I Laid By Grandpa | An Original Fiction Story

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The harmattan was the gasoline my childhood flamed on. Apart from the chirps of the cricket in the house corners, and the chilly dry wind that meant I could wash my school uniforms and wear same to school one morning, harmattan coincided with the time of the year we will visit my grandpa.

I would sit on the petrol tank of my dad's CG-225 double silencer motorcycle while my mum sat on the back. Among the many privileges of being an only child, my dad will grant my wish to man the motor bike horn on our 15km journey to our family home. So I blasted at the other vehicles, humans, every sheep, masquerade or grasshopper. I was on my way to see grandpa. I will threaten my father I'll report him to his father whenever he thought I blared in excess.

The endearment went farther back to when I was born, I learnt. Grandpa called me Ekpri-Bartholomew. Little Bartholomew - after his adopted Christian name. I recall naming all of grandpa's goats. I will go with him to the village hall and play with the other children while grandpa taught the villagers in an extension programme he volunteered for.

I remember many years later when I was old enough to get into real trouble.

“I bailed you thrice,” I overheard him say to my dad in a stern whisper.

“He has made a mistake. We all do. That doesn't mean you should throw him out to be perched on by the vultures.” My dad stormed back to his Peugeot 504 where I waited for him and drove off. I saw grandpa wave at me. I couldn't wave back for fear it'll irritate my dad.

When I decided to move to take up a job in the city 600 miles from grandpa, it was a tough news to break to him. By now his skin was getting visibly wrinkled. He didn't move as swift as he did a few years back. Grandpa gave me his Kieninger pendulum clock that was two times as old as I, and the most valuable possession he had at some time in the past. He told me he wasn't feeling too strong, but promised he will wait for me to come back and tell him I settled fine in the city.

But eight years passed I didn't see my grandpa and didn't hear from him much. Responsibilities of work, a wife and two kids widened the gap. I lived with the guilt of not keeping my end of the bargain. It was me who didn't wave back.

When it finally got to my turn to choose where the family will spend our vacation, I announced we were going home.

I had been away for too long that the house seemed to contract. Grandpa's voice was now very weak, much like the springs that supported the foam of his well worn reclining chair. That evening we had dinner beside the cherry tree outside his home. The harmattan wind razed, the bamboo whispered, sounds of children playing in the distant played like a muzak. Grandpa attempted a few folktales before his cough won over.

I directed Ijeoma to retire to my room with the kids, while I led grandpa to his.

I squeezed into the 12-spring bed and laid beside old man Bartholomew. I curled into a foetal pose so the bed could contain my 6’3” frame. I held grandpa's palms and asked if he was fine. They felt smaller, cold and drier. Apart from those changes, everything else remained the same. Soon he started to let out a tired snore like there was a bagpipe inside his ribs.

Then I stealthily stood up. He moved. I paused. When he was still again, I started to the door, walking on my toes. I held the door knob as silently as I could.

“Greet the kids for me,” came grandpa's tired voice.

"You are going back tomorrow." As if to remind me. As if to know if I had changed my mind.

I said goodnight knowing it may have been the last night I could lie by grandpa.

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This story is a fiction entry to @gmuxx's contest, and is inspired by my interpretation of @yusaymon's painting.
Image credit: @yusaymon