Papi is a novel based on actual events that happened to a Houston family in 1984.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Xtian was born in Nigeria, educated in England, Nigeria, and the United States. He has a graduate degree in History, and lives in Houston, where he is currently working on a memoir. He has completed three other books, "Endless Sunshine," "Murder in Missippi," and "The Man I Love?"
Papi is his first published work. Contact Xtian at 713-961-7944 or via Trafford Publishing at editorial@trafford.com
Excerpt from Chapter One
I think I was about seven years old when I became aware of my parents marriage breaking down. Prior to that development, I had always assumed we had a perfect life. There did not seem to be any warnings that I could think of, that would have contributed to those state of affairs.
My knowledge of the changes in our family began after we moved into our brand new house in the suburbs of Houston where I grew up. The move to that house, was the realization of the happy dream of my immigrant parents. Finally they had come to see their dreams come true. Their American dream, that is!!
The house, a three bedroom ranch-style, was set in a newly developed subdivision in the Houston southwest. For months after we moved in, we were still glowing from the joy and newness of our surroundings. It was a relief to be out of the cramped two bedroom apartment we had called home for several years. In our new house I had a room to myself for the first time and my older sister had one, too. Unlike the old apartment where we both had to share a small bedroom and fought like cat and mouse over toys and games. In our new house my room was located right next to my parents' bedroom, allowing them to look in on me at night. My sister, who was several years older than me, had a bedroom further down the hall.
At night as I lay in my bed, I could hear my parents arguing in the next room. My father's voice would rise hysterically in Spanish. Occasionally, a loud outburst would be heard in English. Usually an expletive, the kind that best expressed itself in English. My mother's voice would then murmur something gently again in Spanish, as she tried to keep the argument quiet, to avoid my sister and I from overhearing anything.
The argument always ended with my father storming out of the house. The front door would slam, followed by the car door shutting just as loudly. The crunch of tires on the graveled driveway meant the end of that evenings argument. My mother would come out of the bedroom and look in on my sister and I, while we feigned sleep. Her tear stained face would hover momentarily, to make sure we were alright. Then she too would go outside via the back door into the garden. She¹d stand there for what seemed like hours gazing out into the night.
I had turned seven, shortly after we moved to our house in the suburbs. My parents had used the occasion as a birthday/housewarming party to show off their new house. All our friends from the old neighborhood were invited to the house. The guests were mostly Cubans and a sprinkling of Mexicans who my parents had befriended in Houston after their arrival from Cuba. The guests all came with their families. On the whole there might have been over thirty people in our home that day. My mother had spent days making her Cuban specialties for the guests.
It was a proud moment for us all especially my father as he preened and showed off all he had achieved in a short time in a new country. We were all proud that day, I more so, as I rode around on my bicycle my parents had given me for my birthday. Some of the kids who were guests at the party with their parents trailed after me outside, urging me to go faster on my bicycle, as I rode up and down my street. I was glad to be the center of attention.
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