The last time I wrote about my family, some of you asked me to share more about Samuel. I never forget your requests.
For those who are new here, I have three brothers. I grew up as the only girl in the middle of them. Here’s the order:
First born: Kenneth
Second born: Samuel
Third born: Irene (me)
Last born: Peter
Samuel is the second born—and also the soldier in our family. No one in our estate or school, no matter how big, could bully us. My brother fought all our bullies because Kenneth, the eldest, was too polite. Samuel even defended him. And if you were too big for him, he had his own “army” of friends that he would mobilize to deal with you.
We grew up fearing Sam. He was the disciplinarian who communicated with his eyes. If you did something wrong, one look from him was enough to make you gain sense. And if he actually spoke, he never repeated his instructions twice.
When Mum travelled, Sam was usually in charge—especially if Kenneth wasn’t around. That meant the house had to shine. We scrubbed floors and pots until they passed his inspection. Sam was the cleanest among us. He couldn’t sit in a disorganized house or even concentrate if the plates were dirty. If Mum travelled at night, he was merciful and let us sleep without chores. But the next morning, he’d be the first one awake, dragging us out of bed.
“Wake up! Who sleeps till 7:30 a.m. in a house with dirty plates? Get up and clean before we take tea!”
It didn’t matter how sleepy you were because Sam would make noise until you had no choice but to wake up. He’d bang spoons on the table, slam doors, or blast ringtones at full volume, just anything to annoy you into leaving bed.
Sam was also the best cook. The only problem was that starvation would almost kill us before the food got ready. He’d start preparing before noon, but we wouldn’t eat until after 2 p.m. He washed everything, chopped every ingredient into fine pieces, then cooked slowly on low heat. If he was making rice and beans at 12:00, expect to eat at 3:00 after endless shouting. His answer was always the same:
“If you feel I cook too slow, then learn to cook. No one pays me to cook quickly.”
He had another rule: never greet him in public. According to Sam, we were strangers out there. Since he had more friends than all of us combined, it was a common problem. If we bumped into him, we knew the drill—look away immediately. That rule was engraved in our hearts. If Sam ever caught you staring at him outside, you’d face judgment in the evening.
And his reasons for forbidding us were even funnier:
Mum embarrassed him by asking long, unnecessary questions.
Kenneth was too polite and didn’t know how to blend in.
I was too naïve—thanks to my “TV programs, music, and being the last to know celebrity gossip.”
Peter? He was always dirty. He played so much his clothes were torn, and most of the time he looked homeless. His skin only returned to its normal color after a proper bath.
One day, Sam was walking near home with his friends, including some ladies. Unfortunately, Mum happened to be on her way from work. What followed was a battle of stares. Sam’s eyes screamed, “If you greet me, I’ll disown you today.” Mum’s eyes replied, “I don’t care how you look at me, I’m still greeting you.”
They stared each other down until Mum’s friend whispered that she should leave him alone. It ended in a draw, but neither of them blinked easily.
Sam also loved making us look like fools. We’d be walking and chatting when suddenly he’d cross the road or move far ahead, leaving you talking to yourself while he laughed. He’s also the one I’d ask if my hair or weave was neat. He’d assure me it looked fine, even if the back resembled a bird’s nest. I’d leave the house confidently, and he’d laugh all day. He’d lie that I looked great in awful color combinations like yellow and maroon, then watch me strut around like a confused superstar.
Sam was also the most fashionable among us. He always kept up with the latest celebrity trends. To be safe, he preferred shopping for his own clothes or at least accompanying Mum to the market. Mum had a good eye for fashion, but she couldn’t match his standards.
His style always went hand in hand with being presentable. Sam would never step out without deodorant or brushing his shoes. He would rather miss school than wear unpolished shoes. And if his deodorant ran out, Mum had to hide hers because there was no way my brother would walk around without it, or without a clean handkerchief in his pocket. He was just too neat.
At the dinner table, Sam trained me to eat faster. He’d finish his food and sit waiting, warning me to hurry so we could watch TV. When he got tired of waiting, he punished me by stealing my meat. Mum often had to supervise me closely just so I could finish my meal in peace.
Now, let me take you back to his younger days before I close.
One morning, Sam declared that I was too dirty for his liking. He announced he was giving me a day off from school to decide whether I wanted to be a boy or a girl. When we woke up, I discovered he had soaked all my uniforms. True to his word, I had the day off—to meditate on my “choice.”
Sam also gave my mother the shock of her life. He never spoke a word as a toddler. Convinced he was dumb, Mum took him to the hospital. The doctor gave him a slap on the back, and Sam suddenly shouted, “eeehh!” That was his very first word. Mum later tried hitting him herself but he went right back to silence.
That was Samuel. Our soldier. Our tormentor. Our comedian. The brother we could never ignore.