Joy Dillon
You see that!? When things like that happen, something bad going to happen! For the past three nights, Atlas Adeyemi noticed that the moon had been transforming and shifting uneasily in the sky. Ordinarily, a change in the colour and appearance of the moon wouldn’t bother people in his part of the world.
Historically, they believed that its various sightings, sizes and timings were all strong indicators or rejections of likely fertility, a suitable time to plant crops, or even catch crabs. Yet all that appeared to have changed in the blink of an eye. One fateful day, just short of the end of the tenth month, the revered moon was a pale blue silhouette that sauntered and slithered between the silvery clouds that lined the darkened sky.
On the second day, it mysteriously morphed from blue to purple. Not a royal purple, but rather an eerie lilac-purple that glowed with uncharacteristic allure, reminiscent of the kind that beckoned netherworld spirits from their resting places to haunt the living. It was enough to cause the neighbourhood dogs, and even cats, to wail sporadically and mournfully loud.
This evening—the third consecutive day—the moon displayed a fiery red dance against the backdrop of the inky sky. It glared and gleamed as though it were taken straight out of a hot-as-hell furnace.
Not me, eh! Atlas Adeyemi declared as he hastily made the sign of the cross. In times gone past, the spectacle of such a sight would have caused his knees to readily find the floor. Plus, he would have engaged in fervent, elaborate prayer.
These days however, he wasn’t inclined to be particularly religious. Nevertheless, somewhere in the back of his mind, it still somehow made sense to not forget his ultimate mortality.
He lowered his eyes and closed them shut as he muttered a few inaudible words. When he eventually re-opened his eyes, he crawled into his bed. As was customary, he eventually found himself sitting up against the bed’s head frame while he rubbed his chin. Its smooth, flawless surface gave him much needed assurance whenever he felt despondent about the passing years.
When he was fully satisfied with his chin-rubbing, he would reach for his trusty bottle of distilled clear rum. It kept him alive, especially when he felt like dying. To him, drinking it daily wasn’t a worship ritual as much as it was a vital means to an end.
He pried its solid corked cover open, raised the bottle to his mouth and swallowed. The strong-smelling liquid seared his throat as it traversed his mouth, mingled with his tongue and made its way past his windpipe to eventually trickle into his stomach.
Blehh! He winced at the sudden feeling the intensity of its warmth made in his chest.
The first sip was always the worst. Nevertheless, with every subsequent slow sip of the rum, it tasted less horrid and became more bearable, even desirable.
He mused. Something like my past life!
He thought about all the crap he had already endured at his age, without not quite knowing what thirty years of living on planet earth looked like. In particular, there was the “big bacchanal” concerning him going to university. What started off as a simple dinner table disagreement ballooned into a major squabble.
“You have to go to university!” His father, Atlas Akinyemi, insisted. He pounded the table with such sudden force, near-sending a large platter flying over the edge. “I went to university! Your grandfather and his father and grandfather before him all went to university! Your brother, sister and mother all went to university! Even your grandmothers on both sides of this family went to one! Your sister and brother are in university! Why do you want to be the exception, eh? Do you feel that not being born in the same country as the rest of us makes you any different from us?!”
“I want to be the exception, because it’s my choice!” Atlas Adeyemi looked his father dead-straight in the eye. “I’m an adult! I don’t have to do anything you say any more.”
“Oh, really? Who do you think has been feeding you, putting clothes on your back and supporting you all these years, eh Mr Adult?!”
Atlas Adeyemi took his time to reply, between eating mouthfuls of his favourite Shepherd’s Pie. “Well, according to you and mummy, it’s the Man Above!”
That unexpected response caused the elder Atlas to turn a drastic, frightening pseudo-shade of dark red mixed with blue. He glared at his older son, before he pushed his chair far from the dining table, hoisted his body from his seat, and left.
As he made his departure, he turned his back to his son. He pointed backward and bellowed at his wife. “You hear that stupidity!? He’s your son. Deal with him!”
He stomped off with clenched fists. Mrs Amara Atlas Akinyemi looked calmly at her husband with a pouted mouth.
She sucked her teeth. “You mean to say ‘please deal with him!’”
“What the—?”Her remarks caused him to stop dead in his tracks. Even Atlas Adeyemi himself had cause to doubt what he had just heard. His eyes widened and he looked ahead, twice.
Not because of what was said, but rather who said it. Unlike her husband and their equally hot-headed elder son, Mrs Atlas Akinyemi often played the role of easy-going peace-maker. Plus, she rarely encouraged “dissent in the ranks” between parents and children in that household.
The elder Atlas made an about turn. He cut his wife a menacing eye. Something uncanny was stirring deep within him. Something wild and raging, like a fierce wildfire coursing rapidly over an extensive swath of dry brush.
He felt a surging temptation rise and expand within his chest. It throbbed through his stiffened shoulders and clenched fists. He grimaced to prevent the release of the flow that seemed destined to penetrate his throat, rattle his teeth and defy his good thoughts.
Like a prowling lion, he approached Mrs Atlas stealthily, in two deliberate steps. She, in turn, remained oblivious to his returning presence, as she continued to feast in silent bliss on her dinner.
Not Atlas Adeyemi! He felt the hairs on his back rise as his eyes shifted between the two of them. His heart raced with a loud, unsteady rhythm. Normally, he would have stood down and held his tongue. However, he wasn’t about to be an unwitting by-stander yet again. This time around, he was far too older and much too stronger to remain complicit.
He got up from his seat and stood firm with his bear-like arms folded across his barrel chest. He could clearly see over his father’s head.
The elder Atlas paused. He looked at his son and rocked his head back. An unmistakable look of disbelief came across his face. “W-What are you getting yourself so excited about, my son? Your dear father is just going for a drink! Can’t a man get a drink in his own house, now?”
The younger Atlas lowered his unflinching gaze until it came square with his father’s. “If you say so.”
He watched keenly as his father carefully removed a bottle of clear liquid from the cabinet curio. The elder Atlas uncorked its cover and poured a fair amount of its contents into a nearby empty old-fashioned glass. He raised the glass to his mouth and swallowed the coveted liquid in a single gulp.
“Ahhh!” He shook his head rapidly before having a second successive glass and raising it in mock-salute to his wife and son. “Finally, I think I could deal with anybody and anything!”
Then he abruptly left their company. Most likely to head to another part of the family home. Mother and son sighed collectively, shrugged and carried on as normal.
Obviously, that wasn’t the first time a family dispute like that had happened, recalled Atlas Adeyemi. Likewise, it certainly wasn’t the last.
In any event, he vowed to himself that it would be the last time that he would personally be privy to “that sorta nonsense.” Life, however, had other plans for him.
While he couldn’t care less about his father’s belligerent insistence that he be university-educated, he gradually gave in to his mother’s constant pleading for him to “care about himself” as he tried his hand at university. Twice.
His maiden attempt was in the prestigious Faculty of Engineering. There, he specialised in designing power plants, car and aircraft engines for a brief spell, before calling it a day. His second attempt was met with an equally brief time in the even more exclusive Faculty of Law, where he hoped to bring one of his long-held aspirations to be a prolific human rights academic to life.
But attending university was just not for me… He sighed wistfully. He took several additional gulps from the bottle of crystal-clear liquid that stood near his bed-side. Maybe the universe agreed with him, as success still echoed in his bones, even if it sought to ultimately manifest itself in a different way.
Having closed the door on his university hopes, Atlas Adeyemi was still determined not to be the fabled prodigal son who had to go down on his hands and knees to beg a second chance at living at the feet of his father. I would rather collect dirty, old bottles from the streets with my bare hands than have to beg that man for a living!
So said, so done. At least, his father made sure of that.
He not only kicked Atlas Adeyemi out of his will, but also the family home and business. He even went so far as to call his many colleagues and cryptically warn them about his son’s intentions. “I am kindly appealing to your good sense of reasoning, and in furtherance of our continued, long-standing business arrangements, that you don’t hire Atlas Adeyemi in any form or fashion!” Fearing the repercussions of his extensive influence and corresponding “mauvais langue” mouth, they all complied reluctantly.
Atlas Adeyemi came to realise that after suspiciously meeting closed door after closed door. In that moment, he felt like the legendary Icarus.
In similar fashion to the hapless Greek youth, he was trapped between a seeming rock and a hard place. He couldn’t find work in the more lucrative jobs in the private sector, thanks to his being blacklisted by his father’s exceptional network. Likewise, he couldn’t find work in the public sector, on account of his father’s sway and reputation, not to mention the exceptional bureaucracy and time delays that typically preceded any expectation of even landing as much as a job interview.
Any lesser mortal might have felt daunted and overwhelmed. Some might have even put their figurative tail between their legs and capitulated to the demands of their father, but not Atlas Adeyemi. Like Icarus, he was far too stubborn and resourceful, as he sought an achievable middle ground.
Screw that! Daddy doesn’t control everything. He philosophised.
Indeed, while his father might have had significant influence over the proverbial sea and land of the local labour market, and their ensuing social circles, he did not exert similar power over the figurative sky. And that was where Atlas Adeyemi made it his business to cultivate wings and soar gradually. In his mind, and regardless of his father, he vowed to “get rich or die trying.” He said a quick prayer in his mind, pulled up his sleeves and set out to work like never before.
In that world of great and perilous challenge not guaranteed to be followed by equally great reward, the weight of his family name meant precious little, if at all. Hence, he took work wherever and however he found it.
One of his first “tasks” was to mop dusty, dank and dirty floors and clean filthy toilets. He was later hired to clear clogged sewage systems and power-wash moss-filled street canals. At the same time, his daily toil included gathering heaping piles of rubbish from off the roadways. Whether he wanted to or not, he also helped with the official removal of rotting, dead animal carcasses.
He gained further income as a casual worker, to cut large sections of overgrown grass from the sides of busy thoroughfares. When he wasn’t doing that, he participated in the seasonal harvesting of market crops. He also sold boxes of matches and candles, as well as packs of roasted peanuts on the roadside.
When the going got particularly tough, he worked as a tout, as he beckoned and shepherded crowds of harried passengers into awaiting taxis, just to earn a few dollars in his quest for daily living. Sometimes he was paid, sometimes he wasn’t.
Indeed, he lost a few, he earned a few, and he gained a few. Actually no, he gained much. If nothing else, thanks to those exceptional “hard life” experiences, he learned the value of discipline and becoming his own person every step of the way, not to mention becoming wiser to the alternate world of stealth, cunning and guile that frequented his interactions when he engaged with other persons who were less honourable than him.
Those were the days… he thought to himself, …but I survived!
As if he had passed a mysterious test, almost “overnight”, his financial seeds began to flourish. Furthermore, he was back in his parents’ good books. Not only was he working alongside them and being invited back for dinner at the family home, he was also helping to manage the day-to-day operations of the family’s diner business.
The more he stayed awake in his bed and wondered about the collective meaning of it all, the more his eyes began to blink heavily. He turned his head to glimpse at the overhead clock. Already? It looked like nine o’clock.
While it wasn’t particularly bed time, his drifting body begged to differ. In a matter of seconds, he was between blinking his eyes rapidly and breathing heavily, until his bedroom became deathly-silent. Only the red moon peered ever so slightly at him from its high perch in the velvet sky.
When Atlas eventually stirred out of his slumber. He glanced at the overhead clock. It still displayed a time of nine o’clock. No way!
He rubbed his eyes repeatedly before turning to his side to glance at what stood at his bedside. The partially-consumed bottle of clear rum was still there. He nodded.
He reflexively felt for his chin. He gasped. What!? No! Can’t be!
He sprang from his bed like a man possessed as he rushed toward the assurance of the nearest mirror. He frantically examined his face from all angles. What he saw looking back at him caused his blood to run cold.
His hands trembled with every touch of the startling new addition to his face. How the hell I got this long, grey beard!? I only fell asleep yesterday!
Joy Dillon is a Trinidad and Tobago-born and raised researcher, author, writer and public speaking tutor. She firmly believes in the power of the written word, as with other noted forms of communication to trigger positive, enduring change in the holistic thoughts, emotions and actions of all human beings. LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/joy-d-48139936
