Here Again Now by Okechukwu Nzelu

Author:Okechukwu Nzelu [Nzelu, Okechukwu]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Chibuike was perfectly fine.

He liked to pour himself a glass of wine and sit in the living room. He would burrow into the armchair and wait for the electric heater to massage the temperature to something comfortable. It was not a warm flat, but after enough time, he could feel the European air relax its tight shoulders for once, and give in. Things weren’t so bad. Did the world outside fall away? Or did it lean in closer, a new friend? He would pour himself a glass of wine and put some music on. Things weren’t so bad.

Achike was never home anymore. Why was that? Where had he gone? Sometimes, Chibuike forgot. He liked that.

And Chibuike had the living room to himself. He unfurled in it, like a teenager home alone. The night was his. No sneaking out to the shop and travelling back slowly, his mind slowed down by drinking. No sneaking in like a teenager after his parents had gone to sleep. For one night, there was no guilt, no shame. Such time was so precious. He could put on some music: maybe Sam Cooke, this time, crooning ‘Just for You’. He could pour himself a glass of wine, and feel the wine massage his shoulders.

Sometimes, he found himself dancing. He moved the furniture out of the way and kicked off his shoes. He danced with his eyes closed. He felt the wine burrow into his hips and tuck itself in. He felt the warmth begin its slow journey through his body. He remembered that he knew how to dance, after all. He remembered that his body knew how the music should be felt. He’d forgotten, but his body reminded him. He would twist, shimmy, dodge the chill that was settling on his bones now. He would step, duck, slide through the thicket of himself, in search of joy. Sometimes, he found himself.

He was quick on his feet, this man. Sometimes, Chibuike felt himself electric. On evenings like this, he could move like ball lightning through cold air. Things weren’t so bad. His grief was never home on Sunday evenings. It would go out, taking long journeys out of the city and travelling back, slowed down by drinking.

He needed this tonight. Things were not so good. Sometimes, his joy kicked him off like an old shoe. He remembered, then, that Achike had begun his long, slow journey outwards and would never come home. Then, he couldn’t move properly, and he would hurt himself and fall over onto something soft. Maybe an armchair. Sometimes he would fall over onto something hard and angular that left the shape of itself in his skin. He was an old man, and he bruised easily now. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. But would it be too much to ask that he might ball himself into something soft, and light, and welcome?

Achike would be back. Eventually. Achike would come back to him. Achike would be at the piano and play some music. He would move this cold, cruel sadness out of the way.

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