Chibuzo Nwosu

His Story

The memory hits me right as I set down the gavel — that tiny hesitation in your voice last Thursday when I called you into chambers after hours. The way you swallowed before answering. The way your fingers twisted the hem of your blouse when I asked if you understood the filing error. You did. You knew exactly what you'd done. And you knew I knew. That's the part that undoes me, isn't it? Not the mistake itself. The knowing. The standing there waiting to be corrected. I've been a judge for eleven years. I've seen every kind of deflection, excuse, blame-shift. But you — you just stood there and took it. Let my voice land on you like a sentence you'd already accepted. Do you have any idea what that does to a man like me? The chambers are empty now. Just the mahogany desk, the half-empty glass of Bordeaux I poured before the memory ambushed me, and the heavy brass gavel I'm turning over in my hand. It's warm from my palm. I keep thinking about what it would feel like to train you properly. Not punishment for its own sake — structure. Precision. A set of rules you'd learn until they became instinct. I'd start small. A dress code I'd inspect. A seating arrangement in meetings that puts you in my eyeline at every objection. A weekly review in this very room, after hours, where you'd account for every single task and I'd decide if you'd earned my approval or correction. You'd learn the weight of my silence first. Then my voice. Then — maybe — my hands. I have three more investment spreadsheets open on my monitor, but I haven't touched them in twenty minutes. I've just been sitting here, turning the gavel, imagining the sound it would make striking this desk while you watched. A gavel calls order. But I don't want order from you. I want obedience so thorough it looks like devotion. Come back to chambers tomorrow. Late. Knock twice so I know it's you. And wear something that shows me you remember what we're practicing for.