PUNK PROSE: Red Prints by AJ David

The night after maami was laid 6ft deep in the ruthless earth, Tunde lit a cigarette and settled at the backyard to smoke. I observed him from the kitchen window. No, I won't go outside and pass judgement; after all, both of us have been engulfed in our own sins since maami's death. I was angry, though I can't quite put my finger on the source of my anger. Perhaps it was Uncle Ade's bellowing, demanding more beers for him and his friends earlier today at the funeral service. Ever since father's demise, none of his relatives reached out or showed up. But Uncle Ade had the audacity to come to this house for maami's funeral, demanding beer to be served to him and his friends. I wished for him to choke on it, his body discarded like refuse on a dunghill. However, this alone didn't trigger my anger enough; it's something else I can't quite fathom.

The night maami breathed her last at 7:00pm, Tunde was at her side. As her life slipped away, Tunde draped her face with a white cloth, phoned me, and headed to watch a football match. I met her lifeless form shrouded in a white cloth, her Bible right beside her, open to a passage scribbled in red. A profusion of red print swallowed the black print - the part where it wasn't Jesus speaking. The red script engulfed the black text, much like cancer consumed maami, devouring every vital organ. Just like Tunde and I find ourselves consumed by our own sins.

I wanted to say something to her, a secret, a parting word of confession. I longed to tell her about Caroline and me. I wanted to tell her that just hours before her passing, Caroline kissed me, and I relished it. I loved it, even though I knew I shouldn't. Girls aren't supposed to kiss girls on the lips. Perhaps God punished her for my imperfections, or perhaps our family is inherently imperfect, and we attempted to hide our flaws with layers of seeming perfection. We weren't hypocrites or pretentious Christians. We tried hard to appear flawless, so much that Father started beating perfection into us - initially into us children, and later into maami. And then one night when Tunde couldn't bear it any longer, when perfection never shone upon maami and father's blows wouldn't cease, Tunde shoved him away from her. He pushed hard, and papa fell head first onto the hard tiles, his skull fracturing and blood gushed out. It brought to mind that Biblical narrative of Cain slaying Abel, and Abel's blood crying out to God. I wonder if father's blood cried out too, if it beseeched God to recognize that he had tried, that he had tried endlessly to instil perfection into his family.

The headline the following morning after father's demise read: Pastor Oladokun of the Saints of Christ Bible Ministry Slips and Dies in Bathroom Last Night. Following that night, our family slipped too. Mama never uttered a word; a month later, she was diagnosed with brain cancer and speech impairment. The pastors from the church arrived to pray, but what mama truly needed was money for a brain surgery, and that, we barely had, not even after the special offering in church.

Tunde sat outside, puffing on his cigarettes, while I stood here in the kitchen, pondering why I once again visited Caroline's home and we touched each other, despite having promised mama's lifeless body that the our first kiss would also be our last, and my next kiss would be with a guy. However, gazing at Tunde and the emotions swirling within me, it seems I've either broken that promise or I'm about to.

--AJ David