She ignored her father’s gift for thirty years. He offered it to her, wrapped in a box, at her graduation party, as she stood in front of strangers, holding a roll of paper that said she had a degree in something. Perhaps the paper had her name, Anyeri, or perhaps it was defaced with the name he gave her, Labeno.…
She ignored her father’s gift for thirty years. He offered it to her, wrapped in a box, at her graduation party, as she stood in front of strangers, holding a roll of paper that said she had a degree in something. Perhaps the paper had her name, Anyeri, or perhaps it was defaced with the name he gave her, Labeno. She had not opened it since the chancellor gave it to her five hours earlier, for she did not unroll toilet paper until she wanted to use it. A figment of her mother’s spirit haloed above her, giving the party a semblance of happiness, hugging her just as it had over the last many years. The only recognizable face in the tent was that of her littlest brother, Ocora, and she smiled at him for he had her mother’s face.
The tent stood uneasily in their front yard, after a storm earlier in the day had nearly uprooted it. The cheap decorations were reduced to strips of colored polyester wrapped on poles, fluttering in the breeze like rags. The ‘high table’ was soaked, and the red plastic flowers struggled to make it look chic. Whatever beauty the artist had intended to conjure in arranging them around the white cake was lost, for the cake resembled a mound of millet bread. But the faces in the tent did not mind. They showed all their teeth in happiness, for the smell of kongo brewing in a neighbor’s compound promised them a wild night. To warm up, they held little glasses and cups, oozing with the stench of crude waragi. They were her father’s friends, his relatives, his people. This was his party, not hers. He was celebrating something he had no right to celebrate.
Why did I come here?
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