It rings louder than the new bell at St. Paul's.
All seated in varying degrees of poses and proportions; the older ones sit on the sofas with a wisdom beyond their years, quietly commanding regard and tactful flattery, the younger ones do what is appropriate, spewing vile disdain cloaked in masterfully flowery speech, and picking the weak apart. Such is a favorite pa time of the women in my family.
The men are seated in the family room. Grandfather built it for occasions like this, and so, it is only open when there's a wedding, a birthday, or a funeral. There have been some funerals in the last year.
The men are wearing asoebi that cost as much as Carol's tuition at the public university for three years, but it matters not to them. What matters are the Hermés slippers, the Philippe Patek's, and the jewelry from some mutedly elegant shop in London, maybe Tiffany's? Few wear Nigerian, only uncle Jibola actually, his mother holds onto his trust fund like an esusu startup.
The women have wine and juices and some ridiculous smoothie-looking things to aid their skin flaying ceremony. The younger ones have snuck in vodka in a flask, and a bottle of Amaretto sits in the bathroom. Aunt Kathy wonders why Lisa and Carol keep going to the bathroom in turns.
The men drink whiskey and brandy. There's some beer, which Uncle Shina eyes in distaste, and wine and some juice for the younger men. Such a fun gathering.
The smell of cigars is heavy in the family room. Havana cigars to be exact. The men talk trade, investments, mergers and acquisitions, competitors, and bribes to be paid at the governor's office, and soon Soji's father is demanding appropriate conversation. It is not a board meeting, he says.
The conversation turns to women. The men talk about their wives, the boys listen and laugh in the right places at the right jokes, and text their girlfriends. David is near tears, he wishes to be with Austin, and avoid all of this family claptrap altogether. The mistresses are a taboo subject, no one wants to piss anyone off. However, everyone (except Obinna) knows that Obinna's girlfriend is his brother's mistress, and Tunde's wife-to-be was uncle Jerry's ride or die not too long ago. They say she was an expert in riding, not dying. No one is going to talk about how uncle David and Kenneth once shared a mistress because like Soji's father said, it is not a board meeting.
Aunt Mary wonders why the wives-to-be are seated with the women. They have not been paid for yet, and should not have been invited, to say the least. She mentions this to her closest ally, Kathy. Kathy shrugs her shoulder and excuses herself, heading for the bathroom. Two quick sniffs, an accompanying snort, a head shake and she is ready. She briefly wonders if Carol and Temi are still running their business together, and what sort of discussion it would make if she mentioned it, on the sly of course, at the next board meeting. She exits the bathroom, offering a fake smile to aunt Yejide at the mirrors, and silently estimates the degree of newness of her Versace bag as she washes and dries both hands.
You may wonder why all these people are gathered in such solemnity and soberness, of the heart of course. No one is paying attention to Luke and Jimoh, drunkenness is natural to them. And if Leah and Victoria seem to be staggering as everyone makes their way to the family cemetery behind the house, nobody comments. Many would rather pass out from drink than be stuck here.
Here is Grandfather's third death anniversary. Or remembrance, as Mummy Jibowu would say.
He had included it in his will. The same will that has joined us all together as one, big, happy family, irrevocably. Every year, on the 13th of March, we were to gather at the house, which is an understatement for the mausoleum he lived in, to share our memories of him and talk about his legacy.
It was a laughable concept, except that we couldn't laugh. We drank, smoked cigars, did other stuff, sized up each other and plotted thick conspiracies, did everything except talk about Grandfather and his supposed legacy, and at the end of it all, march to the spot where he was buried, hear the family's patriarch, Uncle Ladi, say a few words, and then we clamber into our cars and drive off.
The millennials would meet again at the offices, GenZ would support each other on the gram, and the patriarchs and baby bloomers would run into each other at the airport on their way to some Caribbean island with their definition of a midlife crisis hanging from their arms.
Wheeewww.
I am tired. I took a better part of an afternoon to write this one, at a point I was making dinner too and removing words in my mind.
Do you think this kind of family exists?
This photo belongs to Fotograf Jylland from Pexels.
No comments:
Post a Comment