Amaka had developed this chafing habit of ignoring Chike each time he asked her a question, as if she saw him as one who had to be tolerated. Chike often tried to stomach it, since she looked mostly frazzled, even at sunrise. His two boys were a storm, he knew. Their tantrums could wreak your mind, their teacher had complained.
Yet he snarled, ‘I hate it when you act deaf.’
Amaka sank on the sofa with a sigh, and stared off.
‘Woman, am I not talk –?’
‘Honey. You’re late,’ she cut in.
Barely managing to remain calm, Chike snatched his car-key from the centre table and stomped out the flat.
‘Imagine, you’re late,’ Chike mimicked his wife as he shot past Wetheral Roundabout, forgetting to brake a little. Catching a flash of something behemoth, he swerved his wheel left, too sharply to evade it.
Between the yawning ditch and the flying trailer, Chike felt his heart catch in his throat and saw his life in reverse – the image of himself snarling at his wife before his children engraved behind his eyelids.
_______
Read More Uche Peter Umez - http://ucheumez.sentinelpoetry.org.uk/
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