Something About Karma- By Kemi Jinadu

"Dad, Dad, I don’t understand can you calm down,” Bose spoke into the telephone, as Ladi’s voice trailed off the phone. 

I could not think of anything that would make impassive Dad so susceptible, I cannot remember Dad ever showing any emotion, aside from Mum’s death; he maintained his composure during her funeral, did not show any sorrow until Mum’s coffin was lowered into the earth and the traditionalist epilogue echoed, people began to cry; and tears rolled down Dad’s cheek as he quickly wiped it off.

The thought of Funke maybe, sitting next to Dad made my tummy churned I felt that pain, recognised the inevitable feeling that comes up anytime thought about Dad takes over my reasoning; the emotion I had tried to suppress over the years.

Funke was once Dad’s notable mistress before she conned her way into Mum’s matrimonial home, we found out about their illicit affair the same year Mum was thrown out of her matrimonial home by Dad and his hungry relatives who denied her access to her children.

Dad complained about the most trivial thing Mum had done, she was shut down and scolded as soon as Mum made a move to contribute to debatable conversation.

Women married to politicians like Dad glowed before the society they appeared alongside their husband at every social gathering looking glamorous.  Once upon a time vivacious Mum began to look like a tattered domestic staff, Dad stopped taking her to gatherings two years before Mum’s exit.

In absence of Dad we sat on the couch after devouring fried ripe plantain with rice and chicken stew while watching TV; the NTA news was on, the atmosphere was noiseless as we listened, waiting to hear any news about Dad so we could pass it on as usual. 

It was Chief Akinwole daughter’s wedding ceremony, Dad became apparent on the TV screen but this time I dropped the remote control abruptly.  Mum put both hands on top of her head as she slipped from the couch down to the carpeted floor.

A beautiful tall slim butternut skin complexion lady held Dad’s hand; Funke’s dark greenish-almond eyes gleamed as the camera zoomed in on her, never seen a coloured person with green eyes.  Though bitter to admit Funke could be described as an epitome of beauty. 

All eyes seemed to focused on Funke amongst others at the wedding ceremony; I felt a hot liquid in my knickers’ this might be the beginning of something bitter, sour, drastically sharp but yet incredible, I knew it would never be the same the little voice in me spoke. 

The tabloids did not hesitate to plaster Funke and Dad’s faces on the cover of city people and other gossip magazines.

Our house in Lagos was renovated, wall paper stripped down, grass mowed, furniture, air-conditioned and gas cookers were removed and replaced with new ones.

Finally, Funke arrived with a cute little boy about one year old, here comes the queen of husband snatcher, I thought. 

Dad immediately called for a meeting at his large living room the following day.

“Bose! Dapo! This is your brother Kunle, I want you to love him, he is your blood too,” Dad said as he looked from me to my brother. 

We eventually met Dad’s most talked-about illegitimate son, honestly cute, but he remained illegitimate to me no matter what Dad says, this notion crept into the reasoning part of my anatomy.   

Kunle looked more like his Mum Funke, nothing like Dad.

“This lovely lady sitting here next to me is also your Mum, she is very nice, if you want anything ask her; she will willingly grant your wish,” Funke smiled, she blushed as Dad continued.  

The irksome cries of dogs cut in, “Kokumo is everything alright? Why are the dogs crying?” Dad called out to the gate man.  Kokumo rushed inside, told Dad he did not understand but promised to check on them.

The next day, the two dogs were found dead next to their cage, strangely the cause of death was unknown Dad suspected they must have eaten poison outside the compound when they were released to roam.

Within two weeks nothing was the same like it used to, myself and Dapo were banished from going to watch the big TV screen in Dad’s living room.

Gradually we stopped eating on the same dining table, we ate in the guest living room, the broken dining table we never used when Mum was around became our regular eating spot, and we were moved into the guest room, absolutely cut off from Dad. 

I seldom see Dad, sometimes heard his voice on his way out in the mornings.  The new arrangement in the house gave Dapo the opportunity to play football with our next door neighbour without anybody noticing his absence. 

I picked up a pacesetter, sometimes mills & boons, and then I escaped into the world of fantasy where the present did not exist, a place where I found comfort and solace.   A world where love existed and not ceased; at the end of the book it was always more than certain.

Funke called out my name “yes Aunty” I responded as I walked into the next flat.  
News on CNN about a massive bomb explosion by IRA at a parked Van in Bishopsgate, London caught my attention as I hesitated a bit before proceeding.

“Obi has dished out your food, the pink plastic plate is yours, and the blue is for Dapo” Funke said. 

Obi of all the domestic staffs knew that we ate in Chinaware and not plastic but I decided against complaining for now. “Oh Aunty, thanks.” 

The aroma from fried spicy peppered and onion garden egg stew filled my nostril, leaving a salivating effect.  Funke walked towards the living room just as she was about to step inside she twirled facing me.

“Bose, by the way you call me Mummy and not Aunty.”

Funke sounded like she speaks through her noise, she had a British accent, we heard she studied in Cambridge university; who cares!, there was something repulsive about her persona.

Dapo walked in “am so hungry, hello Aunty,” he said as he picked up a spoon from the cutlery stand.

“Can you use the cutlery in the guest room next time,” Funke said, I saw Obi the domestic-help discreetly clapped his hands and placed them on his hips from the kitchen entrance. 

Funke moved closer to Dapo and reiterated that he calls her Mummy.
“Who’re you? You’re not my mother!” Dapo retorted in anger as he dashed out of the kitchen leaving the yam and garden egg, I followed him.

At about five-thirty in the morning Dad barged into my bedroom and started whipping me with his belt he repeatedly said “you obey and listen, she’s your Mummy.”

To read part 2 please click here