It was a sultry evening. I sat with my cuppa of masala chai in front of the
calm view. The nature had painted quite a beautiful view. The flight of birds
were heading to their destination and some of the birds were neatly perched
themselves in midst of the branches of the tall palm trees. The rustling of
leaves of the palm trees added a musical delight to my ears. The sun was hitting
my balcony and I was bathing in the warmth of it. The distant sound of waves
clashing the edges of the cliffs augmented the existing magic. I strained my
neck to see the sun entering the horizon. Like Pablo Neruda says, every evening
in the balcony of the sea, a fire is born, wings open. The ball of fire was
clearly visible and I could imagine the sweat stewed hours that it put the
whole day to shine down on us, to illuminate the dark corners of the world and
also acting like a silent admirer of green blanket of nature. Music is the most
alive of all forms of art and I heard it through the action of birds, waves,
and the tiny tots. The gouged lawn in front of our resort was the eye catching
element and I could smell the globe of petals withdrawn from the flowers of the
trees even from distance. The local folks were rushing to their own place after
finishing their daily chores and duties. The cuckoo sitting on the tree was
busy cooing and making a sonorous sound. Such was the atmosphere. Fresh, clean
and so virgin ready to lose it all for the mankind. The tryst with nature
lasted for few more seconds before I heard a loud cry of my girl. I sat my
tea on a chair and went inside to pick her up. Bringing her to the balcony, I
showed her the true magic of Mother Nature and her kindness.
“I wanted to tell Mama that it did feel different to be back, that our living room had too much empty space, too much wasted marble floor that gleamed from Sisi’s polishing and housed nothing. Our celing was too high. Our furniture was lifeless: the glass tables did not shed twisted skin in the harmattan, the leather sofas’ greeting was a clammy coldness, and the Persian rugs were too lush to have any feeling. But I said, “You polished the etagere.” " The above text appears when Jaja and Kambili return from Nsukku, their Aunty Ifeoma’s house, and witness their place as dull and lacking warmth even though the house glistened like a palace. The warmth that Aunty Ifeoma’s house had carried during the days they spent despite having a nondescript house and where they prayed every day for Peace and Laughter. Laughter among all the things. Because Laughter was valued in their house everyday despite living with shortcomings something that Kambili hardly got to experience in own h
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