@Ozzyy 26 July 2020 more from that month

A Home or a House?

As he sat at the back seat of the bus, his heart sank till he could feel it in his belly. The sun set in a golden yellow sky, and the bus was lively witha variety of people, most of them being students. They casually reminisced on school experiences, but kept the discussion revolving around how they could not wait to get home. Back to 'mommy's cooking' and regular visits to the amusement parks. The driver and older passengers smiled, jokingly adding a few comments once in a while. They all knew the feeling, and understood the joy all students felt at going home. All students except Kelechi. He kept on thinking about his destination, detached from the conversation although he could hear every word of it. It hurt that he could not relate. They were all going to their *homes*, but he was going back to his *house.* They were going back to meet family, but he was going to meet 'family'. There was nothing that made his family worthy of possessing that revered name, so whenever he thought about his 'family', it was always in quotation. The journey was thankfully slow, yet he couldn't sleep. For eight hours, he thought about what he was going back to face. The months he spent at the Boarding School were divine; at least he could thank his parents for enrolling him there. For a while, he could forget about where he came from, and where he would soon be going back to. He could focus on enjoying times with his real family: his friends at school. He even had a girlfriend, or that's what he called her anyway. Everyone knew that High school flings were temporary, and Aisha often said it as well. But he liked her still, with her spotless skin, clean English and the way her northern intonation never allowed her to pronounce his name like it was supposed to. Now he had to leave all that and go home. The only freedom he would get was the freedom of taking off the facade, the mask he had worn in school, the disguise all his friends had come to know as Kelechi. The facade that he was like them. That he came from a loving, happy home with parents who cared. The only indication that things were not well was that they never came for his Visiting Day. He always said that they were abroad doing business, and everyone loved to share with him, so it was easily overlooked. He had reached the junction. So fast? "Oga where you dey go (where are you going)?" A driver in a rickety cab asked. He had no shirt on, and Kelechi couldn't tell which was more brown - his singlet or his kola-stained teeth. "War College. " He reluctantly answered. He would have preferred a vehicle which looked safer. This guy didn't care about his car or his hygiene, how much would he care about his passenger's life? "The one wey dey 3rd Avenue baa? Oya enter. Na four hundred naira (The one at third avenue right? You can board, the fare is 400 Naira.) He couldn't afford to bargain as he was sure his mother was angrily waiting at home. He boarded a cab to the house, preparing his mind for the long summer break that was going to be Hell in a Cell. As he reached the door, he took a deep breath and opened it. As usual, his mother was sitting down at the couch in the sitting room, a fierce look in her eyes. "Why are you coming back now?" He knew better than to answer her. That would mean he would be drawn into another heated argument with her, of which he had neither the patience nor strength. He continued to his room while she hissed repeatedly, shouting words of venom that the whole town could probably have heard. This was just the tip of the iceberg. He considered it a brief moment of sanity. At least until *he* came. The rumble of a car engine in their compind told him that *he* had arrived. Hell would let loose soon. Others were going home, a place where they had a family that cared, and a tranquil environment. He was going back to the house, a four-cornered cell made of brick and mortar that housed him, his mother and his father - the last two having a cat and dog relationship. It surprised him how they married, or how they had never divorced. They preferred to stay with each other, constantly at each other's necks. Except Kelechi was always on the receiving end. "And where are you coming from?" He heard his mom shout from the parlor. "Just look at the shameless man, lipstick all over your shirt. Male prostitute!" She continued. She should have saved that voice for public speech; she wouldn't need a microphone. It was no longer a secret to anyone in the neighborhood that his father was a chronic alcoholic and womanizer, or that his mother was a lazy, quarrelsome tailor who ran the neighborhood gossip mill. "Where is my food this woman?" He thundered, the slur in his voice telling Kelechi that he had been drinking. "Go and carry food from your concubine." His mother screamed back. "Like father, like son. Always coming late." "Oh Kelechi came back late? Of course it's just what he learned from a woman that cooks late! And where is he? Kelechi!!!" He thundered. All the chaos, and they never forgot to involve their child in it. The family that argues together... stays in disarray together? As he sighed in his heart, opening his door, he was plagued by the disturbing truth. This house was home. ********* Based on a true life experience of one of my friends - with extra details, words, thoughts and emotions ased on my interpretation of the scene. Even though names have been changed, I decided to avoid Western references and keep it in my indigenous culture - with names, locations and languages all Nigerian. I thought of posting this in the Short Stories Community, but I saw I was expressing my thoughts however subtly, and unlike just another story, this one was alive, and it needed to hear **your thoughts** as well.