Everything Good Will Come Read Free Page B

succumb to happiness by midday, laughing and running
helter-skelter? I wanted to be holy; I just couldn’t remember.
    I was frying plantains in the kitchen with my mother that
evening, when oil popped from the frying pan and struck my
wrist.
    â€œWatch what you’re doing,” she said.
    â€œSorry,” Bisi said, peeping up from the pots she was
washing.
    Bisi often said sorry for no reason. I lifted the fried
plantains from the pan and smacked them down with my
spatula. Oil spitting, chopping knives. Onions. Kitchen work
was ugly. When I was older I would starve myself so I wouldn’t
have to cook. That was my main plan.
    A noise outside startled me. It was my father coming
through the back door.
    â€œI knock on my front door these days and no one will
answer,” he muttered.
    The door creaked open and snapped shut behind him.
Bisi rushed to take his briefcase and he shooed her away. I
smiled at my father. He was always miserable after work,
especially when he returned from court. He was skinny with
a voice that cracked and I pitied him whenever he
complained: “I’m working all day, to put clothes on your
back, food in your stomach, pay your school fees. All I ask is
for peace when I get home. Instead you give me wahala .
Daddy can I buy ice-cream. Daddy can I buy Enid Blyton.
Daddy my jeans are torn. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. You want me
dead?”
    He loosened his tie. “I see your mother is making you
understudy her again.”
    I took another plantain and sliced its belly open, hoping
for more of his sympathy. My mother shook a pot of stew on
the stove and lifted its lid to inspect the contents.
    â€œIt won’t harm her to be in here,” she said.
    I eased the plantain out and began to slice it into circles. My father opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of
beer. Again Bisi rushed to his aid, and this time he allowed
her to open the bottle.
    â€œYou should tell her young girls don’t do this anymore,” he said.
    â€œWho said?” my mother asked.
    â€œAnd if she asks where you learned such nonsense, tell
her from your father and he’s for the liberation of women.”
    He stood at attention and saluted. My father was not a
serious man, I thought.
    â€œAll women except your wife,” my mother said.
    Bisi handed him his glass of beer. I thought he hadn’t
heard because he began to drink. He lowered the glass. “I’ve
never asked you to be in here cooking for me.”
    â€œAh, well,” she said, wiping her hands with a dish cloth.
“But you never ask me not to either.”
    He nodded in agreement. “It is hard to compete with
your quest for martyrdom.”
    My mother made a show of inspecting the fried plantains.
She pointed to the pan and I emptied too many plantain
pieces into it. The oil hissed and fumes filled the air.
    Whenever my father spoke good English like that, I knew
he was angry. I didn’t understand what he meant most times.
This time, he placed his empty glass on the table and grabbed
his briefcase.
    â€œDon’t wait up for me.”
    My mother followed him. As they left the kitchen, I crept
to the door to spy on them. Bisi turned off the tap to hear
their conversation and I rounded on her with all the rage a
whisper could manage: “Stop listening to people’s private
conversations! You’re always listening to people’s private
conversations!”
    She snapped her fingers at me, and I snapped mine back
and edged toward the door hinge.
    My parent’s quarrels were becoming more senseless; not more frequent or more loud. One wrong word from my father
could bring on my mother’s rage. He was a wicked man. He
had always been a wicked man. She would shout Bible
passages at him. He would remain calm. At times like this, I
could pity my mother, if only for my father’s expression. It was
the same as the boys in school who lifted your skirt and ran.
They looked just as confused