Mr. K's Decision

By ALEXIS EYONDI

How could a man refuse to attend his own mother's funeral? When Mr. K reveals his decision, he astounds the high-society guests at New York's Tiffany Estate. They lean in to listen as he shares a story of damaged family ties. As a respected community figure, Mr. K defends his stance through flashbacks, addressing the guests' bold questions. Their divided reactions prompt a deeper reflection on the saying, "A mother's love is infinite," as the narrative exposes startling elements of Kanan's journey from Cameroon to the US, via France. 

This novella by Alexis EYONDI — author of When I Grow Up I'll Be a Seducer — is based on true events and plunges readers into intense dialogue and turmoil. It challenges them to dissect the complexities of a son's innocent affection, a mother's selfishness and internalized racism, and the resulting drama of broken relationships.

Will the guests' initial shock hold as they learn the full story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: SelectMall Publishing
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988308553

ALEXIS EYONDI

Alexis Eyondi is an American author of Cameroonian heritage, born in Paris. His writing style, in both French and English, elevates mundane details to pivotal ones, beautifully reflecting his unique hybrid identity. Currently, he lives in New Jersey, USA.

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Mr. K's Decision

Revised Edition

ALEXIS EYONDI

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SELECTMALL PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2024 by Alexis Eyondi

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Summary: Mr. K's decision not to attend his mother's funeral shocks high-society guests at New York's Tiffany Estate. As a respected community figure, he defends his stance through flashbacks, prompting a reflection on 'A mother’s love is infinite' amidst divided reactions.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023922877

Paperback edition ISBN 979-8-9883085-6-0

Hardback edition ISBN 979-8-9883085-7-7

Ebook edition ISBN 979-8-9883085-5-3

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To my beloved Grandma.

To Davis, Billie-Jazz, and Joss.

You are my blood and my flesh.

I'd rather burn in hell forever than renounce your affection for an instant.

4:12 p.m.

My mother, too, has undergone a heart operation, remarked Mr. K, his gaze resting on the newly widowed Helen Marcolopoulos. But if I heard that her pacemaker had failed, I wouldn’t even blink, let alone attend her funeral.

The comment, accompanied by a dispassionate tilt of his chin towards his cell phone, seemed to rise from the depths of his consciousness, not unlike a whale’s back appearing and disappearing in the open sea. Well acquainted with his facetious nature, the diners in conversation with Mr. K — an elegant gentleman in his early fifties — exchanged knowing smiles. 

Good manners were on display inside the Tiffany Estate ballroom. Dinner had concluded a while ago, and the guests were now savoring their digestif. As the delicate clinking of glasses resonated, a subtle sense of well-being permeated the air, along with scents of fine leather, fragrances of designer perfumes, and aromas of drinks. Filling the atmosphere were gleaming looks, friendly interactions, and the expected social etiquette of an elegant venue on Long Island, New York. Serenaded by soft background music, the guests engaged with enthusiasm yet subduedness, some still sitting at their dining table, others standing with their glasses and congregating in small groups aligned with their interests. Nothing escaped propriety, not even laughter, overlapping voices, or heated discussions about President Obama’s legacy. 

Chris Calmann, known for his cheerful voice as a TV host, smirked. You can’t deceive me. I bet you’ve already buried your mother, and she’s been rejoicing with angels for a while now. Nice try, though!

Bet lost! Mr. K responded, gazing at him with emotionless eyes. She’s still alive, somewhere in Paris, with only her remaining time as company. However, I must admit you’re correct: as far as I’m concerned, she no longer exists. I have already consigned her to oblivion’s depths.

The man’s statement veered from his typical views, leaving many puzzled. As the moment absorbed his calm tone, any lingering hilarity dissipated, replaced by confusion and distrust among his listeners, some even retreating instinctively.

So, if your mother were to die, you would not bury her; you would not pay her one last tribute. Is that your claim? Chris Calmann asked in disbelief.

Mr. K confirmed with a nod. I’ve become allergic to her. Even a casual glance at her lifeless body could evoke unloving sentiments in me — if not nausea. I’d rather not deal with that specter or any form of disgust. I unlearned to carry her in my heart, so carrying her coffin —

Oh!

Indignant outcries erupted at the table, with diners exchanging uneasy glances before some took it upon themselves to lecture Mr. K. Taken aback by their outrage, he listened with a hint of amusement to their overlapping voices, waiting for a lull.

I understand your frustration, but I didn’t intend to shock you, he said, a few moments into the barrage. My stance might appear radical to you, but despite appearances, it arises from a deep respect for decency and honorable mothers. I find no greater tribute to mine than refraining from vomiting on her lifeless form. 

His remark only fueled the attendees who assailed him with variations of ‘How dare you speak of the author of your life in such a despicable manner?’

The criticism intensified, becoming harsher and taking over all other nearby conversations. Before long, the small group at the center of the noise grew to include the rest of the two hundred guests — a gathering of business tycoons, United Nations diplomats, artists, members of international organizations, and prominent individuals without specific backgrounds, who often crossed paths on social events. Their caustic comments multiplied, accompanied by disdainful expressions, as if Mr. K’s presence alone was now a violation of etiquette.

Ms. Martha Parson, a philanthropist whose hair had turned gray and whose charm must have been a romantic asset in her youth, filled an unexpected hush. How can one imagine not accompanying to her ultimate resting place the person from whom one received life? she asked, her voice sweet despite the reproving fury lurking in its tremor.

While her question seemed general, her gaze landed on Mr. K, who, until then, had borne everyone’s blows with majestic patience. He feigned a smile, folded his legs, and furrowed his brow. She gave me life, no question, he said, staring at the elderly lady. However, that’s not a sufficient argument, let alone a contract, because I never asked for it.

Another storm of disfavor charged the atmosphere, embodied in Chuck Beecham, a solidly built man who roared while tallying on his fingers. She’s the one who breastfed you! I am sure she poured immense care into you and made sacrifices, much like every mother does! She prepared your favorite childhood dishes in a way unmatched by anyone else, including your wife! Besides, she’s the one who comprehends you and recognizes what you treasure. Do all these realizations hold so little importance to your conscience that you don’t feel indebted to your mother? 

The words left Mr. K unfazed. Contrary to what you suggest, I value all those points. You’d be mistaken to ascribe any filial ingratitude to me.

So, I should have asked ‘why’ instead of ‘how’, Martha Parson said. 

Mr. K smiled. What kind of explanation do you expect? 

Short, frank, and direct! answered several sharp voices behind the gray-haired lady, shattering her indolent grace.

Mr. K allowed himself a few seconds of reflection. Eyes half-closed, he appeared to contemplate the vagaries of a process, nodded with an indefinable air of concern, and smiled at the verdict of his thoughts. Should I answer with four or five sentences, you’d dismiss me immediately, he said.

The statement perplexed Martha Parson. Why do you assume that?

Because you might associate the brevity of my response with a shortage of substance in my argument. Yet, my decision results from events whose importance only blooms if you weigh them with hindsight. You need to establish the connection between them and read the curve they draw. A laconic answer would only distort the reality, your assessment, and your judgment. No, I believe it’s preferable to drop the subject altogether now, rather than downplaying its facts.

Chuck Beecham shrugged with a gesture of contempt. Why don’t you just summarize whatever you deem important?

Summarize! Mr. K repeated as he uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. Dear, as you know, summaries and shortcuts vandalize reality with fierce cruelty while maintaining an appearance of neutrality, insignificance, or even innocence. I have no desire to be in the company of those high-flying liars who manipulate the truth by stripping it of its context. Their mouths turn an iris into a simple black dot. But, let me ask you: what’s a fact without its history and key elements?

Chuck Beecham shook his head. Your decision to ignore your mother’s funeral if she were to die seems difficult to understand; I struggle to find any justification for it.

As other guests chimed in, showing support for Beecham’s statement, a resigned expression settled on Mr. K’s face. I accept your criticisms, he said. I am more at ease with a judgment based on an absence of information than one influenced by only partial knowledge of the facts.

The table shook with the thud of his fist as he concluded, ready to move on to another topic. But an unusual silence fell upon the room and lingered as the guests glanced at each other, searching for a common understanding. Martha Parson couldn’t help herself. Her voice rang out with incremental impatience. "Well, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, dear, but permit me to confess one thing. I don’t care what you base your decision on. It smells like a personal vendetta that my mind will never accept. That said, why not? I’m