Honey and Spice(69)
“Malakai, you study film? And you didn’t tell me? I have to find out from your mother that you dropped out of your economics course at one of the top universities in the country, months after the fact—”
“Dad. This is also a top university. Or does it not count because it’s not the same university your friends’ children go to? It’s the top for what I want to do. Which, yes, is film.” Malakai’s voice was now almost jaunty in its affability, but it was askew, a distorted funfair ditty in a horror movie.
“Olalekan, I am in Nigeria building for this family, building for my legacy, being a man for this family! You, too, should learn to be a man. Life isn’t easy. You think it was easy for me after my father died and I—”
I heard Malakai chuckle humorlessly. “Here we go.”
“Yes, here we go. I had to step up and hustle to help my mother provide for my siblings. At seventeen. You make sacrifices in order to be responsible. I like cameras too. Do you think I wouldn’t rather have been gallivanting with my friends, taking pictures, having fun? This is a hobby. You can do a proper, solid degree while doing that on the side. Pictures don’t pay bills. Making films will not pay bills.”
“It could for me. I’m good. I work hard. Isn’t that enough?” Malakai’s voice was low. It sounded younger and there was a vulnerability under the frustration, the hurt in trying to prove he wasn’t in pain. It sliced through me. I should have left. I’d gone past “accidentally stumbling in on his argument” to eavesdropping a few minutes back, but I found myself frozen to the spot, holding the bag of drinks tight to my chest as if Malakai would feel the comfort via transubstantiation.
“And you could work just as hard in economics. I tried to understand when you took time off when . . . what happened, happened.”
“‘When what happened, happened’? Is that how we’re describing it now? Dad, just say it. When you—”
“Malakai, I am still your father. I admit, I have made mistakes. And yes, you went through . . . something. But we all go through things. When your grandfather, Olalekan Korede, the person you were named after, the hardest-working man I knew, when he died, I found working more useful than sitting around getting depressed. You didn’t even lose someone! Nevertheless, I tried to understand.
“Abi, your generation is different? So, I let you take those few months off for whatever was going on in your head. The plan was that you would make up what you missed in the summer. But you were taking your father for a fool, abi? Olalekan, this is nonsense. Your mother said you needed time to heal. What kind of healing? Healing, kini? What happened was between me and your mother. Is it the healing that made you go mad? Because this is a mad decision, I am telling you now, son. You are being irresponsible. What kind of example are you setting for your brother?”
“What kind of example have you been setting? You come in here, talking about mistakes like you’re not this destructive hurricane.” Now the pain had risen to the surface, mingled with the anger, and it broke through into Kai’s voice, through the air.
“Watch your tongue, boy.”
“This is the first time you’re seeing me in four months. Four months, Dad. It only took you so long to find out what I was doing because you barely remembered you have a family here. You remembered that you were supposed to be playacting apologetic. Even before I only ever saw you when I went to Lagos and you were barely home then.”
His father cleared his throat. “Rubbish. I introduced you to my friends.”
“You’re introducing who you want me to be to them. You used to say, ‘This is my son Malakai, studying economics at Norchester. Did you know Norchester is one of the top universities for economics? Only reason he didn’t choose LSE is because of his girlfriend, Ama. Beautiful girl, daughter of Ekenna—my business partner. Yes, yes, we are building a legacy, o!’ You would invite me to dinner, but then it would end up being a dinner between myself and six of your friends, and you’d ignore me until you told me I needed to make an effort in Lagos. That it was my home, and so, at the weekend, I’d go off on my own exploring with some creatives I’ve connected with, and when I got back you’d yell at me, because ‘that is not what you should be doing, son! What will my friends think if they find out my son is gallivanting like an area boy?’” Malakai released a brisk, hollow chuckle. “Dad, what were you doing gallivanting like an area boy?”
“Olalekan!” I felt the glass bottles in my grip tremble a little at the thunder in his voice.
“Ah. ? ma binu, sir.” Malakai’s apology was a jaunty taunt. “Sir, who are you building for? Ehn? Daddy, tani? Who? Is it Muyiwa who barely knows you? Or Mum? The woman who I heard cry herself to sleep over you? It definitely ain’t me. Sending money is not enough, Dad. I am grateful, I am, and I am blessed, I know, and you work hard, I know, but it is not enough. Before I came to uni, I was Muyiwa’s dad. I was teaching him all the things you should have taught us.” Malakai’s voice was hoarse and I heard a loud thump as if he was slapping his chest. “Me! And I don’t even know if I’m doing it right. How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it right?” Malakai’s voice cracked and it reverberated through my chest. I realized my eyes were watering.
“You say I don’t understand what it’s like to lose a father. It doesn’t feel that way.”