Port Harcourt
Wednesday, 6:30 AM
He awoke on the right side of the bed, the shrill persistence of his alarm still echoing faintly in the room—a sound that had, quite literally, been ringing since 5:00 AM. With a slow, reluctant motion, he silenced it and stretched his neck from side to side, as though attempting to negotiate with the weight of sleep still clinging to his body. Eventually, he rose. He knew, without needing to check, that he had overslept; this hour was uncharacteristic of him.
He attempted to hasten his movements, but while his intention was urgent, his limbs felt unusually heavy, almost as though his body resisted the demands of the morning.
Dragging his feet into the living room, he retrieved the broom stationed behind the door. Almost instinctively, he reached for his phone and set music playing. For Asher, music was not merely a pastime—it was, in every literal sense, a necessity. Silence, to him, felt incomplete.
As the melody filled the room, he began sweeping, methodically shifting the floral-patterned cushions to reach the hidden dust beneath them. Being an only child, the domestic responsibilities of the house rested almost entirely on his shoulders. His mother had left years ago, taking his twin sister with her—a departure that had, in many ways, hollowed the home, leaving behind an absence that neither he nor his father ever fully addressed.
By the time he transitioned into the kitchen and began washing the dishes, his father descended the stairs, still clad in his nightwear.
"Asher," he called.
Asher glanced up briefly from the sink. "Good morning, Daddy."
His father exhaled deeply, as though the morning itself weighed upon him. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," Asher replied, his gaze returning to the soapy water, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
His father ran a hand across his face, his fatigue evident. "Asher, you do realize you're late?"
"I know. That's why I'm trying to finish all this quickly."
"Leave the dishes," his father said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Go and bathe. It's already 6:50."
Asher hesitated. "But I don't like coming back to a messy house. Will you help me finish them?"
There was a brief pause. "Err… yes. Just go. I'll drop you off before heading to work."
Asher straightened slightly. "Dad, I've told you—if you got me a bicycle, or even a bike, you wouldn't have to keep dropping me off every day."
"Hey, Asher," his father interjected, cutting him off gently but decisively, "that's a discussion for another time. Go and bathe."
Asher opened his mouth to persist, but his father's tone shifted, slipping into Pidgin for emphasis.
"I said go and bathe… you no dey hear?"
"Okay," Asher muttered.
He rinsed his hands, dried them on the yellow towel beside the sink, and made his way upstairs.
Inside the bathroom, the sky-blue tiles reflected the early morning light, giving the space a sterile calm. The white bathtub sat quietly beside the sink and toilet, everything arranged with almost deliberate neatness.
Just before stepping into the shower, he paused, remembering his long-standing personal rule: always use the toilet at home. The memory that informed this rule was still vivid—an unfortunate day when urgency had forced him to rely on the school's facilities. The experience had been, quite literally, unbearable. The stench, the discomfort, and the lingering consequences had ensured he would never repeat that mistake.
Only after satisfying this precaution did he proceed.
He stepped under the shower, allowing the water to cascade over him. He scrubbed thoroughly, working the Eva soap into his dreadlocks until they were properly cleansed. When he was done, he dried himself, slipped into a fresh pair of boxers, and stepped out.
The aroma of stew drifted through the air, warm and inviting. It drew a faint smile from him.
He moved quickly to his wardrobe and retrieved his uniform—an orange shirt paired with black trousers. Beneath it, he wore a white singlet. He pulled on his orange-and-white striped socks and polished black shoes, completing the look with quiet efficiency.
Grabbing his toothbrush and paste, he gave his teeth a final, vigorous scrub before slinging his heavy school bag over his shoulder and heading downstairs.
His father was in the dining area, arranging breakfast, still not dressed for work.
"Dad, I'm ready," Asher said, a slight hiss in his voice. "You haven't even started getting ready."
"I wanted to sort breakfast first," his father replied.
"Daddy, I'm already late. Let me just go."
His father placed the final plate on the table. "Oya, come and eat. By the time you're done, I'll be ready."
"How?" Asher asked, incredulous. "You know I don't like eating when I'm in a rush."
"Just eat. I'll be back in a flash."
He patted Asher lightly on the back and hurried upstairs with surprising agility. Asher watched him go, exhaling in mild frustration before sitting at the table.
He opened the dish to reveal fried plantain and potatoes. Serving himself a modest portion, he added stew and began eating quickly, though not without restraint. Outside, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, a subtle warning of impending rain, but he paid it little attention.
Just as he finished the last piece of plantain, his father reappeared—now impeccably dressed in a black suit, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other.
"Oya, Asher, you done?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright. Let's move. We're late."
Asher drank a glass of water in one swift motion, adjusted his bag, and followed him outside.
They navigated the morning traffic in relative silence until they arrived at the green gates of Tower of Precious Seed College. His father parked the car and turned to him, his expression now serious.
"Mr. Man," he said, "as you go in today, please don't look for trouble, okay?"
"Okay, Daddy. Thank you for the ride."
"It's nothing. You know I've got you."
They performed their customary handshake—a complex sequence of snaps and interlocked fingers, perfected over time.
"Arise and shine," Asher said.
"Unity forever," his father responded.
Together, they completed the ritual. "We are forever tangled."
With a final tug to break the interlocked grip, Asher allowed a small laugh to escape. He stepped out of the car and walked toward the school gates, not looking back, as his father drove off into the unfolding morning.