I’m lost in fantasy, imagining what adulthood will look like, sitting on that couch, wearing a brown bathrobe that I’ve never washed, just like Grandpa’s.

“Are you alright?” Grandpa asks, with his mouth full of crushed bone.

“I’m fine, Sir,” I reply as I regain consciousness from the imaginary world and hastily make a dash for the door.

“Chickens are for adults; if you eat it, you will end up with a sore on your butt!” he yells.

It’s acceptable in my village for adults to say and children to hear how hideous a crime it is to engage in such a forbidden act— the act of eating chicken. I’m frightened, not by the hot potato lie, but by the misguided choice of adults to indoctrinate children with falsehood.

“That’s taboo you know!” Otse says.

“No, it’s a fable,” I reply.

“I bet the gods aren’t smiling.”

“I see. They must be angry with you,” I respond in a hysterical tone.

“I’m not going to be trapped in your stream of profanity,” she retorts.

“And I’m not one of the gutless and gullible children in the neighbourhood,” I reply.

Otse’s raw-boned legs and butt-out belly announces her presence. Her striking features epitomize hundreds of children in the neighbourhood. I want to break the news, but I don’t know how. To her, truth is lie and lie is truth. If I speak she refutes; if I refute she speaks of the wrath of the gods. She’s blindfolded by the contact lens in her eyes: the contact lens of adult lies. Her foolishness earns her malnutrition. Still, she’s engrossed in the organised lie— the lie that chicken is an adult meal. I pity her and her like; not because they are falling hook line and sinker, but because they respect a society that doesn’t respect them.

“I never had a sore on my butter,” I say.

“That’s because you never ate chicken,” Otse replies.

“Who says? I did, not once but severally.”

“Oh, I see! Your insanity is as healthy as your looks.” She says, mocking my well-fed looks.

I walk back into the house to avoid the full-fledged war of words. He still sits there, on the couch; in his brown bathrobe, not eating fried chicken this time, but fried potato chips. He busies his fingers with the remote control. He flips through the channels on the TV and acts like I don’t matter. I hate to find myself in this situation. It diminishes my self-esteem and elevates the burden I bear within. He does not know I’m aware of the adult lie. If he knew, he would be licking his wounds.

I mope around his presence to gain attention. The pretentious perfectionist marvels at every slight movement before him, but me. The painting on the wall hangs close to the couch he sits on. I stop by it, pretending to be admiring it. I’ve seen this picture all my life; it’s been there even before I was born. I stand helplessly like I’m on punishment, bemused by the thought of the entrenched culture of lies from generation immemorial.
It was Mum who premiered this non-ending epic drama of lies to me. I was barely six years old then and already asking questions about anything that intrigues me.

“Who owns the chicken?” I asked.

“Which chicken?” Mum replied.

“The chicken tied to the log outside.”

“OK. It’s for me and your dad.”

“Why you and Dad?”

“We are adults and chicken is an adult meal,” she yelled while staring at me with her eyes wide open as though it
was the full moon shining.

Her response stirred up a wave of curiosity in me. She got hit severally by shots of questions I fired but showed no signs of bleeding.

She is a crafty woman who in place of her hands, prefers to use her tongue to create beautiful lies. She is a master in the art of lies; a trait she shares with Grandpa and Grand Papa, his ancestors.

Hours of standing here, pretending to be watching this picture and lusting in thoughts of the past is frustrating and tiring. I can feel the ticking of the clock in my heart; it leaves me less of an emotional stable person, and
makes me regret visiting Grandpa.

I make a quick move to my room and seek solace in the softness of my bed. I fall asleep, leaving Grandpa to wallow in his luxury of arrogant silence.

***

Tell us what you think: What do you do when you visit somewhere that you find boring?