Things the Chair saw - by Tomilola Adejumo

They placed me beside the wall like an afterthought. The woman said, “Just keep it there for now,” which in this house means “until Jesus returns or someone trips over it.” I was never anyone’s favorite. Even when I was new. They preferred the sofa, with its puffy arms. Or the plastic stools that scraped loudly against the tiles and gave the illusion of mobility. But I stayed. That’s what chairs do. We stay.I am wood. Mahogany, I think. Or something pretending to be mahogany. It doesn’t matter. Not flashy. No fancy cushion or backrest knobs. I was made in Mushin by a carpenter who worked barefoot, hummed old gospel tunes, and threatened his apprentices with whatever tool was closest. When he finished building me, he tapped my back twice and said, “This one go see things.”He had no idea how right he was.In the early days, they used me mostly for visitors. Aunties with headscarves tied too tight. Men who shook their legs while talking. Uncles who smelled of beer and irresponsibility. Children who didn’t understand how to sit properly. They climbed me. Knelt on me. Lay belly-down and screamed at cartoons. Nobody respected my joints.The woman cleaned me often then. Sprayed polish. Wiped me down with her wrapper tied around one hand. She would hum sometimes as she cleaned, then catch herself and stop.The man, the one who claimed to own the house, never noticed me unless he stubbed his toe. Then he would curse me with names I won’t repeat here. He sat on me exactly once, after a power outage that lasted four days. He had just returned from work, shirt stuck to his chest, and the generator was refusing to start. He flopped down without warning. I nearly cracked. Not from his weight. I have held heavier. But from the arrogance of it.After that, he went back to the sofa.They call me the chair in the parlour, and that is enough. I know my place. That is, until someone forgets and uses me as a ladder, a hanger, a drum, or a step for killing cockroaches.I do not speak. Not because I cannot, but because if I start, I will not stop.The boy was the first person to treat me like something alive. He used to sit on me with one foot tucked beneath the other, as if folding himself would make his thoughts easier to carry. Sometimes he would whisper things. Not because he thought I could listen, but because he knew the humans wouldn’t. I was his confessional. His hiding place. His constant. Even when the compound flooded. Even when the power went out and the rats grew bold. Even when the man of the house vanished like money in a government account.The boy would run his fingers along my backrest and say, “You’re the only one who doesn’t lie.” Which was generous of him, considering I once tilted ever so slightly to get someone who owed me respect to fall. Just once. For balance.The woman had a voice that could make rice boil faster. She moved through the house like someone expecting an apology. She never gave me her full weight. Always perched, always half-sitting. As if she didn’t trust anything solid. As if she thought even wood could betray her.She never looked at me directly. But when she cleaned, she dusted me last, like I was the part of her life she didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.Once, during an argument, she flung her handbag so hard it bounced off the sofa and landed on my seat. I held it, of course. I always do. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t consider tossing it back.I’ve watched many things in this house. A wedding that never fully happened. A girl grow breasts and resentment at the same time. A baby take his first steps toward a television. A man sit on me in a towel, drink malt, and declare that women are too emotional, moments after crying over SuperSport.They forget that I am here. Which is their mistake. I see everything. The small betrayals. The milk disappearing faster than it should. The way the girl touches her own hand when no one is watching, as if checking to see if she’s still real.I have smelt things no piece of furniture should ever have to endure. Hot puff-puff oil. Year-old insecticide. The staleness of old hair cream. I have inhaled the tension of burnt stew, the sharp betrayal of expired deodorant, and the quiet confusion of Ogbono reheated three times. A baby peed on me once. No one noticed. The smell faded after three weeks, but the memory did not. And then, of course, there were the farts. Sharp ones. Sneaky ones. That one uncle who always pretended it was the baby. The baby was asleep. I have survived it all. My nose is made of wood, but my trauma is eternal.I once watched a visitor take money from the purse on the shelf. She paused before doing it. Looked around. Looked at me. I stayed still. But internally, I rolled my entire frame.When the boy returned from university, taller and quieter, he didn’t sit on me. He glanced once. That was all. Like I was a relic. A thing from the past he had outgrown. But later that night, when everyone had gone to bed, he crept into the parlour, sat on me, and stayed there. No phone. No music. Just breathing. I took all of it. His weight. His worry. His weariness. I took it like I always have.He rested his head back and said, “I missed this stupid chair.” I would have cried if I had tear glands. Instead, I creaked a little. Not from age. From pride.They say furniture is just furniture. But we know. We know what we carry. We hold the weight of generations, the shape of disappointment, the texture of grief. We know the difference between the heaviness of a full body and the heaviness of a broken one.I once held a man who sat down, said nothing for five hours, and then got up and left his marriage. I held him in that decision. I knew it before he did.I’m not as firm as I used to be. One leg wobbles. They’ve started placing things on me instead of sitting on me. A pile of clothes. A broken charger. That pink scarf nobody claims. Sometimes the woman says, “We should just throw this chair away.” She says it like a joke. But it reaches me.Still, I stay.They forget that I am the only one in this house who never left. Not once. Not for church. Not for school. Not for work. Not when the power went out or the roof leaked. Not when the man left. Not when the woman crumbled.I have seen them all. Heard more than I wanted to. Known too much. Loved them anyway.Even now, I wait. If someone walks in and needs a place to rest, I will hold them. Just like always. Even if they do not thank me. Even if they forget my name.

Other insights from Tomilola Adejumo

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons