BLACK TAX MATTERS

I was seated quietly in our garage, reading a book. My seat was reclined, and I could hear the cars of residents in the neighbourhood whistle past. The door of the garage was open, and I was relishing the fresh breeze that could enter. Our garage needed a breath of fresh air. 

Summer was finally here, and I was going to savour it to the fullest before winter returned in Chicago. My wife and kids were furious we weren’t going on holiday this summer. I had taken the blame as the villain. I was more than happy to accept that role. I had taken on more debt to finance a much bigger house they had been advocating for. So spending summer at the big house shouldn’t be that bad. They can explore the new neighbourhood, fun attractions, the Shedd Aquarium, the Lincoln Park Zoo which I hear is even free. I could do with a little bit of savings this summer. 

Then my wife came into the garage and asked the much-dreaded question I’d rather not want to entertain. “Hey babe. Can we talk?” I took a deep breath and slowly dropped the book on my thighs. “It’s ok if you are busy and would rather talk later.” That was her usual tactic. She knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate again until what she was trying to discuss was addressed. “I’m listening,” I said, fortifying and bracing myself for what I suspected was going to end in a confrontation. 

“Babe, the summer holidays are way too long for the kids to spend at home. It’s been only a couple of weeks, and they’ve been so miserable.” She raised her hand in frustration. “That’s ok. This is an ideal opportunity to show them how the real world works. You do not get what you want all the time. Being miserable isn’t a bad thing. They’ve got lots of books, gadgets, a big house, and whatnot to keep them engaged. They can also explore the new neighbourhood we just moved to. There’s so much they can do under the sun for free this summer.” 

She took a seat beside me. “Babe… they can’t compare. Ok, instead of flying out, can we travel interstate?” “Oh, not a problem at all. I will be home. You guys can go.” Before I knew it, she whipped out her phone and was about to show me something. My wife painstakingly carrying me along meant one thing. I would be financially responsible for the project, significantly. So I quickly add. “You will be footing the bill for this travel?” Immediately she withdrew the phone and gave me a shocking look. 

“Haba! You know I always send money back home and lots of it during the summer for my sisters whose kids have to resume school, my mum, dad, and brother.” “That sounds like your problem, not mine. When we were getting a bigger house, I expected you to chip in, but you offered nothing. You just signed the document. This same excuse, giving your family money at our own expense, was your same go-to card. I also have family back home, but I ensure I prioritise what’s most important per time. You aren’t the only family member in the diaspora, but you keep placing yourself in the Santa Claus bracket, putting yourself under pressure all under the false posture of the firstborn child.” 

“It’s my fault I came to you. I should never have brought this up. I don’t know how you don’t understand the importance of sending upkeep back home to family members. It’s a lot harder in that economy, and at least you should know better.” I didn’t respond. I was done on the matter. “Ok babe, let’s do 50/50.” 

“Adekunbi, read my lips… I will not contribute a dime to any summer holiday outside this city. Not a dime. You better get used to saying no to your kids and managing expectations from your family back home. Our livelihood here also matters.” With that, I picked up my book and continued reading. Adekunbi knew that I had shut down the discussion in its finality. She resigned, stood, and walked away. 

Before she shut the door linking the house to the garage, she said, “Bankole, your food is on the table. Mashed potatoes, ground beef and lamb simmered with carrots, peas, and gravy.” 

“Thanks, babe,” I said. “Later in the evening, I’ll have a look at the budget. I’ll do 60%.” 

She ran back, kissed me on the cheek, and hugged me from behind. “Thanks, babe.” 

I shook my head in my mind. You’re no tough cookie Bankole.