He walked around the bed and entered the cover and adjusted it above his shoulder, so only his head was visible.

"I have always told you to use a pillow." He said but didn't try to fit any under your head.

You didn't want him to perceive the alcohol that was probably still strong on your breath so you remained quiet.

"I miss her." Here we go again, you thought. It took almost all your will to suppress the thoughts of her. If death wasn't a bitch, she would have baked a velvet cake - your favorite - and would have sung the birthday song to you yesterday. She would had known about your crush on John. She was meddling like that. You missed her too, but won't say because you didn't want him to perceive the alcohol.

"That whiskey must have really knocked you guys out." He said and your mind skipped. Fear crept into you.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want..."

"It is fine birthday girl. As long as you don't get as drunk as last night." He laughed, "I heard your voice from upstairs. Who is John?" He flipped on his side to face you.

With the help of the pale light of the moon, you looked at the flowery curtain, then to the moon, then to the led clock above the door. Anywhere else but on him. The alcohol was fading and reality was slowly creeping back. Only backed up by alcohol, alone, or around George could such word-John- stumble out of your mouth. It was not the type of thing you told him.

"It is okay if you don't want to talk about John." The way he stretched the name gave hint that he knew who it was. Of course he knew who John was. "Happy Birthday." He motioned and kissed your forehead.

"It has passed."

He smiled, "We are still in the birthday spirit." Gently, as he had entered, he slipped out of the cover and straightened it.

one foot past the thershold he said, "Be careful with boys, okay? I know you are of age and ripe but be careful." There was a sense of knowing in his tone. As if he could bear witness to something horrible. But what aroused questions was the sprinkle of fear you detected. What would be his reaction if you ever brought a boy's matter to him? would it leave him speechless and in tears, wishing Mom was around?

"Okay Dad, thank you. I will be careful." You didn't need to put effort into being careful with boys. Or with people.

He left the door open and you stared at the slight opening, measuring it with your chances of actually talking to John.

You closed your eyes and your mind presented a catalogued memory of John: of the day he acted as Samson, how he moved around that stage with an oiled chest, flexing muscle more than acting. You stretched and touched his chest. He smiled and clasped the sides of your head, like one about to kiss and said, "Wake up!"

"Baby wake up!" Dad was knocking; as an alarm enhanced by his shouting "Wake up! You are getting late again!" Then you heard his steps thud down the stairs.

The morning sun pierced directly into your eyes. On the clock above the door, you saw it was 7:07 a.m. Your bladder was full. When you stood up, the room whirled and you immediately sat down to balance yourself. A poster of Michael Jackson hovered over the head of bed. That, the pink vanity, and the small reading desk that were silhouetted in the night were now visible.

"I can't hear the shower run baby!"

"Dad, I am not a baby!"

"Yes. But you are my baby! You once shat on my belly!"

The neighbors probably heard-John probably heard that. "Be fast baby." His voice traveled from wherever he was into your room. It was intuition that told him that you hadn't entered the bathroom. And almost all the time he had it; he was wrong. But not today.

You didn't sit while easing yourself. After you wiped down, you entered the short hallway, and stretched to the wall for support. You didn't need to hold the bannister but you held it until you reached the landing. Apart from the sound of the shrilling, the sweet aroma gave off that it was plantain he was frying-which you were sure he had cut unprofessionally. You entered the kitchen and leaned on the fridge.

"Can I get panadol?" You asked.

He turned over the plantains and had not craned to see that your hair was still a kinky mess, and that the lines of sleep still scarred your face; and to top it off, you were still outfitted in yesterday's clothes.

He only stopped humming Alpha & Omega to answer you, "Check in that cardboard." He continued humming, turning plantain.

"Which one?" It could be any of the compartments.

He turned the last plantain and whirled to get it himself but on seeing you, he stopped in his tracks. "Ahhh..."

"Dad," You interjected before he could burst into full barking, "can I not go to school today?"

He stood there for roughly ten seconds. His eyes locked on you, expression stern.

"I feel sick..." You added, then wished you never did. Your gaze fell to the rack of plates on the counter, then to the shrilling plantain.

He moved towards the counter but only picked a black nylon on top the microwave. He leaned on the counter and started unknotting the nylon.

"The first time I drank alcohol, I mean, really drank alcohol, I threw up on a friend's rug. Uncle Jyide, you know him?"

You gave a nod of affirmation.

"Well, he was filty rich and had a maid who cleaned after us. The point I am making is: I didn't leave the trails of vomit on the rug, or did I keep a vomit-soaked rag in the sink without rinsing it." His voice was calm, you couldn't tell if he was angry. He popped two pills and dropped them in your palm.

"This is Extra. That headache should be gone in no time."

You threw them in your mouth- It was bitter, but it didn't kill you-and swallowed without water. Mom always did it and you often pondered how it tasted. It was awful. Noted! You opened the fridge and reached for water but opted for juice. The 5Alive was perspirated. You drank almost half. Happy birthday to you; an age of new things. Dad's gaze remained on you, his mouth was slightly agape.

"Did you just do that?"

You flashed a smile in reply.

"So.." "Did you..." you spoke in unison.

"You first...Birthday girl."

"Can I stay?" You pushed the limit to make your expression puppy. "Please?"

Completely ignoring you he said, "Did you get my point?"

"No, dad." You sighed.

"This morning, I met the parlor in a mess of vomit and popcorn, and the bottle of whiskey that was supposed to be hidden was just there, unhidden." He smiled, "You guys didn't drink that much sef. L S V A L."

"What is that?"

"What is what? L S V A L?"

You nodded.

He laughed. "Liquid Still Above Label. It was a term for lightweight back in my school days." He craned like one reliving a memory. He snapped out. "But next time try not to get too drunk, okay? It is bad for your liver."

Next time? Would there be a next time? You stared at your feet.

"In the spirit of birthdays, You can stay this one out." He said, unwrapping his apron.

A big smile formed on your face and your feet, tending to have a mind of its own, moved towards him and you hugged him. He embraced you too.

"Now, watch this plantain so I don't get late for work." He handed the apron to you. "Don't let it burn too much... It is on low heat so that should not be a problem. Just watch it."

You nodded and watched him leave the kitchen. His steps resonated are he scurried upstairs.

You dropped the apron on the table. You were still trying to get a grip on yourself. The Panadol might work, but it probably had not dissolved to even start quelling the headache. You moved to the shrilling plantain and picked the fork in a bowl by the side. You took another bowl and transferred that set. It was crunchy, just as he liked it.

After you removed the last piece of plantain, you proceeded to put a new set. The plantain shrilled on contact with oil and you stood at a comfortable distance, whereby your hand could almost reach the oil, but the rest of your body was far away-even ready to jerk backward if oil shot towards you. The last slice didn't have a corner of its own, and as you tried to fit it around the corner, you compared it with your life.

According to them, you were an olodo, a dullard, a dummy. You didn't blame them because your report said so. You always came in last or a spot before George. You didn't fit like the plantain. Apart from George, who was also an olodo, you had no other friend. It was sad but it was reality.

You had first spoken to George in the principal's office, where a panel decided if you would repeat Jss1. George was there and his case was been judged too. Outside the office, on a bench rowed on the wall, he sat beside you. An earpiece was in his ear and the music was loud enough to know it was Michael Jackson's Bad. You tapped him and he removed the pod. From asking if it was a Michael Jackson's song, although you knew it was, you asked him about his parent. Both dead, he said, i stay with my grandma. You hate the bullies right? You found out you had lots in common. He probably saw it too because, like glue, he stuck. He was an olodo, an introvert, an ugly boy with no dress sense, and you were all that plus more. Atleast, George had other acquaintances. He sometimes says, "No, i can't make it today, I am out with Jacob." Jacob was his brother. I mean, he had more siblings than you.

As you disinterestedly turned the plantain, a familiar voice resonated around the corner and spiked your heart. The voice was in its usual quarrel with the usual female voice.

"John, come back here! John!"

"I am going to school!" A door banged. If it was glass, it would have shattered.

The window by the side peered onto a lawn and the neighbor's duplex. The duplex was painted a dull green and was the only house barricaded by a short gate. You abandoned the plantain and ran to the window.

The rows of houses in the estate were separated by a stretch of asphalt. A red Camry rolled up on the asphalt. John angrily pushed the gate barricading his house. He didn't wear a tie nor did he tuck his shir. The Camry sped up only to brake beside him. His angry eyes met yours and you waved; fork in your hand. But his gaze already left. Maybe, from the corner of his eyes, he saw, or probably didn't and was only trying to elude his crazy mother who barged out with a knife in hand. She was clad in white night gown, her hair-what you aspired yours to be when you grow: Full and free from chemical- was ruffled. She chased the Red Camry but considered it futile after a few hasty steps.

Her eyes immediately caught yours.

"Don't you have a school to attend?" She wasn't shouting but her voice wasn't particularly calm. "You just like staring."

"Good morning ma."

"Nothing is good about the morning." She sighed and walked in. She left the gate and the front door ajar.