Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

17- Aches

Saheed:

Do I have to get up today? I ask silently, a sigh escaping my lips.

"I did not raise a sloth. You must attend that meeting this morning, on my behalf."

Ah, early morning meeting. We have attended countless of them together or alone, but I am usually given a heads up because I either call for them, or I get memos. But today's own is different.

"Baba, if I had been informed beforehand as usual-"

"You are at the helm of affairs, and you must always be available for emergencies."

I rise from the bed, wondering how intimidated poor Claudia must have felt, having to explain to her boss, that her other boss was fast asleep and wouldn't like to be disturbed. I imagine how her hand must have shaken slightly while she activated a keycard and handed it to Baba. Had he glared at her like he is glaring at me now, jaw set, eyes steely as they commanded his will?

"Why aren't you attending this meeting?" I query, facing him and crossing my arms. Damn it all, I've just been woken up from the sweetest part of my sleep at six a.m and I may just as well behave badly from the lack of sleep. Also, Baba had turned on all the lights upon his entry, and my eyes are still adjusting to the uncomfortable brightness. He deserves the attitude.

Baba raises his brow, a small gesture identical to mine. "When I die, won't it be you attending all the important meetings?"

"Do you plan on dying soon?" I push.

His eyes narrow menacingly. For the first time, I observe his clothes for today. His suit is crisp, navy blue over dark socks and shoes. I notice that his tie is unknotted, just dangling from his neck. This minute detail is odd, because I have never seen him incompletely dressed for work. I observe his eyes. They have bags underneath them and they appear red. In fact, his face looks rather pale.

"Are you alright, Baba?' I ask slowly.

My father does not stay out late drinking, hates partying- only attends for business dealings, and can never be caught looking stressed. He hides his pain well. But today, I am unsettled by his appearance.

"Does it look like I am not alright?" he counters, in a tone that is supposed to tell me that my question was not only unnecessary, but stupid. "You are wasting time."

I grit my teeth. "Take it easy on the stress," I tell him before turning on my heel and walking towards my bathroom, away from my father, the man who always finds something to put between us.

When I emerge, I see him standing close to my easel in front of the huge windows, his head cocked to the side as he observes the drawing on the canvas. I stand and watch him for a few moments, marveling at how I could have descended from this man- I may be a physical replica of him, but sometimes I wonder if I will grow to be as hard as he is. The hardness has rubbed off on me, but I have passion to back it up. What if I evolve, just like he has? And what if I have to square my shoulders against the world, until they become stiff and my eyes cold? My presence alerts him, and he says, without turning, "You've taken up your drawing again."

"I have."

While I select an outfit from my wardrobe, Baba remains silent, still standing there, hands in his pockets.

"Who is she?"

The question is asked in a voice so low, I almost miss it.

"Olaedo."

"An Igbo woman."

"An Igbo woman," I echo.

He remains silent for a few more minutes as I dress myself, taking care not to rush. I do not want to neglect the details. Like my father, I am not to be caught 'unfresh', as they say.