Liberian Literary Magazine January Issue 0115
what I got you or am getting you. That way, I can build my excitement and plan for it. She says I am eccentric; well that’ s putting it mildly, she says weird.
She is nothing like me. If I ask her,“ Hun, what do you want for this or that?” she gives me that killer look. She believes that I should go through the whole surprise routine. I should guess, observe blah blah blah …
Now, I would not normally have a problem with that, but when it comes to women, I have never figured out what it is they want at any given time. The people change by the second. I really don’ t get the whole guessing thing. I try to make it simple for me. I am a forgetful person. This is an understatement. This way, I can spare myself the trouble of failing to get a gift for an occasion. Lord knows I have missed one too many. So, my attitude is simple-tell me, I get it, we are all happy. I fail to see the point in going through the loops. But then again, that’ s just me.
Somehow, I suspect she does that because that way, I get to buy an assortment of things since I don’ t know what to get, which is exactly what I do. Somewhere in between, she will find something she loves. It’ s a clever strategy but there’ s no way to prove it. �
I get up and turn the volume up to the max. I blast the area with carols. After all, I am the only black expat in my small estate. I feel entitled to a stereotype this day. to show her disapproval, she tells me to get in the kitchen and fix up her stove. No sooner had I grudgingly reached the door, she turned it down and says,“ This is too loud, no one listens to music like this …”
I butt in drowning off the rest of her comment,“ You forget that I am a Liberian, weekends and on holidays, we blast our systems.”“…. but you Liberian people.”“ Precisely.” I say,“ So why are you hindering me?”
We tend to joke a lot about stereotypes of our different people. I have seen raw shock on people’ s faces when she says something like“ You Liberian people have nothing but big mouth. You guys are only good at talking- for nothing talk.” Needless to say that I get into defense mode and hit back at her people equally low. This joke tells me that all is well and Christmas is back on track.
I find the pieces, put them back in and thank goodness, nothing is broken. I could kiss that little girl right now. I know she would want me to clean up the kitchen whist I am at it so I take the rag and do what my dad called the lazy man’ s work- I clear the visible area and shove the dirt between any available holes that will keep it out of site.
“ You know that is wrong right? She is going to be mad at you. When she comes here, she will check around and clean see that.” Say the Absolutist again.
“ Gosh, I hate this guy for being so right most of the time.” I tell myself. I am riding on the moment; they are happy out there, this is Christmas too, surely, I can get away with a few things. After accusing me wrongly this morning, she will give me a break small-and that is all I needed. I survey my work. Satisfied that everything that should not be is well out of the way, I hesitate before going back inside.
“ Do the right thing. It is always good to do the right thing.” This time, it is my conscious speaking. Unlike that rude Absolutist, she speaks softly and never mockingly I have made it a practice to listen when she says this. This is a mental check. I wish I could say that I listen all the time. I often rationalize it like this, if it is not life or death, or affecting anyone else, well, I could get a pass; promise to do it right next time. This certainly was going to kill nobody. I struggle briefly and decide, the heck with it. I am going out there to begin my day. All I want to do is sleep for a few hours. So I go out.
They are still drowned in their presents. Baby dolls are spread over the sofa, the dining table hold the ones deemed unfit for the floor. I tip-toed my way around and stand at the entrance of the bedroom. She says,“ Are you finished already? Are you sure?”
“ Yes Hun, nothing is broken. I only had to put them back in.” I reply
“ What about the floor, did you clean it?” I didn’ t see you put any dirt in the bin. So where did you put the dirt?”
“ There, I told you. She always gets you why do you keep trying?” says Mr. Absolutist.
“ Dam,” I muttered. She looks at me disapprovingly-the way she does when I swear. I am not allowed to swear at all. No exception. This is a thing she does that kills me. The guilt stares or looks. Many times, I feel it would be better if she said something, anything but give me one of them looks. But she doesn’ t. She knows the looks work better than anything she could say.
I am like,“ Look, you can go and do whatever it is you do in the kitchen or you can waste time on me doing a sloppy work. I will do it when you are done anyways.” The truth is, I know she hates dirt, some clean freak, she will do that job and not think twice of it. That’ s how she is; well, that is how I am too.
She shakes her head, smiles and says,“ You’ re just lazy.”
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