I wake up, my hair rough as ever. My boxers is sagged. My face is grungy and my shirt is all rolled up. I stretch. I think I woke up on the wrong side of the street. I’d need some sunlight now.
I step out into the backyard, I sniff. The morning air smells same on a Saturday. There’s the ramshackle chair papa has rocked for forty-five years or so. I lazily position it and descend on it, astride. The sky is still blurry. I blink and slap my face. I shake it off. I think I’m half awake now.
My younger brother, Dele. What is he up to now? He’s holding a long stick. His shorts is backward, the zip is at the bum side and his vest has so many new holes in it. Hmm… this is new. I see pigeons lined side by side in front of him as he holds his stick. Is he having a class? I hiss. He must have woken up on the wrong side of the planet, this one.
I think he’s saying something to the pigeons. I don’t have his time, but I’m forced to talk, I talk anyways.
“Dele,” I sniff, “Wh-wh-wh-wh-what are you doing?”
Dele hisses and return his focus to the pigeons.
“A-a-a-a-am I not talking to you?” my chair ricochets.
Dele looks at me with a disgusting grin, “I’m teaching these pigeons a lesson!” he yells.
“Because they look alike!”
I hiss and continue my nonchalant basking in the morning sunlight.
“Wanoo!” Dele calls. One of the pigeons catwalks forward and turns around to join the line.
“Toowee!” and another pigeon walks forward.
“Twee!” and another.
“Foowor!” yet another.
I observe and hiss.
“Good, good,” Dele continues, “Now all you pigeons have names. Each time I call your names I expect the exact pigeon to step forward. No more looking alike. No more mating indiscriminately. There will be no food for you if you birds can’t remember your names! You will eat now, and I expect you all to fall in line afterwards. Is that clear?”
The pigeons coo. Dele’s hand enters his pocket and from within springs grains, as they scatter on the ground. The pigeons flail at their breakfast.
“Order! Order!” Dele censures, “You, take it easy. You there, wait for your turn. You, if I catch you…”
After munching, the pigeons resume their lines. Dele speaks.
The birds look at each other in tension, then they look at Dele. Before I can say “pigeon”, they attack him, forming a plague over him. Feathers flutter in their wake. They resume their lines. Dele now has newer holes in his vest, and a swollen face. I hiss.