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Found

 

 

Memories

Memories

I turn the floppy disk in my hand and stare at the inscription; ‘Baby Shower 09:11:04’.

 

 

Wow. I set aside the box I picked it up from, sit behind my desk and hold up the diskette, staring at it as though I can see the contents. Superman’s X-Ray vision or something.

 

 

Yeah. The ghosts get bad around this time of the year.

 

 

Dust hovers in the air for some seconds as I send them from their abode with a puff of air. I’m sure I have the files on this disc backed up somewhere but I cherish things like this because of the memories they hold. Not the pictures.

 

 

This disk represents a moment in time. A snapshot of my life – of life; as it was at a particular time.

 

 

I wonder if the baby whose pictures are in here knows what a floppy disk is.

 

 

A smile adorns my mustached lips as I see her there; eyebrows wrinkled in concentration trying to answer the question I just placed before her young intellect. After some minutes of raking through files and files of memory data, she’ll look up at me with a disgruntled look and say accusingly; ‘daddy, you haven’t taught me that!’

 

 

A burst of laughter turns into a sob as I cover my mouth in horror. What am I doing?

 

 

It is the retort that came into my head in response to her response that has me crying.

 

 

“Daddy, you haven’t taught me that!”

 

 

I would have chuckled and said ‘What have I been teaching you then?”

 

 

What have I been teaching her indeed?

 

 

That love is a myth? Or that men usually don’t know what they want till it’s gone – and then they spend the rest of their lives chasing shadows because they let go of substance in a moment of weakness? That fear is more powerful than love – and that it makes no sense loving someone because no one is good enough to fight for?

 

 

I’m a thirty-something year senior executive in one company like that – yet I cannot stop the water faucet that suddenly opens behind my eyes. I imagine I look like one of those burst Water Corporation pipes, water leaking all over the place. I laugh at my own joke and the tears stop.

 

 

I wish my mother was still around. I see her look at me, shake her head and say ‘darling, what do you call someone who knows what’s best for everyone except himself?’

 

 

My voice echoes in the dark room as I audibly answer a question asked in my head. ‘A hypocrite?’

 

 

I hear my mum’s chuckle loud and right in my heart. ‘Lonely and confused.’

 

 

I remember Ibi telling me a while ago; “I can’t stay here and watch you kill yourself. You’re going to drag me along with you – and I…we have a child to care for.”

 

 

Now it’s done. Everything – she’s gone.

 

 

Or is she?

 

 

“Thank you for explaining, daddy. Mummy says you’re the smartest man she knows.”

 

 

That’s my daughter talking. We spend time – more time than ever these days, but I avoid her eyes every time I say goodbye. Because I know what waits in them. I know what she wants to see happen – and I’m not sure it’s the best thing for all concerned.

 

 

Have I learnt anything new? Am…I…learning?

 

 

“I don’t know what to do…” Steam dissipates in the cold air as I stare at the ceiling in frustration.

 

 

Mother lowers her glasses and looks at me with a smile. ‘Oh yes son, but you do.”

 

 

I shake my head as though that would make her go away. “But…but mum, I’m so scared.”

 

 

“But you’ll know. You’ll know – and then maybe you’ll finally have some peace.”

 

 

Peace. Where did that go?

 

 

I pick up my phone and though it is 1:17 on a Monday morning, I call my ex-wife.

 

 

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11 responses

  1. So touching.
    Is this a case where ART tells the artist’s story?

    December 16, 2013 at 8:00 am

    • How about we leave ART to answer?

      Hehehehe! Thanks !

      December 16, 2013 at 9:01 am

  2. That moment of clarity…when all of a sudden you discover what is important and you are willing to fight for it…

    Nice story…

    December 16, 2013 at 1:39 pm

  3. Beautiful . . .

    December 16, 2013 at 3:30 pm

  4. bshaba

    Sad. Very sad. I’m thinking this is true fiction, right?
    Great job as always

    December 16, 2013 at 4:27 pm

    • You got that right ma.

      Thank you. As always.

      December 16, 2013 at 5:00 pm

  5. Hmm. Pele, Senior Executive Man. 😦

    December 16, 2013 at 4:57 pm

  6. Nneka

    Your style of writing draws the reader close and places his/her head on the chest of the character so the reader can hear the character’s heartbeat. (Did I say that correctly?) You raise the bar higher each time, y’know. As usual.

    December 21, 2013 at 3:43 am

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