Editorial: The TV Day by Obiagwu Uchechukwu Godstime

Obiagwu Uchechukwu Godstime

'Turn on the TV' was a very simple term my dad used whenever he sat on the sofa directly opposite the television stand prepared enough to watch and listen to all the news in the world like a serial killer wanting to ascertain if he has been on any news channel lately.

Even as kids, we had our grievances. My dad was a hard nut to crack. We disliked his news watching attitude but we could not complain. He normally enters the parlor when the movie we were watching was getting to climax and without favour would tune it to NTA. The song after which they will say, 'bringing the nation to your doorstep' was disgusting. I disliked it. They were bringing which nation to whose doorstep? Al-Jazeera was another heck of a news channel. Even as a kid, I knew I had no travel business in Iran, Pakistan, Libya. They were always at wars, their nation was always on depletion, they were faced with tons of environmental hazards.

Al-Jazeera was a channel where you go and see the troubles of the World -they did not promise to bring it to our doorstep though. And many other news channels which had no story line and action like our movies. We had managed his news watching until he started inviting us to the parlor whenever he wanted to watch the news. Like what in name of God were we there for? News? I could barely understand a thing. Then all of a certain sudden, we had to listen to the news with our jotters so we could jot down as many points as possible. To jot points from an event I have tagged pointless was something I struggled to do.

Frank Edoho’s Who Wants To Be A Millionaire was our family programme. Everyone was always in the parlor, attentive, attemptive and not forgetting to mention, contemptive if there was a word like that. We were trying to answer with them -they who would receive cash prizes at the end of the exercise and then we, I do not even know. My father, maybe did not realize that that was not our type of movies or maybe he was doing something intentionally. But whatever he was doing, we were kids, his kids, and be should consider how and what we feel first.

It was just either war films for my brother and I, or Africa magic for my elder sister which has made us fight, as many as I cannot count or even recall, over the television remote control. We had gone to the nearest hell on one of the days when during our fight, we smashed the screen of the only television we had in the house, sitting proudly on top of a finely constructed wood. It was the eye with which my father sees the entire world. We pierced it. It was a fight that led to my sister turning the TV off insisting she is the eldest and therefore should have control of the remote. Myself, as little as we were then did not buy the idea. I turned the TV back on and we kept on doing that. Until the television was dethroned, from its mighty abode.

We became friends, we became siblings again, trying to figure out what was going to be convincing enough for our father who was not quick to be convinced. I, and I believe all of us, had the feeling of discomfort. I felt a sharp urge to use the toilet as I had in me, what seemed like a boiling feaces. It was not really feaces, it was fear, it was expectations of punishment that was to come. Everyone was sober. We were reflecting. On what exactly? I did not know. My brother seemed thankful that between the story line, he was nowhere to be found aside the fact that he was a witness and witnesses will always have their share. The parlor was still in a mess with the last king on its face, screen shattered. My father’s eye. Even if he did not want to react, the sorrow of not having to see the world like every other day was enough reason to remember everything and launch our deserved punishment on us. Nothing seemed reasonable, neither did any seem convincing. We were dead. Market closes by 5pm and it was past four and nothing was coming up. It seemed as if we had a time bomb hanged on our necks, hands, legs and just all over our bodies. Why did we start this whole argument and fight in the first place?

Just immediately it was half past 4, an angel came. It was a saving angel. It was my brother, who had sat speechless since after the incident. He was eight at that time. Now that I am grown, I remember those words and I know for sure it was an angel who spoke. He was Diokpara, so he decided to take responsibility of whatever had happened to the TV. Messiah! All we needed to do was to keep mute and let him speak whenever my dad would ask. As kids, we thought he was playing a card that would favor him. Yes, he was. It was going to favor him and us all. It would save us the lashing of that cool evening. It would save us from the whole neighbours knowing that we had been flogged and then laugh and mock us as if they are never being flogged. The angel had us keep calm. We cleared the glasses from the shattered screen, reinstalled the TV upon its throne, looking desolate. Girls cry often! My sister has cried all her tears. Our angel still had us calm down. It was dramatic.

5:10pm and the man whose eyes were harmed knocked at the gate. I opened the gate and let him come in. Good evening Dad. I do not know how, but he asked me if I was alright. Like he could read my heart. Maybe it was because the usual excitement was missing. It was not missing, I knew where it was. It was in the parlor. We all greeted. What was happening? First time over a long time, my dad enters the parlor before his room. We were finally done for. My father, on seeing the TV, did not act shocked or surprised, or rather enraged. He had us come to the parlor and then dropped the big sized, solid question. Who shattered the TV screen? Grave silence, graveyard silence. Our angel spoke up, just in no time. I am the one. It looked like rage was starting to set on my dad’s face. What were you doing and why would you be stupid, enough to even break the screen of the television I kept here. Rage was building. Does this parlor belong to you and I? Is this how you go about spoiling things? He has not heard the full story yet. So our angel started again. We were struggling for remote, Chinwe and I. He told him just the truth, withholding nothing. He was in tears.

I saw then that it was possible for a man to bear the sins of another man, just as we are told of Jesus who bore the sins of the world. The son of the Good God, whom they teach us created the heaven and earth while my father built his own house, could not leave heaven, a place of enjoyment, to die for the sins of not just his friends, if he had any, but of the world, even those yet unborn. It was possible! And not just to bear the sins, but also the punishment. Christ had to bear mockery, torture, ridicule, hanging and even till death on the cross. It was possible. My brother did it. I was expecting a lot of things but nothing in particular. My dad did not talk to any of us. He went into his room and changed his clothes. He called an electrician who came and carried the TV. It has not all ended yet. It was my dad who would declare the matter closed. We do not assume. Just within an hour, the electrician came back with the TV and turned it back on. It could see. It could let my father see the world again. My father went inside, brought our cane. Yes, our cane. It was ours afterall. He, after advising us, gave us the softest strokes I have received ever before. Just two soft strokes and he let us go.

My angel, my brother, my friend, did not say a word. I wished I could tell him how much that meant to me, to all of us. He was still managing tears until I thanked him. Then the wells of his eyes were unlocked and he left tears mingle down. He would have faced wrath earlier. He did not care. Or did he, yet decided to do it afterall? So Christ found it really difficult to bear those sins? So he knew wrath followed and still decided to do it? Christ cried, my brother did too. Was it the tears of knowing that they did not do what they were punished for? Or was it the agony in the consciousness that if tables had turned, it would not be fair to them? That was what I did not ask. That was what I could not ask. I came to the understanding that they did those sacrifices, not to become heroes, but to give us another chance to make things right. I was thankful for yet another day that he has been indeed, my brother.

After three days, my father came back with a smaller TV which he kept in our room. He warned us never to use the one in the parlor. The tune of his voice suggested that. We owned our own TV now but we did not know yet what it would cause us. We did not think of it. One thing we were happy about was that we had our own television and could watch it at anytime we wanted. I had expected a marathon film watching. It was not so. I still saw myself wanting to watch more of Frank Edoho’s Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. I wanted to know so much so I can participate in the live program so that children whom their parents force to watch it -if there were any, and maybe those who watch it freely, for educational and other purposes would see me. It became an aspiration.