Missing Pipes, Nuts and Screws
by Adaora Ogunniyi
‘My toast is too dry; it’s scratching my lips, Daddy!’
Chuka swallows, clenches his teeth. Breathe. Breathe Chuka, breathe.
Two backpacks bursting with books and snack boxes sit on the kitchen island. Three more.
‘Daddy, I cannot find my shoes!’ Emeka calls from his bedroom.
‘Check under your bed!’
Stubbing his left big toe as he picks up coloured pencils and half-ripped drawing pads from the lounge, Chuka muffles a groan. He grabs three Oreos, three yoghurts and three smaller backpacks.
‘Daddy, I feel like throwing up,’ Ada says, puckering her lips for emphasis.
Did the smell of burning caramel get to her? Chuka asks her to stop eating, tells Oma to keep on eating: dry toast or not. With a tie wrap, he holds Kosi’s tangled hair in a crooked bun, casts a glance Obi’s way. But Obi doesn’t notice. He is meticulous with each decisive descent of molars on dry toast. Mrs Adun’s drills. But Chuka had sworn to obi; last week was the last time. He’ll never be late for another maths drill. Never.
‘Found it!’ Emeka comes hopping on one shoe-clad foot as he works the other. Crash! He knocks down a chair and grabs a toast which he must now eat in the car. On the commute, Chuka snatches six minutes to reclaim his breath. Nkem. My love. ‘We’re hiring a governess,’ he says, his voice a monotone.
Silence.
Once at school, the children disembark, hurling ‘bye daddy’ amid car door slams. The drive back home is less frenzied. As he pulls into his driveway, Chuka notices a missing pipe in the gate. When did this happen? One foot through the door and he wonders how long it’ll take to clear the chaos that’s his home. School mornings are the worst. Like pulling a tooth from an un-numbed gum.
One school morning arrived after another, until ‘Six months’ began to unclog the hole of Nkem’s passing.
Chuka had to fill it. Fast. He had to resume work and a governess had to commence hers.
For three weeks, under an eagle-eyed father, the new governess proved to be exemplary. All was well. Chuka dove under the quilt of long office hours and endless trips, sealing million-dollar deals.
But all wasn’t well.
Three months in, and Governess Agnes embraced the unfamiliar luxury of her new workplace. Alone times, when the children were off to school; assorted meals and drinks that derided depletion; sitting by the swimming pool and sinking feet in lush carpet grass while savouring the smell of wounded lawn and chlorin; and the luxury of pay packets—ever timely and bursting with Chuka’s gratitude. So warm and reckless was Agnes’ embrace that rules soon began to lose their nuts and screws: siestas not observed, vegetables trashed, nighttime teeth-brushing gone with the wind. And the internet? The children explored their unfettered access, floating about on the perilous cloud of webs.
A year later, while Agnes lay sprawled on the sofa after three glasses of Sandeman, the children, spurred by the hoarse and somewhat weird, whistling from her throat, scurried away. They’d be back from the newly opened amusement park before Agnes awoke. Uncle X from the web was sure.
Right before they reached the gate, Chuka came driving along. What a surprise. Daddy made it for Oma’s birthday! Veiled by the thick fog of that Tuesday afternoon, the white van waiting to whisk his children away melted, unseen, into the mist.
That night, Agnes’ mobile phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘You fucked up.’
‘It’s… it’s not my fault, he cut short his trip.’
‘So, we try again?’
‘Yes.’
Adaora Ogunniyi is from Lagos, Nigeria but currently pursuing my MA in Creative Writing at the University of Hull, United Kingdom.
