CHAPTER SEVEN - HE CAN'T SWEEP 😂
937 Words
KEHINDE
The broom stands between us. Simple. Harmless. But somehow this man is looking at it like it insulted his ancestors. The air is charged with tension. It feels like one of those cowboy movies with the staring and the tumbleweed. He stares at the broom. Then at me. I struggle to swallow my laughter. His expression is ridiculous. He’s looking at me like I just asked him to dismantle a nuclear bomb.
“Sweep.”
“No.”, he says immediately. His jaw is set. His expression is now stoic. Flat. Arrogant. Certain.
I blink.
“No?”
“No.”
“You think this is a democracy?”
His eyes narrow.
“You think this is a hotel?”
“It was a yes or no question.”
“You are in my house.”
“You kidnapped me.”
My jaw drops.
“KIDNAPPED?”
Why does he keep saying that?
“You won’t let me leave.”
“You don’t know where you are.”
“I know enough.”
“Really?”
I give him a wicked smile.
“What street are we on?”
Silence.
“What area?”
More silence.
“What country?”
His mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“... Nigeria.”
“Congratulations.”, I say mockingly.
He looks offended.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you are forcing me to perform manual labor.”
Did he just say?
I laugh so hard I nearly choke.
Manual labor.
MANUAL LABOR.
This man really is the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met, acting like I’m some prison warden.
“You fell into my pool. And decided to make my life a nightmare.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly?”
“There were no witnesses.”
I stare. Then burst out laughing. His face remains stoic. He actually means what he’s saying. And that makes it even funnier. I laugh for what feels like an eternity until I finally manage to compose myself.
“You are unbelievable.”, I say, wiping a tear.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You know what?”
I shove the broom into his chest. He throws it down.
“Pick it up,”
“No,”
“Excuse me?”
“No,”
This fool. This idiotic fool.
“You ate my breakfast,”
“I complimented your breakfast.”
“You called it good.”
“It was good.”
“That’s barely a compliment.”
He shrugs.
I pick up the broom and shove it into his chest again.
“You think I’m your maid? You think you’ll laze about and do nothing abi? Not on my watch.”
“Well, close your eyes, then?”
“What?”
“Close your eyes if you don’t want to watch me laze about.”
I scoff. The audacity of this asshole is crazy.
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
“Sweep.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then —
“Sweep.”
He sighs like a man who has suffered. Like his entire bloodline has been wronged.
Then he grabs the broom.
“Just so you know, this is abuse.”
I smirk. The feeling of victory nearly brings me to tears. But my victory is short-lived because —
He’s holding the broom upside down.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
His jaw tightens.
“It’s a broom.”
“You are thirty years old.”
“Have you ever touched a broom before?”
Silence.
Disbelief colors my features.
“You... No, tell me you’re joking.”
“You don’t know how to use it.”
“I know the concept.”
“The concept?”
“It pushes dirt. Why use a broom? Don't have a vacuum cleaner?"
"I doubt you'd be able to use that too."
"I understand the concept."
“The concept.
“Yes.”
“The concept.”
“Why do you keep repeating that?”
“Because you’re saying it like you’re discussing quantum physics.”
“My staff... they do the cleaning. I’ve never cleaned. Not as a boy. Not as a man.”
He says it proudly, but I can hear the shame behind his words.
“Congratulations.”, I deadpan.
His expression darkens.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
His expression darkens even further.
Then —
He starts to sweep. Terribly. Absolutely horrifically. The dirt is spreading instead of converging. I didn’t know that was possible. Yet somehow he has achieved it. An innovator. A pioneer. A menace.
“Stop.”
He looks up.
“What now?”
“Is this how to sweep? If your staff swept your house like this, would you be able to live in it? I said sweep the dirt, but you’re making it worse.”
His eye twitches.
I laugh so hard I have to sit down. And that is exactly when he ‘accidentally’ sweeps dust directly onto my feet.
My laughter stops. Slowly. Very slowly. We look at each other. A beat passes. Then another. Then I point. “You did that on purpose.”
His mouth twitches.
The bastard.
The absolute bastard.
So he wants to play ball... I’ll show him.
“When you’re done, the dishes in the sink need scrubbing.”
A murderous look graces his face. I give him a sweet smile and walk away.
One point on the scoreboard for me.
- Writer
