Ever since my grandfather passed away. His chair in the family house has remained like that because I doubt anyone has touched it. Not since he got buried, until recently, when one of my uncles, Matthew, walked towards it during a family gathering one evening like that, like a man reporting for a duty he believed was already his.
Before that, my younger brother had knocked over a plate of rice reaching for egg and meat, and Matthew's voice was all over the room even before the plastic plate finished doing a 360 rotation on the tiled floor.
“Didn't you open your eyes clearly, or didn't you see where your hand was headed?” I saw the trembling expression on my brother's face, but he didn't cry, which in a way made it worse. My eldest sister, Aunty Ruth, cleaned up the rice on the floor without hesitation, just like the way she has cleaned a lot of things before and stopped expecting to change.
The chair is somewhere beside the dining table freezer, close to the window. All these hardwood chairs were made from mahogany trees, one armrest worn pale where grandfather's palm had rested through thirty years of meetings.
No one has given a meaning to this so far. And that spot has been a place where the oldest voice sat. And after he passed away, it has remained empty in all the family gatherings we have done, just like the way some of us keep hoping to hear someone's voice again knowing fully well that they are gone for life.
Matthew was standing beside it. He touched it and slowly pulled it out. It gave the same sound of dragging as how grandfather usually drags it against the floor, something he needs to move very close to the window.
A lot of us looked in his direction, like we wanted to start a conversation. Aunty Ruth's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. My father's hand found my mother's arm under the table.
“In this family, there should be an elder, and so far, I am the eldest,” Matthew said to one and yet all of us present. He said it with the expression as if he had rehearsed it a lot of time alone in a mirror, his words were loud, yet I was not sure if the entire room heard or agreed to what he said.
Another elder in the room, but who is almost always silent, responded to him. "Sit down then," he said. Not a challenge, not, not even a blessing. Just straight permission was offered, the type where you give food to a person and watch that person decide to eat or not.
Matthew sat comfortably. This strong old chair remains solid and did not give a cracking sound like some old chair would have. It simply held him, just comfortable how it used to held grandfather.
The eldest, close to him, voiced out again, "Our father sat there for thirty years and never once raised his voice from the seat." He said it looking round the room, not at Matthew.
Matthew's jaw moved, just like the motion I had dey happened a few minutes before then after my younger brother dropped the plate of rice on the floor. Then he stood up shortly, moved to the place where we are and sat close to his wife.
After that happened, no one ever talked about who the chair belonged to. It just reminded there afterwards until my elder sister's daughter, three years old who does not know what is going on claimed into it the following Christmas without knowing the history or asking for permission from anyone.
I laughed, the elder who spoke the other day also laughed for the first time ever since he started attending any family gathering.
Thank you for reading.
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