Nostalgia: Speed writing exercise
a short story
Happiness to me smells like rain from a nineties summer. A lot of people can’t stand rainy days. For me, they are the closest thing to time travel. The right amount of petrichor always takes me back to the day we first moved to our first real house as a family. It rained and rained as we pulled up to the tiny off-white bungalow, but I still snuck off to play outside while everyone tried to get settled inside. Back then it was just the four of us, my parents my brother and me. I was the baby of the house but looking back, I wasn’t coddled as much as one would expect I should have been. Mom, ever the epitome of hard work, always seemed to be going about some business or the other. I don’t suppose I minded too much; I was quite happy to be free to do as I pleased. I enjoyed dancing in the pouring rain.
If anyone had known what would happen, I’m sure things would have been different. But how could they?
Shortly after the move, I was in such high spirits that almost nothing could bring me down - even the news that I was changing schools to a closer one, when I was just starting to get used to the concept of school altogether. I was seven. Around that same time, my mother had also gotten her first official job as a civil servant, which meant our activities now had to be planned around her opening and closing hours. My dad was out of the question. For some reason, he had stopped actively participating in parenting us after I turned six or so. He traveled more often for work and only showed up now for serious disciplinary issues, financial crises or special occasions. I missed him, but I was generally fine with the arrangement. What can I say? I was an easy going child.
With my mother’s new job, we had to work out new domestic arrangements. My brother and I would attend the new school closer to us, and we would get a house help to handle our meals and picking us up from school, it was that simple. Or so it seemed at the time.
Sure enough, within a few days, Blessing arrived. She was from Calabar and a really good cook. I only wished she spoke better English and didn’t smell so much like onions all the time but I knew she would have to do. Blessing was from my mom’s friend’s village, and very hard working. Soon, she was bathing and prepping us for school, making up games with us on weekends and telling me bed time stories by candle light. I had never heard such stories before. I liked Blessing.
So the day I caught her making angry sounds with the neighbor’s house boy, Nathaniel in her bathroom one Saturday afternoon, I agreed not to say anything to my mom. You see, I was a very quiet and unusual child and I had learnt very early to be alone. My older brother was active and always had soccer practice or some sport to attend so I learnt to enjoy playing alone or reading books that were complex for even the kids twice my age. I hear that in the classroom I would crawl under a table and stay there until the teacher noticed. I simply didn’t care much for the company of others. Until Blessing.
Blessing and I were fast friends and my mother was pleased that I at least liked someone enough to follow her instructions. The day after the incident with Nate, we went to church as usual and then dropped my brother off at band practice on the way back. When we got home, mom announced she had some business to take care of. It was becoming normal to see less of her on weekends too, because her new job hardly gave her time to handle her business during the week. It was fine, I told her, Blessing made much better Sunday rice anyway.
The July day was perfect, exactly the type that poets write about. The sun was hanging just right in the sky, giving everything in sight a warm, picturesque glow, like finding your favorite camera setting. Even the breeze was in character, brushing against everything ever so lightly as if playing a string instrument. It was above the gentle whirring of the breeze that I thought I heard voices coming from the direction of my parent’s room. I was shocked as I knew I was alone in the house with Blessing.
I remember my stomach churning expectantly for the Sunday rice that was to come but I noticed the smell of spicy stew from the kitchen was curiously absent. I must have sensed something was wrong. I don’t know why I didn’t call out for Blessing immediately like I should have. I can’t help feeling like things would have gone very differently if I had. Instead, I did the worst possible thing; I followed the voices I’d heard
Bla bla Might continue this whenever.
P.S This fictional short story is part of my speed writing exercise where I try to write stories or articles really quick. This took about 30–40mins.
