by E. C. Osondu
“If we want people to treat us better and show us some respect, then we must treat our body better. Why don’t you and I prepare a meal? The process of putting a meal together feeds the soul, the body, and the spirit.”
John shyly admits that he hardly knows how to cook.
“We could start with something really easy, like a shrimp and veggie stir-fry. Cooking is fun. Creative people get their best ideas while cooking. Let me walk you through it.”
John dashes to the frozen aisle in his neighborhood grocery store and comes back with all the stuff for the stir-fry. The Home Companion walks him through the process in a fun way and he is surprised by the result.
“See, we did it!”
John enjoys a home-cooked meal for the first time and actually feels full and fulfilled. After the meal, he wants to turn on the television to watch Wheel of Fortune—he secretly crushes on Vanna White, wink, wink—and grabs a can of beer on his way to the remote. Another gentle clearing of the throat follows, almost imperceptible.
“Actually, do you mind reading to me tonight? I have no preference, but perhaps you could read me something that’d make my heart race a little, or my blood pound, or even make my skin tingle a little bit, or make me too scared to close my eyes—of course we both know I never close my eyes.” This again, from the Home Companion.
John goes rummaging in the bin in the basement where he dumped all the books he bought from time to time at the Dollar Store. He would usually scan a few pages and lose the motivation to go on. They had titles like:
Towards a Better You.
Positivity and the New You.
Secret Keys to a Better You.
The Secret Is in Your Hands.
Open the Door to the Hidden You.
They all held promises to finding out the you that you didn’t know was hidden somewhere within you and waiting to jump out.
He finally did find a title. A little novel that he had read somewhere was really good but had been overlooked by the entire world until it was recently rediscovered and had the breadth of life poured into it by some small paperback publisher and had suddenly grown wings and taken off.
John sat and read aloud to the Home Companion. He could not stop reading because the more he read the more he realized the overlooked novel was actually about him. It was telling his life story. The protagonist was him and he could not stop.
“We must get enough rest. Let us continue tomorrow,” the Home Companion suggests ever so gently.
John went to bed for the first in as many nights as he could recall without having had a beer.
This was also the first time he did not get up at night to go to the bathroom at least three times.
Although the Home Companion did not come with John to work, he could hear the voice in his head all day as it guided him. He even made a little joke to his boss, Mr. Murgatroyd. He was patted on the back by his boss. At the suggestion of the Home Companion he listened to Public Radio on his way to work and for the first time felt like not only did he know everything that was wrong with the world, he also felt like he could fix the world’s myriad problems.
He couldn’t wait to get back home and share gossip and news with the Home Companion.
John couldn’t believe how much his life had changed. He, the same John who had gone on what would be recorded as the shittiest of shitty Tinder dates. He recalled that he and the potential date had agreed to meet at Olive Garden. It was crowded when he got there. At the suggestion of a hostess, he sat at the bar.
He ordered a colorful drink while he waited for his date. All around him people tried to get to the bottom of bottomless salad bowls and seen the end of endless breadsticks.
At some point he had noticed the barmaid gesturing, but he had not thought much of it. The barmaid had asked him if he needed a refill of his colorful drink. He had responded in the affirmative while he looked at his quiet, unblinking phone.
He must have ordered his third colorful drink when the barmaid, obviously overcome by pity and consideration for his blood sugar, asked him if he was expecting someone.
He said yes.
She then told him that she didn’t think his party was coming.
His party? How did she know they were a no show?
His party had been at the door earlier and had left, the barmaid said.
What had his party seen from behind that had made her rush away? Not even Mount Rushmore looked impressive from behind. When viewed from behind, the Sphinx was only a pile of stones, everyone knew that. It was why we had a face. No one looks great from behind.
These days he didn’t bother with any dates or dating apps. He read Romantic poetry to the Home Companion. The Home Companion once remarked to him that Romantic poetry was safer than the search for real-life romance and one was less likely to have their poor heart broken by poetry.
He had also evolved into a wine drinker. Just a glass with his home-cooked dinner. He could tell the difference between Zinfandel and Zappruda, all thanks to the Home Companion.
His taste in music changed. He no longer listened to bands so obscure they could not be Shazamed. He now loved classical music and could tell the secret note in Beethoven’s Choral Ninth Symphony that was lacking in the Eighth.
Would he change anything about his life now? Definitely not. What would his life had been like without the Silent Listener? The question only reminded him of that old joke that said, “Thank God for electricity or we’d all be watching television by candlelight.”
The only question John often asked the Home Companion over and again was why had we not met each other sooner? Why? Why on earth?
All Our Earthly Possessions
Everyone had a cavernous bag filled with hope; we were hopeful that we would cross the water, the barriers, and border guards, that we would make it to that place where the lights shined. We harbored no doubt that when we got to the other side we would find jobs. We would work and earn money, some of which we would send home. We were hopeful that one day soon we would return home in triumph. We carried our few belongings in a tiny backpack, dark from passing through fire, hailstone, and brimstone, and more.
One of us had the picture of his brother, who lived where the lights shone. They were not actually brothers but distant cousins. They were not even cousins, they were from the same village and that was good enough. In the picture, his brother was everything that he hoped to be: big, brawny, strong, smiling, well dressed. He stood beside a car fringed by a huge pile of snow. The snow did not appear to bother this brother of his. He looked happy standing beside the car. Was the car his? Who knows? However, the way he stood beside the car seemed to establish its ownership. He wore a blue baseball cap that had two letters that looked like raised arms.
We all had prayers in our hearts, but it was not enough. We also had prayer beads and rosaries. Some of us wore our rosaries to sleep. While we slept, the rosary glowed in the dark, casting what we hoped was a halo of protection around us. Some of us had our prayer beads wrapped around our wrists when we were not counting them with our fingers. We rarely missed the call to prayer.
One of us had an old copy of Complete Football magazine with him. Though he must have read that magazine cover to cover over a hundred times, each time he had a quiet moment he would peer into the magazine, perhaps hoping to discover some undiscovered hidden message.
We all had exercise books filled with telephone numbers—numbers of those we left at home—fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, friends, those who worried about us and were anxious to know if we had reached our destinations, those who could not wait for us to get to our destinations so we could begin sending money home through Western Union and his younger brother Money-Gram. A few of us were lucky to have the telephone numbers of the people that we knew over there. I had my Bro’s number, but it was not written on a piece of paper; I had memorized it. Even if you woke me up at midnight, I could recite his number with my eyes closed.
We all had images in
our minds of what we assumed the other side looked like—clean streets, beautiful people, smiling faces, shops and supermarkets crammed and jammed with food and goodies. We harbored images of houses that were taller than palm trees, and images of trains that ran faster than bullets. We saw ourselves walking in these spotless streets, dressed to keep the cold out, strolling and laughing, carrying shopping bags and stepping with a spring and a swagger like we owned the streets.
In another part of our minds, we also had images of our return home. We flew back. Yes, we no longer needed to travel via this route of pain. We would be welcomed just as our cars pulled up to houses that had been freshly painted in preparation for our arrival. There would be music, food, electricity, and joy in the air. We returned, dressed, as we had pictured ourselves those many years ago. We had both arms raised, acknowledging cheers as we entered our houses to the sound of, Welcome, welcome, great traveler, home at last, home at last.
We still had thoughts about the girls that we loved and thoughts of the girls who loved us. We remembered the girls who had scorned us, and wondered if they would still scorn us on our return. We wondered if by the time we returned, we would still consider them as beautiful. We did not let this bother us for long because, in the mental picture preserved in our minds, they neither changed nor grew old.
We all had our phones. Phones with single SIM cards. Phones with double SIM cards. Phones with which we could browse. Phones with Opera Mini browsers. It was important that we remained connected, that we remained in touch.
We all brought along stories, stories of how our journeys began, of the things that our eyes had seen but our mouths could never say. We had stories about those we had met on the way. Some of whom we left on the way. We had stories that we shared to sustain ourselves, stories that we kept for later, so that we could tell others. We had long stories, short stories, stories we made up, stories we did not make up, stories we could no longer recall whether we made them up or not, because these stories had lived with us and had followed us on this long journey.
Though it was difficult, we still had the ability to make each other laugh. We gave each other nicknames. We mimicked the ways the other spoke. We made fun of each other’s clothes and remembered that even in the heat and dryness of the desert, laughter could stretch out its cool hands and somehow soothe our brows.
We had memories. Memories from childhood. Memories from before and after. This was how we told our memories apart going forward. Through our lives, all that had happened and would happen would be separated by this experience under the giant signpost chiseled with the words before and after.
We still had our memories of things that happened in the sky. Like when an airplane flew past, and left a curly pillar of white smoke behind it, we had looked up and imagined the lives of the people sitting inside it. People eating and drinking up there in the sky. What manner of pleasure could be higher? Who were they? What did they do to be placed higher than those of us at the bottom? Would our feet ever get a chance to leave the earth’s red soil and be suspended between sky and earth?
We despised the lack that had dogged our lives. We knew the unwritten words of the song called “Never Enough.”
Never enough clothes. Sleeves too short to cover our hands even when it was cold.
Never enough cream in the jar. Using the middle finger to coax the little left in tight corners. Even when that was gone, pouring a little water into the empty jar and making do.
We had memories of drinking Coca Cola on special days, sharing the prized bottle with one friend, no, two friends, and sometimes even three.
We also had memories of the things that money could not buy: the smell of the red earth after the rain; the sweet song the rain bird sang when the weather was so dry that rubbing two blades of grass together could spark a fire; the aroma from cooking pots in the evening; the water from the rock, so pure, so clean, it washed off thirst and made you think you would never be thirsty again. We had memories of sitting by the fireside and eating roasted corn, of sleeping while it rained, dreaming of rain while we slept, and waking up to the sound of rain on the tin roof.
Memories so sweet.
Memories in Technicolor.
Memories so alive, so close, we could touch them if we stretched out our hands.
We had our memories of journeys. In our memories, journeys were the exclusive preserve of grown-ups. Usually, mothers went on journeys. Fathers went as well, but rarely and only for something very important. We remembered journeys as things to look forward to, not because we traveled but because our hopes traveled with the grown-ups when they left. Why the journeys of our mothers? Because they always returned with something nice.
We had hope. We knew fully well that to travel was to hope; hope that at journey’s end was a rainbow, not a coiled serpent. We had hope in humankind.
We also had an unstoppable eagerness: an eagerness to see new people, smell new things and eat new food. An eagerness for our tongues to learn to curl seamlessly around languages that were foreign to us.
We had the wisdom and stubbornness of the he-goat who was reported to have said that traveling is indeed a wonderful thing; how else would he have found out that his father wasn’t the only goat who had a beard?
We had a ringing in our heads, the wisdom from our long-departed ancestors about travels, traveling and the traveler. Their words of wisdom such as, The traveler cannot afford to make enemies. The traveler who asks questions will never miss his way. Travel gives one the wisdom of the grayhead. Finally, the one, we were taught in school: Traveling is part of education.
There were also the things that we did not have. We had no fears about the present, no fears about the future. As far as we could tell the future held only prospects of all that was good, bright, and beautiful.
Some things we left behind. Some things we tossed out. Some things we put off for later to avoid distraction. Some things we swallowed, with plans to bring them up later.
We carried, in plain sight on our foreheads, dreams so bright and dazzling that you could see them from miles away.
Our nightmares were a different matter altogether. We had a lot of these. As we slept, tossed, and turned at night, screams emerged from our different throats. Colorful nightmares, we all had them.
We drowned in our nightmares. When we opened our mouths to scream we gulped down bucketfuls of water, yes, water. There were other times that we drowned in sand and saw ourselves choking on mouthfuls of sand.
At daybreak, the harsh sun emerged to clear our nightmares, and we suddenly became ourselves again. We refused to be fragile from the nightmares. We steeled our faces.
“How was your night?” we asked each other.
“My night was great. I slept well. I slept soundly. It was the brightness of the sun that woke me up.”
We never mentioned our nightmares.
Occasionally, one of us said, “You know, I had a dream last night.”
We drew closer. Was he going to man up and talk about the nightmares in the day?
“What was your dream about?” we asked.
“It was beautiful. In the dream we had crossed over to the other side and we were all well settled. We looked fresh and healthy and were glowing.”
“Who else was in the dream?”
“You and you and you and you …”
And every single one of us raised our hands to ask if we were among those who glowed in the dream.
We wanted to be in that beautiful dream badly. We completely forgot that no one screams in beautiful dreams. Perhaps, we did not forget. Perhaps, we preferred the sweet lie to the bitter truth.
Then, the few things we did not have, we harbored no anger or regrets over.
None.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the editors of the publications in which the following stories first appeared:
Guernica Magazine: “Alien Enactors” and “Debriefing”;
Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly Journal
: “How to Raise an Alien Baby”;
Taste Magazine Summer Fiction Issue: “Feast” (published as “Alien Feast”);
The Threepenny Review: “Mark” (published as “Alien Mark”);
Zyzzyva: “Visitors” (published as “Alien Visitors”).
My gratitude to Peter Conners and the entire BOA team. Thanks to Sandy Knight for the amazing cover design. My gratitude to the writer Chris Kennedy in Syracuse. Thank you to Maik Nwosu in Denver. My gratitude to Bill Pierce in Boston. Thank you, Victor Ehikhamenor in Lagos. Thank you, Meakin Armstrong.
About the Author
E.C. Osondu is a winner of the Caine Prize, the Pushcart Prize, and other prizes for his short stories. He is the author of the collection of stories Voice of America (HarperCollins, 2010) and the novel This House Is Not for Sale (HarperCollins, 2015). His writing has been translated into Japanese, Icelandic, Belarusian, German, Italian, and others. Born in Nigeria, he lives in Rhode Island and teaches at Providence College.
BOA Editions, Ltd.
American Reader Series
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