A Collection of Short Stories

Sibbyl Whyte
Cracks
customary family hug. The twins are unchanged, playing at the table till Chizaram, snaps
at Chimaobi and a fight ensues. Mother rushes out - late for work - and instructs Evelyn to
make lunch and dinner just in case they return late. She stares at her breakfast, appetite
lost. She yells at the still bickering twins, they listen and finish their food. She packs up and
does the dishes while they migrate to their room and games. Chores finished, she lies in
bed and looks upon the crack now as wide as the baby snake her father once found in the
flower hedges and killed. She knows everything has changed.
Later, after her siesta, she inspects the house for cracks. Thirteen of them she finds—
seven in her parents’ bedroom. She knows some people say thirteen is an unlucky number
but seven is good. Seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Seven days of creation. She learnt that in
catechism.
In the night, they sit for dinner; daddy complains, mum flinches and bows her head,
apologetic. He smiles then, a baring of fangs like a lion they once saw at the zoo. Evelyn
coughs, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat and the words form:
“Daddy, do you know our house is breaking?
“How?” He asks, a spoonful of rice halfway to his mouth. The twins turn to look at her.
“There are many cracks in the walls. Especially in you and mummy’s room,” she says,
looking from one to the other. “Haven’t you people seen them?”
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