The Dream Part 1

I wrote this piece for a competition a while back, I didn't win anything! Please read and tell me what you think, this is the first part....

The room was stifling hot.

The lights, standing on thin, spindly metal stems were scorching bright and focused on our faces.

The other equipments were heavy and sitting in awkward metal tripods. Long curling wires of various sizes ran from them to circuits on the wall giving them the look of strange mechanical robots waiting for a command to come to life.

Aside from the lights on our faces, the room was in shadows, I could make out silhouettes of people walking around, adjusting one machine and stopping briefly to converse with one another. There was a relaxed air around them that came from years of practice.

I was perspiring and soaking the long-sleeved navy blue adire (tie and dye) shirt and thick Aso-oke (locally woven fabric) ankle length skirt I had carefully chosen to show my patriotism but still look stylish, how did anyone get used to this heat? I pondered as I looked around. Aside from the make-up artist that had applied my make up earlier, no one was paying me any attention.

The man sitting across from me was fidgeting with papers, rifling through them, touching the gadget that was attached to his left earlobe, he nodded several times and mumbled something into the small microphone that was attached to the front of his brown shirt, I almost wiped my face with my sweaty palms but I had to refrain from doing so.

The make-up artist had warned me not to do that because my make up was not waterproof, I looked around again, people just kept walking about, moving equipments from one place to the other. Why didn’t they switch the lights off till they were ready? I thought as I felt sweat snake from my left temple towards my cheek and the dampness under my arms made my armpits itch, I pressed my arms closer to my sides to stop the itching.

“Em madam” the man’s voice was gruff, he sounded very impolite.

He was usually all smiles on television, silky voice, handsome, smooth ebony skin, nice trim moustache and sparkling white teeth, he got married last June to a well known actress and daughter of one of the political party chairman, it was undoubtedly a society affair.

I turned towards him already wearing a smile. It was automatic.

“Let’s just do a dry run of the questions okay?” he nodded at his question and frowned at the paper he was holding, “so!” it was a command.

I shifted on the hard back chair, sitting up straighter.

“The first question will be about your background, how you started writing and stuff like that, okay!” it was a statement, but I nodded accordingly.

He paused and his frown deepen, “your novel, “The Mental starvation of The African Child”” he paused again and rubbed his fleshy mouth, my eyes followed the pedantic movement, I knew what the next question was before he asked it, “Where did you get the title from? You know the play of words” this time he stared at me as if he really wanted an answer, I cleared my throat and wiped my face, remembering belatedly that I was not supposed to, “yes” I paused, cleared my throat again, I sounded like a drowning kitten.

I forced myself to relax, this was my field after all, “I studied Psychology as my first degree, so I just wanted something that will combine my origin and my discipline” it sounded good surprisingly, he nodded and looked down again, “The book itself—a journal about poverty and the exploitation of the African child—was there a parallel to be drawn from your own upbringing?” I felt a quivering in my stomach.

I tried to smile but the muscles in my cheeks jumped so I stopped, rubbed my hands together as if I was cold. I was.

The question had taken me somewhere I was not prepared to go, I licked my lips, and again belatedly remembered the gloss the make-up artist had painstakingly applied to my lips, “The book, which is dedicated to my late elder sister, Ima Ossai, who died when we were  young was written as a tribute to all starving African children” I paused to inhale, it felt like breathing in fire, “it was her story that prompted the writing of the book” I paused, should I reveal much more about myself? I pondered as he waited, sitting forward, he seemed genuinely interested, or tell how my resolve to disallow Uncle Luke have his way had caused the incident that led to her death? “The first ten chapters vividly describe how starvation robs the African child from dreaming of loftier goals” my voice sounded funny again, I tried another smile, a quivering of facial muscles, I swallowed instead, my throat was dry. I remembered the day I found her secret notebook, where she wrote about her wish for me to be a superstar, who knew Ima had time or talent for writing? The graphic description of one of the many afternoons of our childhood was stamped in my mind like a prayer; I had unconsciously memorized it, word for word…