MY ENTRY FOR THE PEN ACTIVE SHORT STORY CONTEST 2023.

THEME: THE BURDEN OF FREEDOM

TITLE: THE ALBATROSS

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It was overdue.

I had seen it coming since the days I was tender in age and ran about the neighbourhood with friends in boxers. My father would beat me if I wasn't in the house before he came home. He had always complained about the Christian evangelists my mom made friends with, especially the one who had a Muslim husband that was newly converted, so the day my mother decided to finally attend one of the vigils she'd been invited for, I was not taken aback that he sent us packing.

What surprised me was she did not argue when he threw our things out or plead at his feet like she had always done— for that, I was grateful.

There was nothing more reefreshing than liberty. Gone were the days I woke up by four-thirty to get ready for school just to meet up with my dad's working hours— Although, I did miss the tranquil of the school environment by six-thirty in the morning, listening to the soft cries of pigeons that stood atop electric poles. I was grateful for the serenity offered to me on Saturday mornings— I didn't wash anybody's clothes, or rush to sweep the compound, or pick up the agbalumo fruits half eaten by birds.

Despite the goodbyes said to a semi-comfortable lifestyle, I was pleased with the situation. No one stopped me from visiting a friend's house because he wasn't of Muslim faith or talking to girls who did not wear a hijab. No one condemned me for not being able to recite my times' table or beat me up because the words in my books seemed to fly out making me unable to read.

Life did become unpleasant and difficult. My mother and I lived in one of the face me I face you apartments on the other side of town. She worked long hours for stipends and did a lot of overtime. There was no help from family members as they felt betrayed due to religious differences. Often, she was faced with taunts and insults about her grace to grass situation. People asked where the God she served was. Either she was immune to it or she silently cried, I still don't know. On the other hand, I wasn't a bit bothered until my teenage years when my friends decided to abandon me due to differences in class and my school teachers made me a scapegoat countless times because I couldn't read. That was when I began to feel the temporary absence of my mother.

There was no one for me to rest in their bosom as I cried, help me with homework, or tend to me when I was sick. My mother only made sure I was fed, my fees were paid and I had clothes to wear. She did give me rules— telling me to always be home before seven o'clock, urging me to read my books, abstaining from friends who would introduce me to bad vices, pray to God morning and night but she never had time to check if I abided by those given rules.

My mother began coughing up blood when I was sixteen years of age. At first, it was negligible amounts that I almost didn't notice but soon enough, it became more severe with regular bouts of fatigue that made her stay home often. She began to monitor my whereabouts, making me stay at home to read what I never understood. Morning prayers soon became a ritual as well as the mid-week church services.  Once, I had been at the keggites club serving and kissing the buttocks of the rich men who gulped down palm wine at an alarming rate. I needed the money to do "fine boy" because it made a huge difference if you were dumb and poor or dumb and rich. She had found out and beat me to a pulp that I began to wonder where she got the energy from.

"Did I not tell you to stay away from such places?" She stared at me incredulously.  "Ṣehindemi, so you have started drinking palmi?" Her voice was calm at first but when she mentioned the Yoruba name given to me by my father I knew rage was brewing inside of her because she always called me by the Christian name she gave me— Joel. 

"No," I hissed in irritation. "Plus there's nothing wrong with palm wine."

"Ṣe ọ ri e yìí ni?" She screamed in Yoruba. "You want to be hanging out around men who make dirty money? Don't you know they'll try to lure you into their business?" Her eyes held a fiery flame in them as she spoke and hit me continually. "Because I gave you freedom to go out you're abusing it abi?"

My life became like that of a prisoner when my mom built a kiosk with aluminium parts and wood by the roadside and filled it with provisions. The shop opened by 6:00 in the morning and closed by 11:30 in the night since it seemed easier on her health. She didn't have to commute long distances to work— spending more than half of her salary on transportation and I could help her out after school. Her business did thrive due to the hours she opened and even though we had a better life, I despised the dreadful repeat my life was on.

She became a shadow of my father whom I loathed more than anything or anyone. I couldn't stay out later than four thirty let alone spend nights out to earn petty change. I was forced to do the chores I abhorred— wash clothes and plates, clean the gutter at the front of the kiosk every Saturday and worst of all, she made me read a chapter of a book or a poem every day and write a summary. One of the poems she made me read several times was "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" which I don't think I ever understood the real meaning of or why she obsessed  with it.

On a Sunday morning when the sky was overcast by the sorrows of a storm and darkness loomed over the Earth's surface, my mother had been coughing more blood than she had ever done. She lay on the ground, almost motionless, save for the random arches of her back whenever she coughed and for a second, I was frozen in place— too scared to do anything. With weak knees, I ran out of the house, shouting for help but my voice was overshadowed by the consistent rumble of thunder overhead. Luckily, one of our neighbours; a man who owned a Keke Maruwa had come outside to put a bucket for collecting rainwater saw me and came to my mom's rescue.

He lifted her as gently as he could, and lay her down at the back of the autorickshaw before speeding off with me at the front beside him. It was at the hospital I first heard the word hemoptysis. According to the doctor, it was a result of untreated pneumonia. It was discovered that she had had it for about five months and if the treatment was delayed, it could result in severe complications.

My mother refused treatment, telling me that the medication was too expensive and my education was more important than that despite my trying to convince her that educating me formally was a waste of money. She also believed that if God wanted to, He could give her a miracle. She began spending every evening in church leaving me to tend to the kiosk. Eventually, she passed away.

I would say I was disconnected from her death.

It kills me to admit that I loved the freedom her death offered. Her absence gave me a sense of Deja Vu. It felt like a phase I had gone through before and I failed to realize that it was permanent. My dad didn't reach out to me but when other family members did, I declined their offer for help. I fed off my mom's kiosk till it became as empty as my soul but I remained unbothered. I resumed my visits to the keggites club every night, doing odd jobs here and there and eventually dropped out of my secondary school. Drinking and smoking became my second nature except when shop owners refused to serve me what I needed. I began feeding from hand to mouth and suddenly the independence that I craved felt like a burden. At some point, I wanted nothing more than the shackles of rules my mother bound me in.

I was eighteen years of age— an adult, yet treated like a child by society until Chief Owumbalili.

He was a man whose looks were a stark contrast to his peers. His eyes were round, bold and red with veins red that told of the spirits he drank in excess— yet he was as calm as a millpond. He didn't have the pot belly of a rich middle-aged man like his friends, rather he was tall and slender— towering over everyone he passed. His cheeks were hollow and his hands looked overworked by constant fistfights, his voice was sharp and deep like that of a drug lord but he seemed so mellow.

He approached me one night— his breath smelling strongly of ginger ale. "You're Alhaji's son." It wasn't a question; it was a statement that showed certainty. I had half expected him to grab me by the scruff of my collar like other drunk rich men had done, or shout at me to stop being sluggish.

"Alhaji?" I questioned.

"Alhaji Mommodu. The resemblance is striking."

"I see," I muttered.

"I like you. You're bold and know how to live your life the way you want. You're also a hustler. Not many will survive without the help of relatives."

I scratched the back of my head not knowing what to say.

"Your father behaved foolishly," he said, holding my wrist firmly and leading me to a table in a corner. "I heard you dropped out of school," he said as we sat down.

"It's a waste of money."

"But you seem smart and speak good English. Education would be good for you."

"I can't read," I confessed. "I find it hard so there's no point."

"Hmm." He rubbed his moustache. "You'd like to make money eh? Be successful?"

"Of course sir," I chuckled nervously.

"Work for me then," he offered.

You know how things change so suddenly that you're not even sure what brought you to where you are? Like now, the fleet of cars lined in my garage, the estates I've built and acquired with the help of Chief and Ghana must go bags of money in them. But just like I knew what brought my mother from grace to grass, I do know exactly what took me there and then brought me here to meet my demise.

The pain I'm feeling is excruciating and I'm almost blinded to see the blood that flows freely from the side of my stomach. Sirens wail in the distance and as I take this fleeting breath, I can only think of how different life would have been if I didn't have the liberty to choose the life I led. I can hear the echoes of my mother's voice clearly, warning me to stay away from the rich men at the keggites club.

She was right— like she had always been.

Once, I thought ceasing to exist will give me a new sense of freedom but as the world closes in on me, I begin to wonder; are we ever truly free or is everything scripted from the day we're born?

As I enter this blank space offered by death's frosty embrace, I begin to realize that there is always a chain attached to liberation that even death cannot break. Even if I'm free from all the hardships of being alive, I'm still shackled. The sovereignty offered by death is false— I can't choose the path I'll go anymore.

My neck feels unusually heavy and I look around. This space isn't blank anymore. An endless array of blue stretches out before me.  I think I'm in the clouds until I see red and in an instant, I recognize it.

An albatross with a wound to its side was tied to my neck, as I floated atop the ocean.

"Ah well a day! What evil looks!
Had I from old and young,
Instead of the cross,
An albatross around my neck was hung."

(FROM THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE)