Home is Not Home

Her husband is talking fast. “Dear, you have to close your shop now, and head home.”

“Mike, what is wrong? It’s too early for…” Toyin is saying but Mike interrupts.

“I’ll hang up now. I’m at the kids’ school. I’m coming home with them. Let me meet you home!”

The beep tells her the call’s been terminated. She looks at the phone in her hand, confused; what is wrong with Michael? She presses a button to switch on the back-light. The time is 1 pm. Mike usually leaves work at 5 pm, and the kids’ school closes at 2 pm. Her thoughts are as twisted as the braids on her head.

“Ma’am, do you have the Nigerian movie, October 1st. I heard it’s a masterpiece,” a young man distracts her from the entrance of her shop.

She jumps out of her thoughts and her chair. It is Chris, her favourite South African customer. “What did you say you want?”

“October 1st. I just read a lovely review online,”

She looks at the shelf behind her. She picks a case and hands it to Chris who just reached her side. Her movie store has hundreds of CD cases arranged on shelves.

“It’s the usual price, right?” the man asks with delight, his sparkling white teeth peeping out through a smile.

Toyin isn’t in mood today to admire his perfect set of teeth, his well trimmed bushy hair, or his fair pointed nose. She nods and Chris gives her some money.

As Chris turns to leave, he notices beads of sweat fall down her ebony face. “Ma’am, are you alright? You seem distressed,” he says.

“Oh! Thanks. I’m okay,” Toyin says as she drops the money in her table’s drawer.

“It’s just that you are silent today. Hope all is well?” he queries. She nods. “Well, Do take care of yourself,” Chris turns to leave.

“Wait! Is there anything I should know about Durban’s present situation?” she says. Is there a war or something, she adds in her thought.

“For Christ sake, I can’t believe I forgot. A riot has been reported in some areas in Durban. Natives are begining to act hostile to immigrants; from Malawi, Nigeria… Be careful, huh?” he says and leaves.

Fear squeezes her heart tightly as she realizes why her husband wants her home. She packs the money in the drawer and tucks them into her black bag. She takes the bunch of keys on the table and rushes out. She padlockes the blue metal door. Noises from speakers, hawkers, and the traffic fill the air. Her neighbours look at her with curiosity. She says nothing to them. Her shop is by the roadside, so she is able to stop a taxi immediately. She sits at the back.

“Going to Alexander,” she says. Her gaze falls on the rare mirror. She sees beads of sweat run down her face. She mobs them with the sleeve of her purple gown. As the engine revs and the car moves, the car’s radio comes to life. The reporter says, “About three people have died in the anti-immigrant violence and an injured young boy has been transferred to hospital for treatment…”
Toyin’s heart almost fall off her chest.

She holds her two children with each of her hand as they hurry to the Honda car. Mike comes after, with a big box which he drops in the opened boot. He slams it shut afterwards and joins his wife and kids in the car. Toyin is sitting at the front seat while the kids are at the back. He starts the engine and the car roars to life.

“Mummy, where are we going?” the older girl asks. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re just going on a vacation. We’ll be back soon,” Toyin says and looks at their flat. She wonders if she’ll see it again. The riot may extend to their area soon. They have to leave. The car zooms off.

Two days later, she sits behind a small white tent in the refuge camp. She looks at her sleeping kids inside. The thought of the horrible foods they’ve eaten and mosquitoes biting them hurt her. A conversation between some men infront of the tent behind their’s, catches her attention. They are talking about the attacks.

“We’ve contributed to their economy positively. I own a store and employ them. How have I caused unemployment? Eh?” a very tall man says. The Chinese-looking man behind him nods. “Mandela won’t have allowed this to happen, if he is alive,” another man says.

She remembers Mandela’s deeds from one of the documentaries she’s watched. “He would condemn this at once,” a chubby man says.

“I heard president Jacob Zuma condemned this too. He’s working on resolving the matter,” the tall one said.

Her mind drifts away from the chat. Her husband has been away since yesterday, trying to find a way to take them out of the country. She’d tried to convince him to be patient, but Michael said it is high time they went home, to Nigeria. It’s been ten years since they left. They even hardly contact home. Will they be welcomed? Will home still be home? The half moon watches as her raging thoughts bring tears to her eyes. She hopes Michael succeed. She looks at the bowl of watery pasta she was holding and sighs. Home here is not home. Will home there be home?. . .

Ishola Abdulwasiu Ayodele.
(c) 2015.

July 15, 2015 by writersanonymousng Categories: Fiction, Short StoryTags: fiction, ishola abdulwasiu ayodele, short story, xenophobia 3 Comments