THE OLD TELEVISION

“He always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed,” Amara said, trying to describe Nonso’s sudden uncanny behaviour the last time she saw him. Her body quivered, her voice unsteady and she occasionally used gestures to imprint her words in mind.

The old television was on when she stormed into my room unapologetic, uninvited. Kunfu Panda was playing and I laughed at Pow’s wanton silliness and exaggerated screams, ‘Awesome!’ in the face of danger. Nonso is my brother but it felt like Amara knew him better. Before he travelled to Portharcourt, for greener pasture, he spent most of his time with her. They sometimes cuddled on his bed, whisper to their ears and laugh at their silly jokes. I would excuse myself to the parlour and pout at the HD television hanging on the wall. “I dont like this television, it’s too clear and colourful,” I said when dad bought it to replace the old television. He planned to discard the old television but I protested we keep it in our room. I hardly believe anything I saw on the HD television. I preferred the old television, that gave a sharp contrast between a movie and NTA; when movies played on the VCD, the colours were bright but the moment NTA is flipped, the images blurs, and sometimes tiny black dots fill the screen. From tender age I learned to associate poor images to live broadcasts.

Our shared one-room was all Nonso and I had in common; beds placed side-by-side with the old television in-between. Nonso would lie down and face his wall and I would lie down and face mine. The only time we enjoyed flamboyant gist was when Super Eagles played; Nonso would lament how Enyeama punched a ball he was supposed to catch, how Mikel passed the ball to a defender instead of a striker, how Musa sometimes outrun the ball like a lorry without brakes. And when the images on the television blur, “Oh Lord! What is wrong with this stupid television?” he would scream and smack the television by the side, several times and unsuccessful, most times.

“Let me try.” I would say and tap the television gently by the side. This worked mostly. I concluded it was the television’s subtle way of saying ‘am old, please cuddle me’. Nonso would muse when I did get it right.

I went to the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice for Amara. As I passed the television in the parlour, a female newscaster was serious reading something. The image was spotless. I assumed a Nigerian movie was showing cut-scene news to drive home a point and didn’t bother to pay attention, because of my vendetta for Nollywood’s amateur movies. Amara screamed. I abandoned everything I held, dashed to see what was wrong. The expression on her face depicted horror. “Picture of Nonso and four others is showing on the screen,” she said. I turn to take a look, the television goes off.