So here's something.

A writer who doesn't write is authentic, the real deal. Even better is a writer who once wrote, and has evidence of it. So here's something from the past, to support my claims.

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1. The hole in the roof.

Being afraid has a horrible taste.

It tastes like a drop of the tangiest lime on the part of your tongue where you bit yourself chewing gum. It feels like being out in the cold with no sweater and no shoes, and it smells like the yucky stuff in your hair when you haven’t washed it in weeks. It’s awful.

My mum’s hand is in mine. It’s gone all slippery and full of perspiration, so I’m using my other hand to hold her skirt. Her other hand is around my mouth, to keep me from making any sound. That’s where some of the taste of afraid is coming from.

But it’s not her I’m afraid of. The two of us, we’re up in the roof. There’s no door, there’s no window, and there’s no TV. There’s only a square piece of floor that moves when you push it to give room for people to climb in, and then you have to put the square back again otherwise people know you’re in there and then there’s no point, because the little hole in the roof is for hiding.

There are three of us for now, daddy, mummy and me. Sometimes I think it might be cooler if there were more of us because then I could have someone else to play with after school. But I only want that on some days, on most days I like to play by myself in my room. And you can’t return a whole child so maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Daddy says things like, “look out, Sport! Soon there’ll be someone else in your mum’s heart, just like you came in and pushed me out of hers!” and I laugh, but I really hope that would never happen. And anyway, I know he’s only teasing because after he says it my mum smiles her secret little smile that she only smiles at him, and he kisses her on the lips and I say, “eew!” because I know that’s what boys my age are supposed to do, but I really don’t mind it at all.

When I came back from school today, it was like normal. The driver dropped me at the door and drove back out to get mummy first, and then daddy. I know that because that’s what the note said on the fridge. It was in mummy’s handwriting and it said, “Darling, home a little late. Leaving work early and coming home with dad. He has a business party. Make sure you eat all your dinner!! See you, x, M.” Her name doesn’t really start with M but she likes to do that sometimes. It’s an inside joke, which means only the three of us know where it came from.

Aunty Rose was in. She was cleaning the living room and I said good afternoon and went upstairs to put down my schoolbag. I did my homework really fast because otherwise Aunty Rose won’t have let me watch TV and today there was going to be Spiderman.

After, I ate dinner really slowly because I didn’t want to go to bed, because I wanted to see mum and dad first. Whenever they come back from parties they’re always dressed up fancy and smell of perfume and cigarette smoke and wine, and they tell me about the funny things people wore or said. Like the time another banker person said, “the value of the naira is going to rise in the next year, mark my words!” just the day after it dropped by another point five percent. I didn’t know what that meant but mum said, “Oh don’t laugh, honey, he was just being optimistic,” and I know that that is something good to be. She was smiling her laugh of when she’s trying not to laugh so I laughed too.

At school, after, my teacher asked if anyone knew a joke. I was going to tell it, but then Adanna told a joke about a chicken and everybody laughed – real, proper laughs. So I didn’t.

Anyway, I was chewing my fish very slowly. The big word for that is called Masticating. If you’ve had fish you’ll know that it’s very hard to chew it slowly, because the fish tries to scatter once you bite it with your teeth, and your whole mouth starts to fill with water and it scatters all over your tongue and you can’t open your mouth or it’ll dribble down your chin. So I was concentrating on swallowing slowly when I heard the gate open.

It was very loud, as if someone had thrown a gigantic stone at it and tried to pull it apart with a giant tin opener, and then I heard the sound of a car making a noise like it was scraping against the floor with the same tin opener. The taste of afraid came a little then, from the back of my throat, so I swallowed another mouthful of fish. Then mom and dad opened the door very quickly and ran inside.

Dad started shouting, “the roof, the roof!” and Mum grabbed my hand and we ran up and up and up the stairs. Dad was behind and when we got to the top he gave mum a leg up and she disappeared into the hole. Then her two arms came out and daddy pushed me into them and then we were inside as if nothing had happened.

So I didn’t remember to hear the other car that had come in behind them, and I didn’t remember to hide my plate so that they won’t see any evidence that there was anyone at home – I saw that in a movie once – and I didn’t remember to wonder why dad didn’t come into the hole with us. And after I heard a noise like a loud firecracker, I couldn’t remember whether I’d turned off the TV.

That’s when mummy made a noise and covered my mouth with her hand. I looked up at her and she was biting her lip to keep from talking, and there were tears on her face.

Of course, then, I knew what was happening. We were being robbed. The bad men were downstairs, and daddy was being a hero. He was putting his life on the line for his family and that was very brave, so I knew not to cry. And anyway, boys don’t cry.

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Unfinished, as are most things. Comments, critiques, and flattery are welcome in equal measure.