As a teen, Mercy loved washing her father’s car. Out there with the car, temporarily distracted from the disordered feelings of her teenage life, she felt more at peace. She’d get everything from the store, put on one of her brother’s shorts, and walk to the car parked in front of the house. Since her family lived in an unfenced house, both the neighbours and passers-by had a good view of her.
“Nna ehn. Have you seen that? It’s girl power. She’ll rule her father’s house.” All she wanted to do was just wash her dad’s car, and later on grab a novel. Who’d thought about ruling her father’s house? Finally, whispers were forgotten, and people remembered they had more important things to talk about. But there was someone left behind.
“You see, even though you are the first daughter and the first child, your younger brother is the heir to your father’s properties,” her friend said, with the hint of a smile, thoroughly pleased to have passed on such an enlightening piece of information.
“So? Who’s fighting?” she asked, amused. “Didn’t you get me? The car is his by extension. What is your brother really doing for you?”
Mercy just couldn’t understand why someone would make something as simple as washing a car to look so complicated. Maybe that’s how she thinks: something just has to be dramatic in people’s lives. There should always be something to talk about.