There I was, as usual, waiting. It was the last Friday of the month; time for my father to credit my account. I checked my phone religiously for an alert as if my life depended on it. Seconds went by like days. Minutes like weeks. Hours like years. I had not heard my phone’s ‘bop’ or a new email hanging from my notification. Still no alert.
What was happening? Could he have forgotten? I asked myself. “Oh hell no! He would do no such thing!” I exclaimed; as I thought out loud.
Femi called out, “Ahisu, aren’t you coming along?”
I could not bring myself to explain to my newfound friends my account predicament. So I hastily replied, ” I can’t come along, my parents are coming over this weekend.”
“Don’t be a buzzkill. Let’s go, have fun. He muttered.
You’d be back before your parents arrive.”He added
Deep in my heart, I really wanted to go. But I was not brought up to depend on other people to chill and have fun, and I was not about to start now. So, I stuck with my story… “no vex I no fit, my papa dey show tomorrow. Maybe next time”
…entering his jet black E-class Cabriolet, he poked its start button; the engine fired up. An elegant UHmmmm clouded my ears.
It was one of my longest walks back to the hostel. Oh, by the way, I am a post-graduate student, and yes my father still sends me money. As I thought to myself, how could be so cruel yet so kind? An idea was birthed.
It felt like a 100 watts bulb was turned on in my head, “Why don’t you begin to write? At least you could get paid like ‘aunty Linda’ the tiny but clear voice whispered.
I replied the voice, “what will I write? If I must write, I must read. And I can’t read to save my life.
The voice replied with confidence and clarity, “Write how you feel. We will work on the reading…”
Thus, The Atlantic Writes was born.