“Daddy, every time you leave for work, mummy usually brings one black man out of the wardrobe and sits on your chair till you return.” That was what my little brother said this morning — in front of everyone. For a moment, the spoon in Daddy’s hand didn’t move.

It was one of those bright Saturday mornings when the generator was humming in the background, and the smell of fried egg filled the dining area. Daddy had just returned from a week of site work in Enugu, so everyone was trying to act peaceful. Mummy sat opposite him, adjusting her head tie, pretending to enjoy her food. Nonso was busy chewing yam, swinging his legs under the chair, the way children do when they don’t know they’ve just thrown a bomb.

Daddy looked up slowly, like he wasn’t sure he heard well. “Nonso, come again,” he said quietly.

The boy swallowed and repeated it, even clearer this time. “When you go to work, Mummy will open the wardrobe, bring out one black man, and they’ll sit on your chair till you come back.”

The sound of the ceiling fan became louder. Mummy forced a laugh. “Ah-ah, children of nowadays. You people can say anything!” She reached for her cup of tea, but her hand shook slightly.

Daddy didn’t smile. His eyes were fixed on her, steady but calm in that dangerous kind of way. “Amara, you heard what he said.”

“Yes na, but he’s a child,” she said quickly. “You know how Nonso imagines things. Maybe it’s one cartoon he saw.”

But even Nonso’s face didn’t look like someone imagining anything. He was just focused on his food, dipping yam into egg, like he had done nothing unusual.

The table went quiet. Nobody talked for the rest of breakfast. When Mummy stood to clear the plates, Daddy’s eyes followed her all the way to the kitchen. That silence was louder than shouting.

Later that afternoon, Daddy told her he was going out to buy diesel, but instead of going to the filling station, he parked at the junction and just sat there in the car for almost thirty minutes, thinking. He didn’t want to believe it, but that small voice from his son wouldn’t leave his head. “One black man from the wardrobe.”

That evening, when he returned, Amara was humming in the kitchen like nothing happened. The wardrobe was still there in the corner of their bedroom — big, brown, and quiet. He opened it and saw only clothes and boxes. But when he closed it, he thought he heard something shift lightly inside, like fabric brushing wood.

He told himself it was nothing. Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe Nonso really imagined it.

The next morning, when he left for work, he kept glancing at the clock. By 2 p.m., he couldn’t take it anymore. He turned the car around and drove home.

When he got to the compound, the gate was half open. He stepped out quietly, hearing faint laughter coming from the sitting room — a man’s deep laugh, and Amara’s voice following softly.

He froze by the window, heart thumping. The laughter came again, gentle but real.

He leaned closer to the glass — and what he saw inside made him drop his car key.

This story is titled:

THE MAN IN MUMMY’S WARDROBE

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Source: Akponwei John Michael, a tide of drizzling inspiration.