Black Coffee

Black Coffee

it is descending outside however the sun continues to be high within the sky, golden and spherical. I will hear the kids downstairs singing-

"It is descending, the sun is shining. there's a boil on the turtle anus".

I am in my father's study. an area full of books, quiet and grave with data. There are innumerable paintings

paintings 

on the wall, a picket table at a corner, a fluorescent bulb lighting the space a bit. this can be not wherever I can, this can be not wherever I write, this can be wherever I cry.

But this can be wherever father writes, this can be wherever father had written for twenty years, this can be wherever he had been writing since mother left. this can be conjointly wherever he talks to himself loads. I generally listen at the door, my seven-year previous feet raised a bit. His words are forever incomprehensible. And whenever I looked through the hole, I see him smiling into the area. Father has innumerable literary works to his credit, innumerable awards that came with shiny prizes. Mother had once known as him "a made previous author United Nations agency talked to himself a lot" in an exceeding accomplishment of delicate irritation. however, I had ne'er understood why mother left. thus I used to be left with my father, his books, and his brown ceramic mug I served him low with each morning.

morning

Father did not care abundant regarding his wealth- his lands in Isolo, Ikeja, and Oshodi. His fleet of cars, his various accounts large with Nigerian monetary unit notes. Years once mother left, he had written additional typically, staying too long in his study and that I had disturbed he did not get enough rest nor food nor recent air.

But I had lived the affluent life, the cash-enabled life, smiling through education with ease, obtaining employment at a corporation, and occurring vacations at a can. And one evening, I had come and located father in his study, bent over his books, lifeless. His morning low currently cold and black and that I had identified I'd forever hate low. however, I hadn't noticed the tears avalanche my eyes, the slimed inflammation slip past my nostrils over my mouth. I had walked bent the veranda and looked into the streets, to the people that have for several years explored to the present mansion father had in-built admiration. I had cried at the veranda and let the planet see my tears.

It has been four years since father died however I still come from work and check his study. I still listen at the door to listen to his soliloquy and if everything is silent, I walk in, shut the door, sit at a corner, and cry.

So on this sunny-rainy afternoon, whereas the kids sing downstairs, I sit in an exceeding corner of the space, on the clean floor puzzling

puzzling

over father, regarding however strangers would imagine my life; it's natural for individuals to feel jealous of the made, to imagine the lifetime of the made, their choices- what they like and what they dislike. To feel unsure if they use the restroom or not. however, individuals ne'er imagine the made have emotions, that their emotions might be expressed through tears. That they may cry. That they are doing cry.

I begin to cry. The tears are hot and salty. I don't apprehend why I tasted it. I don't notice the rain has stopped. however I'm in my father's study and am bound of 1 thing- the planet can ne'er see my tears once more.