Cataclysm from the Cup
The morning was a treacherous thing. It had arrived in the slow, reluctant way of
unpaid debts, carrying the full weight of harmattan’s mischief. The air was dry, brittle,
waiting to crack at the first sign of movement. Outside, the world was wrapped in the
ghostly breath of dust and cold, but inside, within the sanctum of Pa Alabi’s modest
sitting room, salvation simmered in a clay pot.
He had risen with purpose that morning—though age and the stiff protest of his knees
had tried their best to keep him down. The house, silent in the way that only a
bachelor’s dwelling could be, bore witness as he shuffled to the kitchen. He brewed
his tea with the precision of a man performing an ancestral ritual. Not too much
sugar—no, the tongue must labor for its rewards. A single clove, because the old
ways demanded a whisper of spice. He lifted the cup reverently, inhaled the fragrant
steam, and sighed in contentment.
Then, as it always does at the height of a man’s peace, disaster struck.
It began with a knock at the door. A gentle, deceitful knock, the kind that promises
civility but delivers calamity. In his haste to answer, Pa Alabi set the cup down on a
small wooden stool. A stool that, unbeknownst to him, was already occupied—by
Bala, his ancient, battle-scarred cat.
Bala, offended by the intrusion of both cup and owner, reacted with the swiftness of a
spirit summoned in error. A single swipe of his imperial paw sent the cup flying. The
tea, that warm essence of morning tranquility, defied gravity, hung in the air for a
poetic moment, then descended upon Pa Alabi’s unsuspecting lap.
There are few forces on earth as transformative as scalding liquid meeting human
flesh. The old man, whose bones had been slow only minutes before, now discovered
agility previously thought extinct. He leapt from his chair, a great and terrible cry
bursting from his lips—a sound so profound that even the ancestors must have turned
in their graves.
Bala, unrepentant, stretched luxuriously and watched as his master performed an
impromptu rain dance across the room. The knock came again, more insistent this
time, and with the full force of his wrath, Pa Alabi flung the door open.
It was the neighborhood preacher, eyes wide with alarm. ‘Papa Alabi, what is
happening?’
The old man straightened, ignoring the burning in his thighs. He cast one final glare at
Bala, who licked his paws in smug indifference, then turned to his visitor with the
composure of a man who had not just been baptized in his own tea.
‘Nothing, Pastor,’ he said solemnly. ‘The spirit just moved me.’
And with that, he headed towards to his seat— mercilessly signed but expectation
awoken— ready to receive revelations from the preacher.
Steve Akinkuolie is a Nigerian-born storyteller whose work blends humor and social commentary to create vivid narratives. His writing style, marked by sharp wit and lyrical prose, is inspired by African oral traditions, blending them seamlessly with contemporary themes.