Cyprian's POV
My eyes widened in disbelief, a flush of heat rushing to my face. The words fell from my father's mouth like a verdict—final and irreversible. I was being sent away to my aunt's house to serve as her helper. After everything that had happened just yesterday, this felt less like a request and more like punishment.
"Daddy, I'm not going anywhere, oh!" I blurted out, my voice rising in protest, full of a desperate kind of defiance. "I'm not a girl. What would I even be doing there? Can't she hire a maid if she needs one?"
"Will you shut that stinking mouth?" my father barked, his voice cutting through the small living room. "I'm talking and you're talking? I see you've grown wings, eh? I will clip those wings."
I stomped my foot against the cold tiles, a childish gesture I couldn't help. But I silenced myself, swallowing the rest of my anger. I wasn't brave enough—not with him. Not when I still remembered the harsh sting of his belt that he could easily whip out.
My mother's voice came next, gentler, confused. "Why does Felicia want him to come? He's the only one helping me out here. Can't her husband help her?"
My father whipped his head toward my mother, who was sitting on the sofa across from him on the right, while I was standing in the middle of the living room between the small television and the centre table—my eyes tracing the black dots on the tiles and the pen stains on the wall, drawn by my sister who would not stop scribbling no matter how many times she'd been scolded. But everyone pampered her, especially my father, so she just kept doing it.
"Her husband called me just now. Do you know she nearly lost the baby? Almost had a miscarriage from too much stress."
I heard my father say, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Jesus Christ of Nazareth!" my mother and I gasped in unison.
I suddenly felt hot inside, though it was cold in July here due to the rainy season. It had been cold all morning till now.
My hand flew to my chest as if it could calm the panic rising in me.
I didn't like Aunty Felicia—never had. Though she was my father's only sister, she treated my mother like dirt, especially when we were younger and more helpless. She would go to the pot of soup and take all the meat inside, and my dad would not scold her. She had even slapped my mother once while I was a baby—so my mother had said.
She couldn't get away with it now, but the memory left a bitter taste I couldn't forget. Still, I knew how long she'd been waiting for a child. Losing this one would be cruel. I guess I wasn't as heartless as I wanted to be yet.
"How is she now?" Mum asked softly.
"She's stable, for now. But they need help. Cyprian can cook, clean, do housework. He'll go."
"You're right," Mum replied after a pause, her voice trembling under the weight of duty and helplessness. "God will not let our enemies see us. They will not succeed. Ah! After seven years of waiting, she cannot lose this child, oh."
"Amen," my father said. First time they were agreeing on something.
And with that, I knew—my fate had been sealed. I was going to Port Harcourt. Whether I liked it or not.
The thought of traveling chilled me. Not because I didn't know the way. But because the roads had grown dangerous of late. The gang war between the Black Tiger Mafia and the Dragon Syndicate had turned entire towns into no-man's-lands. Boys disappeared. Girls were taken. Buses were ambushed.
Yet I had no say.
"Go and pack your bags," my father said, dismissing me like an afterthought. "You are leaving this morning."
My heart beat faster as I turned toward my room. I had only just gotten ready for my shift at the laundry shop when my dad returned—after being gone for days—to declare my exile. To think I had opened the door for him, and he had just pushed past me to tell me this.
My thoughts were jumbled as I folded my clothes in silence, mechanical and numb, like someone performing his own burial rites. The suitcase swallowed my belongings one by one: shirts I liked, a fraying notebook of poems, a small bottle of perfume I only wore on Sundays. Deodorant, my favorite slippers, and just the little things I had.
Martins, my little brother, clung to my waist like a second skin. Cara, my sister, wrapped her small arms around my neck and whispered, "Come back soon." When I was done packing, Cara was already crying, and it broke my heart. Having to see her big brother travel so suddenly must be so hard on her.
"I promise I will be back soon—and I'll bring toys," I said, forcing a smile. I didn't know if I meant it.
I hugged my mother tightly, resting my head on her shoulder, wishing I could melt into her warmth and hide there. I promised I'd be on my best behavior. Though we both knew that "good" had different meanings in different houses. And in Aunty Felicia's house, I'd be little more than a servant.
My father drove me to the motor park. He didn't say a word during the ride, and I didn't want him to. His presence was heavy enough—like the silence of a judge before passing sentence.
When we arrived, he stepped out, bought the bus ticket, and handed it to me without a glance.
"You better respect yourself over there," he said, his voice low and cruel. "Don't go chasing after girls just because you think turning eighteen makes you a man. If you get someone pregnant, I swear, you'll marry her with your own hands."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned back to the car and drove off. No goodbye. Not even a backward glance.