most
foolish man knows what to do of and with liberty.
I will comb history to uncover the truth, a truth so
needed than the unaccountable fact.
Hey I will kill you like I killed your father, without a
second thought I tried to speak but my voice was still as death. As I awoke from my death to the world I
realized it was a nightmare, a frightening terrifying
dream.
There she was beside me, I caught glimpse of tears
on her dry cheeks, I haven’t observe lately until now
how slender she had become, she was lean as compared to her considerable old former self.
She tied a loose lounging garment to her waist which
covered half the organs on her chest; she then untied
the already slacking garment harnessing it unto her
face to wipe the droplet of tears on it, with a still calm
voice she said your father came to me tonight, in a dream, you beginning to look so much like him, his
big flat nose and dry hair is all over you, he said he
will be back, he said he will be back for you, he said it
is going to be a tough journey for me as she spoke
tears kept running down her cheeks, he assured that
the journey wouldn’t be agonizing as straining. I dragged myself off the bed and into her eyes I
looked, I had never seen her in that manner, I knew
at that moment that I haven’t been a good son, a
caring child, I did not notice the cut on her thumb
and the bruises on her arms, as I held her, she said
that isn’t what hurt me, I am wounded, hurt by you. Fear gripped me and in a second the words came to
me, the words I heard in my dream, it echoed in my
ears, I am going to kill you like I killed your father,
could it be the man my mum saw in her dreams?
Could it be the man coming to take me? Could it be
my father? With thoughts crossed in my mind quickly covered by the guilt I felt for not been there for her.
As she continued her husband Isioma beckoned
unto her, she scampered like a stream with no course
out of the room. I just sat there wet, very wet and in
no sudden I awoke, it had all being a dream all the
way. I felt the resonance from the backyard brought me back to life, I could hear his voice ambiguously
woman wont your son wake up today? He asked,
the sun is almost out and the farm need be cleared. I
knew what I may be in for that day, alone on the
farm, the biggest farm in the whole of the village, my
mum like always replied he is tired and exhausted from last night, I had told him to wash your clothes
and his siblings, he is right to feel sleepy she
continued, that was a good lie from mother and it
worked a bit getting my thought given to the
unusual dream.
I was beginning to ask questions, to make demands, the dream had drawn perspective I found very
difficult to define. In a while it crossed my mind no
one ever told me what killed my father, no one ever
told me anything as regard his death, probably he
was murdered, slain but I have got this feeling from
within he didn’t die in cold blood but hot blood. I could hear the creak of the door, I knew he was
coming here to do as usual what he does in times like
this, he use to come as a bull with no horn, and a bull
with no horn can’t be taken or controlled, the best I
could be was a spear. There is a container almost
everywhere in the house littered all over to receive the leakages our leaky roof provided when it rains.
The upper covering of my room is unlike the others,
you wouldn’t pray for the sun to shine nor pray for
rain. As I heard his feet clamoring towards my room,
I didn’t have to decide to play a stunt on him, a little
trick the devil taught me. I had taken one of the containers and filled it with urine, I was about
championing the last step when he stepped in, he
spoke like I have never heard, there was a round
leather object in his hand, I looked into his eyes, the
wickedness, evilness I use to see wasn’t there, I
could see goodness and kindness in it, for a moment I didn’t say a word or accept the leather round object
he had stretched to me. I knew for certainty that I did
not deserve any reward, I stood to my feet and
accepted it, in his eyes was guilt, remorse, why he felt
that way I did not know, I simply couldn’t appreciate
him as I knew lot and lot of things is wrong right from my dream and I wondered if the wrong things
were the right things.
He could see it burdens me, his intention to help, a
sudden change in his attitude. I could see my mum,
the tears on her cheeks were that of joy, I didn’t
wonder what she was thrilled about and in a sudden I heard my name. Dennis she called your father is
back, she said see your father, see him. I knew it was
another dream or probably my mother had gone
mad with her husband or madness is in me. I was
going crazy, there he was with my half kid sister in
his arms, tears flowing down his cheeks in a calm voice, a still tough calm voice he said sorry my boy
that I have gone away from you, that I have gone
too far away I lost my way in the forest the day you
were born, I had gone to search for herbs for your
mother when I was bitten by a snake, I was picked
up by some travelers, they were unlike us, they were light skinned, very light skinned, they took me away
to save me and I had to work all this years to find my
way back.
I had not seen him, probably he made a difference
from his brother, and he wore a coat I had seen
before, a coat owned by the preacher man. I have been a victim of hatred, a very selfish hatred,
my heart broken and rather than it getting repaired
the broken pieces keeps breaking.
As he leaped towards me I asked my mother about
the fellow lain in the grave close to my room, she was
baffled and confused and it befuddled me, she tried hard to remember but it became more hard as she
tried, after a long try she stated she didn’t know, she
said I didn’t see the corpse of your father as he was
buried the day after your birth, I was sick, I was
really sick.
As the man who my mother claimed as my father came towards me to give me a hug, to cuddle me as a
father coddles his daughter. Tears were flowing
down my cheeks like a running tap already, in a
sudden we heard a hysteric laughter that soon
turned into crying, our attentions shifted to where
the sound emanate from, then a boom, a gunshot was what we heard next.
My mother ran in faster than a cheetah, we followed
and to my greatest bewilderment, the man that had
taken hold of me since I was born was on the
ground, I could see a hole in his head. Everyone
wept but she wept and wept, I wept still baffled by the semblance between the man my mother called
my father and the man on the ground.
No one ever told me my father was a twin, he picked
my mother up, wiped her face but she wouldn’t stop
crying, I felt my mother had loved him especially in
his passing. In a rush, my mother screamed, she was aggrieved,
angry and she shouted unto the sky, unto God. She
asked why He let this happen to her, she was
uncontrollable and violent towards God, no one
could stop her not even the man she called my father,
I knew at that moment God has forgotten her, God has forgotten what she did for Him, how she spoke
about Him, how she said lots and lots about His
mercy, His kindness.
I love my mother, my father did but she was lost, she
was ever lost till this day and age even and no one
could find her.