101 Words

The boy stares into the stagnant fish tank. “Let’s get more fish today, Dad. There’s just one old catfish sheltering in that plant pot at the bottom of the tank. The rest have faded away. Disappeared. I think they’ve died.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time. I’m visiting Mum in hospital,” says Dad.

“Please. And give my love to Mum.”

When Dad returns, he holds up a glass jar teaming with dancing Zebras, Harlequins, and Neons.

“Oh, boy, Dad. Let’s put them in the tank. Watch them swim around. Feed them. Keep them alive. So they never fade away. Never disappear.”

I run as fast as I can. A little bit further, keep going… But Donnie Thomas has caught up. It’s just me and him now. Come on, come on… YES! I cross the finish line, arms wide. I did it! I won! The headmaster gives me a shiny medal. My first ever! Mum and Dad hug me and say how proud they are.

My daughter doesn’t, though. “Bloody hell, can everyone calm down?” she says. “It’s only the parents’ race. God, Dad, you’re so embarrassing.”

I feel a bit sad on the way home, but my hand never leaves my medal.

“Nandini, it was on your insistence that we came here. We’ve had enough snaps. Now, can’t you leave your phone alone for a while and enjoy these moments?” her mother remarked.

Nandini had been tremendously busy ever since the trip started, clicking eye catching snaps, posting them instantly, and then continuously checking for new notifications.

“It’s more about ‘virtual’ likes and comments than the ‘real’ trip,” she wanted to tell her mother.

After returning, someone asked, “How were your holidays?”

“Great fun!” she answered, but her face did not sparkle.

Unfortunately, the rewarding comments had not been as per her expectations.

Everything was fuck this, fuck that, fuck the other thing.

And when they weren’t cursing, they were texting.

And when they weren’t cursing or texting, they were chattering.

Chattering about songs he would never understand, movies he would never see, and books he would never read.

And when they weren’t cursing, texting or chattering, they were…

Alex had 65 years of accumulated knowledge, stories, and experiences to share, but he held his tongue around them.

Then, after he dropped off the last of the students, he pulled his bus into traffic, choked back his tears, and wished he was young again.

Doris spent the day shopping for lipstick. She wanted the perfect shade to complement the outfit she’d be wearing on her first date with Bob. She found a red one called Dynamite. Looking in the department store mirror, she painted her lips, blotted, and tasted. “I’ll take it,” she said.

Later that evening, while they were lying together—he spent and satisfied; she like an unexploded firecracker unfused and unfulfilled—Bob nuzzled up to her and said, “Yummy lipstick.”

Going home afterward, Bob searched in his pocket for car keys and found a discarded dud: the fizzled tube of Dynamite lipstick.

We idled at a red light in an air-conditioned sports car, staring vacantly through the stark, glass buildings oppressing the Nigerian metropolis.

My reverie was disturbed by a child of perhaps six tapping insistently on the window. Her lips scraped the window, her black cane-rowed hair whitened with dust. Her mother stood several metres away, an identical child tied to her back with a colourful wrapper.

Their ploy was apparent but as she stood before skyscrapers built by former street urchins, I couldn’t help but wonder when two are equally disadvantaged, what propels one to stand and one to be carried.