The Noise of Silence – Sandra Uche Delumozie
The Noise of Silence Papa used to yell moderation at the patters of my otiose footfalls, but now, he remains indifferent even when I consciously stamp my feet on the hard floor. The sun recesses at the appearance of a nimbus cloud, but these days, it does not blink even at the presence of a downpour until it is time for it to set. Everything has become stubborn; my room which used to echo when I yell in it, our family car which used to start once you insert its key into the ignition and turn it. The gas cylinder which used to last for a month once we fill it, even the foliage outside which used to bounce back when I try to sweep it off were not left out. Then the stench of my farts, which used to linger like a visitor who has refused to grace home, has become faint and ephemeral. Papa, Mama and I used to have our separate rooms at the different corners of our flat, although their rooms were much closer unlike mine which was separated by the narrow sitting room in between. All the rooms are actually alike except for the nuances. Mine had a puerile pink outlook, Mama’s had a peony outlook, bold like a gory sight, while Papa’s was just plain. After my parents moved their luggage into my room to share it with me, it became our room and therefore lost its resonance. Our new tenants, whom Papa had rented out their rooms to, moved in not quite long, after they must’ve washed their new residence. Questions hung in my eyes while these happened, but I chose not to mouth them since I can pluck my answers from my parents’ ripe sighs. I often wonder whether my parents were comfortable in a puerile pinkish room, but their plain miens submitted only vacant answer sheets. Each day I amble back home from lectures and my ears weren’t waxed by the usual cracks of laughter in their throats, fear weaves cobwebs, and leaves it hanging in my chest. Mama would open the door for me, espy my mien, part and shut her lips without words, and give me a side hug. I always watch her lips each time it parts, hoping it will curve into an arc or even an arch and emit some sounds, but I never received more than a smirk. What happened? Why is everyone and everything noiselessly taking a different, weird shape? I felt restless, like a series obsessive who had missed plenty of story arcs in a series. Mama would serve dinner and instruct everyone to close their eyes for a brief prayer. Then my ears would scratch the atmosphere for whispers of prayers to no avail until after a few minutes when Mama and Papa would chorus amen, and begin to eat. Our next door neighbour’s infant son let out shrill cries now and then, but Papa, who used to be an aficionado of tranquility would tilt his head to the rhythm of the cries whilst eating, leaving my anxious eyes stranded, and I end up gaping. Other things changed, too. The quantity and frequency of our meals, the rate of laughter and music plays, too. Papa, whose presence was like the ungraspable air, had become handier than a handbag. He would sit and gape vacantly in the vestibule after breakfast until dusk. He would hum to passersby who cared to greet him and remain still. One-day, I had tickled this silence when I sat beside him and asked whether he doesn’t work anymore. He stole a gaze at me and averted his gaze quick enough to avoid my stare. “Yes. Didn’t your mother tell you that I lost my job?” he asked. I stood up outright and staggered. “You say?” I asked. Dad squinted before his gaze rested on me as he simpered. He said nothing else. Some teenagers were shambling back from school with their heavy bags. They stole glances at us as they shambled away. Papa readjusted his feet, and returned his averted gaze to its anterior position. There, he stared vacantly at the school tots through the security bar door. I tried taking another step and limped. “Nwayokwa… take it easy.” He reached out to me. After that day, I started cutting down my expenses and making savings, too. In my head, I had caught the invisible fingers typing gibberish on the sedate keyboard of our […]
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