Pantie Rule

24 | Like Children In A Bouncing Castle

Ping!

A text message popped into my phone.

I frowned and picked it up. I didn't need to click the message box when I could just literally view it from the notification column. I scrolled, and what I saw was what my eyes should never see in a million light years.

Omotara, I love you.

My head recoiled, my lashes danced up and down as if I had been cursed with forever-blinking syndrome. I cleared my eyes and stared again. Then I dropped thr phone, snorted and burst into wild laughter.

It was funny, really.

I mean, who would ever love me? - a snob, a badass good girl, a goodass bad girl-No-let's remove 'ass'. A good bad girl. Still doesn't work.

Just 'a girl' it is then.

I grabbed the phone to check the contact name.

How mentally unstable of me not to. See? I'm going crazy, and this time, it's for reals.

No name?

No name?!

Just an annoying streak of words.

Unknown Number.

I laughed again and laid my phone down to rest as I thought if I was actually really going crazy - Why was I laughing? I mean normal Omotara would be raging now, huffing and puffing, being rude and all, but turns mental illnesses takes that from you.

And mummy has been acting all nice and pixie lately... Come to think of it, if mental illness could turn my monster mum into a mum-star mum, then as far as illnesses go... I'd like to remain mentally ill forever. But, I try to tell mum I'm not ill and she wouldn't listen.

No symptoms. No side effects. No dancing mad on the streets. And no talking to naked barbie dolls.

But still I'm mentally ill. Great.

"Um... Omotara." I quickly turned back.

Shit!

Mum was behind me. I put on a serious face then loosened it.

"Are you okay? You've been behaving..." Mentally ill. I get it.

"too... gentle these days."

Oh, wow. Interesting!

You should be considering that as a mental illness symptom, right? I retorted-in my mind - IN MY MIND.

Trust me, never ever ever say your mind to your Nigerian parent, if you still want to have a mind, that is. Her hands were folded and she was wearing a beautiful long boubou. Those types pregnant women wear. Wait, was she pregnant? Had dad finally decided to return to playing the LaLiga league because right after the victory of the first friendly match he had decided to hang his boots.

That's right. Only child alert!

By the way, mum was adorable in that boubou.

"I'm okay." I rapped, frowning. She shouldn't even be talking to me. I was still mad at her. I looked away, subtly, of course. She ignored me, walking to the dining and grabbing a bottle of groundnut. She slipped some unto her beautiful porcelain palm scarred with chocolate marked lines. By the way she had three lines across her palm. They say if it's three it stands for b-o-y, boy, but four, girl.

But mum broke the rule. Typical of her.

Mine reads boy too and I loathe it. I never want to give birth to a boy first. Not with the trouble boys give. I thought of my son being like Chizutere and shuddered. But the looks, he could have the looks plus the dreadlocks. I love dreadlocks.