Joseph Onuchukwu Chimezie is a writer and a storyteller. He is currently an undergraduate. You can follow him on instagram as @prolifiqmezie or on facebook as Onuchukwu Joseph Chimezie.
The two room apartment we managed to get was in one of the busy streets of Alaba where empty sachets of water and transparent nylons – both white and black – competed for spaces inside the ground like weeds fighting to outgrow roses, only that I was never able to tell which was the weed or rose.
Michael stopped greeting our father and for four months, he didn’t care until one rainy night in March. He came back that night looking worn out, drenched and his black eyes had sunk under the precipice of their brows.
She was still walking, almost running as if it was something we needed to see urgently. She pointed towards a section by the maid’s quarters and she motioned for me to go and check it. I turned the corner and before I peeped, I heard those familiar moans. No, it can’t be.
Two months passed, Mama and Papa were still at war. They didn’t talk or greet, they washed separately and ate separately. But, we ate with Mama because she always cooked inside our house while Papa ate outside.