Skip to main content

Short Fiction: Are You Not a Girl?

Photo Credit: Victoria Rogotneva



Saturday mornings are for cleaning the house-everyone knows. But I found my sister Yemi at the backyard, reclining on Dad's old chair and reading a small book. The cover read, "We should All be Feminists".
"Whats your business? I'll clean later", she said. I shrugged and continued my homework- I came out  because of the cool morning breeze. It wasn't even 10 am yet, but the sun was already showing enough potential to be scorching later in the day. I sat in the shade of the big almond tree, solving mathematical problems. In little time, I was done. I looked up to find my sister still reading, her face scrunched up in concentration, her back turned to the house. I picked up my books.
"What are you reading about?"
"Feminism"
"Whats that?"
"Google", she curtly replied.
Puzzled, I went inside to drop my books. Then I went to Dad in the sitting room.
"Dad, can I borrow your phone?"
"What in the world for?"
"I want to check something online"
"Is there no computer in your room?"
"Er...." Last week I'd spilled coke on the CPU, and the computer had stopped booting. My siblings knew but none of us were willing to tell Dad, because we knew what that spelled for us. ".....okay sir", I completed.
I went back to my room, wondering where the big Dictionary was. Suddenly, there was a loud crash from the backyard. I rushed towards the sound, almost colliding with Dad in the passage. I stumbled after him into the sun and onto the concrete, to find Mum and Yemi tugging a stick between them. The big flowerpot containing only sand had toppled over and broken into pieces.
"I wil show you today that I am your mother", Mum kept saying,bending the stick this way and that, trying to pry it from Yemi's tight grasp.
"Yemi! will you stop that right now", Dad shouted, as he went to grab the stick from both parties. Bruno dashed into the yard, barking incessantly, our elder brother, Yinka holding on to his leash.
"Yomi, kilosele?", he asked
"Your sister did not want to clean the kitchen!" Mum quipped. "Imagine! Is this how she will be behaving in her husbands house? No matter how much book a woman knows, she will always be a woman and must learn how to work in the kitchen". By now, the neighbours were already peeping, curious.
"Yemi, is that true?", Yinka asked
"Why do I always have to be the one to clean the kitchen? Me, me all the time!" Yemi's eyes glittered with tears of frustration. "Why cant Yomi clean it?"
"Me?!", I was taken aback.
"Are you not a girl?", said Mum and Dad, simultaenously. Yemi looked at them with incredulity
"So?"
"I'm closing my eyes now", Dad said. "Before I open it, I don't want to see you still standing there o!".
Yemi, shoulders slumped, picked up her book and went into the kitchen. Mum dropped her stick.







If you liked this, please share! ;)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Introducing My Friend to Pomegranates

It was twenty-nine degrees Celsius  one night in the middle of August. My big fan,  the only reason why I’d been able to avoid buying an AC throughout that unbearably hot summer,   was blasting at its second-to-highest  setting.    I was sprawled  on my bed, watching Trevor Noah videos and ignoring my cramps, as well as my prior plans of going to bed at least a couple of hours before midnight that night. My friend, Grace knocked on the door. “Come in!” I answered. She opened the door slightly, holding a up a small pomegranate. ‘How do you eat this?’ We had gone grocery shopping together the previous weekend, and I'd spotted some pomegranates and picked up a few. ‘You have to try this!’, I'd excitedly told Grace, who had never had pomegranates before. I had only started eating them several months ago myself, and I had found them a more than suitable dietary companion in the cold winter months. I stood up and went to the door. ‘I’ll help you cut it.’ I took the fruit and we walke

Thank You for the Music: My ABBA Story

I must have been about eight years old the first time I heard ABBA. I remember the CD case cover, the black background of the graphic paper behind the plastic, the letters ABBA and Gold written in gold-ish color, so that one ‘B’ was turned the opposite way, resting its spine against the other B’s. I remember two small custom-made bedside wooden chests with single drawers in my parents' room, packed with CDs- ABBA, Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, Lucky Dube, Bob Marley, Westlife, Backstreet Boys and many others. There were movies too- Titanic, My Best Friend's Wedding, Prince of Egypt, The Lion King, Coming to America- some of the best of the eighties and nineties. Growing up, my father had music playing on a loop almost every evening, and certainly every weekend. Most of the tracks were classics, old school funk and RnB, lots of reggae. His room was, a sacred shrine of sorts to music- the lights would be off, but we heard the beats from anywhere in the house- boom ka, boom boom k

The Taste Of Cardamom Chai

Earlier in my adult life, I met a woman in her late thirties or early forties- I’ll call her Stella. I’d been looking for a cheap room for rent, being a post grad student on the tail end of my program, having recently moved out of a relatives home in search of a different living situation. I had found the listing online- the room looked pleasing enough; furnished, clean, well lit. Stella and I got along well on our first meeting. She seemed chill- too chill, like she really didn’t care if I took the place, but I could sense a slight hopefulness beneath it. She told me about the person who used to live there, how they kept on bringing kids over- kids who would just ignore Stella in the hallway. ‘How rude!’ I had exclaimed in agreement. Eventually I moved in. It was my first time living ‘on my own’ since I moved to the country, and although it was January and the temperatures were frigid, I was set afire with the excitement of independence. There were three rooms in the house- one belong