My father’s weathered rasp had dampened by roughly three octaves, and I knew I was due for another rum-soaked diatribe. Ten-odd bottles from the other night lay carelessly on the patio, an extra three from this evening. As usual, I was guilty of everything, not anything, and was about to be damned.
Life wasn’t the same down here in Port-Harcourt. I occasionally managed to get a letter or two across to my mom—bi-weekly, tri when I was up to it, but it was majorly counter-intuitive. My father’s ire was something best left fettered. The last time he got wind of one of my weekly missives, courtesy of my sister, he made me crumple it up and eat it, in lieu of any real meals for the day. That routine was infrequent but familiar. I cogitated every now n’ then, contemplating escape—through drugs, dreams, nightmares…Physical escape I’d stroked off from my list of workable options ‘cuz I hardly ever knew where to. I couldn’t go to my mom’s because, distance; geography scarcely ever worked to my advantage in this regard. I had no car, I had no income. Momma was a rolling stone, Daddy was stone-cold; at times there was friction, as it is with things of this nature and I’d grudgingly busy myself dodging sparks.
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