For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and for these two, their lives have been planned down to a science.
For Wylan Olson, being yourself can be very stressful. Since she was young, her emotions have always been backwards. The e...
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"Khairi," I nodded quietly as I scavenged through the fridge, replaying the run in at the office in my head.
What's up, Kwame. How was the office?" I shook my head faintly, thinking about the girl who was there.
"It was fine, you know, boring as usual."
At least it was until she got there. I walked over to him, peering over his shoulder, so I could see his worksheet. He wasn't listening to a word I said as he tapped his calculator violently.
"I'm going to go practice. I'll see you if you get done with that."
He nodded, waving me off as I left. I shook my head, chuckling softly at my brother.
I walked into the family music room, and played around with my cello, thinking about my orchestra's upcoming concert. I'd been playing for a while now, but I hadn't mastered it the way I would've liked to. I learned the fundamentals quickly, and I would say that I was above proficient but nowhere near mastery.
My mother peeked her head in the room smiling at me. "You alright, Kwame?" I nodded, putting the cello aside as I stood to receive a hug from her. I was always in a good mood because I always made sure I was happy first. I believed that you had all the time in the world to worry about others, but you'd never know when your own time would be up.
I held her for a moment, laughing at how I dwarfed her. Though my mother was tall, I had shot past her around seventh grade.
"I was just practicing."
She smiled and nodded, "Yeah, I heard, and so did Kasim," she replied looking back into the hallway. My mother was a beautiful combination of Nigerian and Ghanaian, two cultures that seemed to dominate my life. My father's Kenyan roots were rarely noticeable because of the overlapping Nigerian culture they shared.
My eight-year-old brother was half my age, but had two times my energy. I was suave, poised, and composed while he was, understandably, a rambunctious child.
Soon enough Kasim bounced into the room, "Kwame!" He ran towards me and received a scolding from my mother for running around the instruments.
I laughed, squatting down and hugging him tightly, "Want to go play FIFA or something?"
He nodded furiously and I followed him to the living room, winking at my mom on the way out.
We were close, very close, and even though at moments Kasim could do things that made me want to bury him in the back yard, I still loved him.
After a few games, I realized it was ten minutes past Kasim's bedtime, so I made him go upstairs. Someone claimed the spot beside me, and I assumed it was Khairi, wanting to beat me again since the only thing he won was FIFA.
"Kwame, you should wrap it up in a few."
It wasn't my brother. It was my dad.
"Yes sir," I said as I shut the game down and started on my way to my bedroom.
