Precious Corner II ✨ @preciousthinks - Twitter Profile

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Precious Corner II ✨ @PreciousThinks

3 months ago

Still awake? Let's gr0w together 😉😍

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Precious Corner II ✨ @PreciousThinks

8 days ago

This series is getting more interesting 😁😃

Precious Corner ✨

@PreshyCorner

8 days ago

THE HOUSE WITH BROKEN CLOCKS ⌚ {CONTINUATION FROM THE LAST EPISODE •••} 4 :29pm, Sunday, March 12, 1994 The light had gone. NEPA doing NEPA things. But the kitchen was warm anyway. Mama Efe stood at the stove, stirring a pot of jollof that smelled like Sunday itself. Tomato, pepper, a little thyme. She’d snuck extra stock cubes in because Pa Osaze always pretended he didn’t notice. “Food is ready,” she called, not loud. She never had to be. Her voice just filled the house. “Come and eat before it gets cold.” Pa Osaze was on his knees by the kitchen door, lantern beside him. He was trying to fix the stove burner that had been sputtering all week. Oil on his hands, cloth in his mouth. He looked up and grinned at her. “Woman, if you keep cooking like this I’ll never leave this house.” “You’re not supposed to,” she said, and tossed him a slice of plantain from the pan. He caught it with his teeth and winked. At the table, Aisha was balancing a spoon on her nose. She was nine and this was Serious Business. “Watch me, Daddy. I’m practicing for when I fly planes. Pilots need balance.” “You’ll be the best pilot in Nigeria,” Pa Osaze said, muffled around the cloth. “But tie your shoes first, Nosa. Before you run.” Nosa, six, was under the table with his gear-box. He’d taken apart the tiny watch again. Gears and springs everywhere. “It stopped at 3 :17, Mama. Like the big clock in the hall. Do you think they’re talking to each other?” Mama Efe laughed and set his plate down. Jollof, plantain, a piece of chicken just for him. “Clocks don’t talk, my love. But even broken things keep going. Watch.” She wound the tiny watch once. It ticked. Once. Then stopped. Nosa gasped like she’d done magic. Aisha rolled her eyes but she was smiling. Outside, Harmattan wind pushed at the curtains. Dry, restless. Pa Osaze reached for the lantern to get better light on the burner. The flame flickered. Mama Efe turned, spoon in hand. “Osaze, be careful with that thing—” 4 :29 ended there. For one more second, the house was just a family at dinner. Laughing. Arguing about spoons. Promising about planes and planes and plantain. Then the spark caught the curtain. But the clocks remembered 4 :29. Not the fire. Not the smoke. Just the jollof, the wink, the “tie your shoes,” and Mama Efe saying “even broken things keep going.” That’s what they held onto for thirty years. That’s what they gave you when you sat on the floor at 4 :30 and listened. The watch on your wrist ticks now because that second never really ended. It’s still happening, somewhere. TO BE CONTINUED •••

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Precious Corner ✨

@PreshyCorner

8 days ago

THE HOUSE WITH BROKEN CLOCKS ⌚ {CONTINUATION FROM THE LAST EPISODE •••} 4 :29pm, Sunday, March 12, 1994 The light had gone. NEPA doing NEPA things. But the kitchen was warm anyway. Mama Efe stood at the stove, stirring a pot of jollof that smelled like Sunday itself. Tomato, pepper, a little thyme. She’d snuck extra stock cubes in because Pa Osaze always pretended he didn’t notice. “Food is ready,” she called, not loud. She never had to be. Her voice just filled the house. “Come and eat before it gets cold.” Pa Osaze was on his knees by the kitchen door, lantern beside him. He was trying to fix the stove burner that had been sputtering all week. Oil on his hands, cloth in his mouth. He looked up and grinned at her. “Woman, if you keep cooking like this I’ll never leave this house.” “You’re not supposed to,” she said, and tossed him a slice of plantain from the pan. He caught it with his teeth and winked. At the table, Aisha was balancing a spoon on her nose. She was nine and this was Serious Business. “Watch me, Daddy. I’m practicing for when I fly planes. Pilots need balance.” “You’ll be the best pilot in Nigeria,” Pa Osaze said, muffled around the cloth. “But tie your shoes first, Nosa. Before you run.” Nosa, six, was under the table with his gear-box. He’d taken apart the tiny watch again. Gears and springs everywhere. “It stopped at 3 :17, Mama. Like the big clock in the hall. Do you think they’re talking to each other?” Mama Efe laughed and set his plate down. Jollof, plantain, a piece of chicken just for him. “Clocks don’t talk, my love. But even broken things keep going. Watch.” She wound the tiny watch once. It ticked. Once. Then stopped. Nosa gasped like she’d done magic. Aisha rolled her eyes but she was smiling. Outside, Harmattan wind pushed at the curtains. Dry, restless. Pa Osaze reached for the lantern to get better light on the burner. The flame flickered. Mama Efe turned, spoon in hand. “Osaze, be careful with that thing—” 4 :29 ended there. For one more second, the house was just a family at dinner. Laughing. Arguing about spoons. Promising about planes and planes and plantain. Then the spark caught the curtain. But the clocks remembered 4 :29. Not the fire. Not the smoke. Just the jollof, the wink, the “tie your shoes,” and Mama Efe saying “even broken things keep going.” That’s what they held onto for thirty years. That’s what they gave you when you sat on the floor at 4 :30 and listened. The watch on your wrist ticks now because that second never really ended. It’s still happening, somewhere. TO BE CONTINUED •••

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83

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2K

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