In every house there is a throne. It is not made of gold or wood. It is small, rectangular and powered by two batteries. It is called the remote control, and whoever holds it rules the sitting room.
This is the story of the Bello family, five people, one television and a very long Sunday evening.
The Schedule That Wasn’t
At 6 p.m., the family gathered in the sitting room. Everyone had a plan. Papa Bello wanted to watch football. Mama Bello wanted her favourite reality show, in which ten people argue about a house. Ten-year-old Seyi wanted cartoons. Fifteen-year-old Lola wanted a film that she described as “very deep” and her brother described as “very slow”. And little Femi, aged four, wanted to press all the buttons.
The television, a modest old model with a slightly crooked stand, glowed in the corner like an altar. Everyone looked at it. Then everyone looked at the remote, which lay on the table like a small black treasure.
Nobody moved. It was the kind of quiet that comes just before an argument or a war.
Papa Makes His Move
Papa Bello, calm and strategic, reached out first. “Today is a special day,” he announced. “A very important match. I will just take the remote for a moment.”
“For a moment?” said Mama Bello. “You said that last week, and we watched football until midnight.”
“It was a long match.”
“It was a very long argument about one referee.”
Papa Bello tucked the remote under his arm and turned on the match. The screen exploded in green. The commentator shouted something about a corner. Papa Bello leaned forward with the happiness of a man whose spirit had returned home.
Mama Strikes Back
Mama Bello was patient. She went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of fried plantain. She placed it on the table and smiled sweetly. “My dear, would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Papa, reaching for it with his free hand.
It was a trap. In a flash, Mama’s hand moved. The remote was gone. When Papa looked down, his arm was empty, and the channel had changed to the reality show. A woman in a large hat was crying about a missing handbag.
“What happened?” said Papa.
“It is the final episode,” said Mama.
“It is the final episode of everything,” said Papa, sadly.
The Children Join the War
Seyi saw his opportunity. He waited until Mama was fully absorbed in the drama, then crept across the carpet like a cat. His hand closed around the remote. The channel changed again, this time to a bright cartoon about a talking sponge.
“Seyi!” shouted both parents.
“It is educational,” said Seyi.
“It is a sponge,” said Papa.
Lola, who had been watching the chaos with great contempt, calmly picked up her phone and typed something. Seconds later, the television switched itself to a quiet black-and-white film. She had connected her phone to the television. Nobody had known that was possible.
“It is called technology,” she said, in the tone of a monarch. The family stared. Even Femi stopped pressing buttons.
The Great Disappearance
At 8 p.m., the sitting room descended into total war. The remote was passed, snatched, hidden, found and hidden again. Papa put it behind a cushion. Mama moved it to a flowerpot. Seyi slid it into his shirt. Lola confiscated it and placed it in her pocket, where it was promptly stolen by Femi, who ran down the corridor singing.
The family chased him through the house. They found him under a bed, holding the remote with both hands and pressing every button with deep satisfaction. The television, in the sitting room, was doing something strange. It was changing languages, brightness and volume all at once, and at one moment it displayed a menu that nobody had ever seen.
When Femi finally surrendered the remote, its battery cover was missing and its back was held on with a hairpin. It looked like a tiny wounded soldier.
The Hiding Place
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Papa Bello crept into the sitting room. He held the remote in his hands and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he opened the cupboard behind the television, placed it inside a large pot and closed the door. “For the next Sunday,” he whispered, “I will be ready.”
What he did not know was that Mama Bello was watching from the doorway. She waited until he left. Then she crept in, took the remote from the pot and placed it in her own secret place, which was inside a bag of rice.
A few minutes later, Lola came, found it and moved it to her room. Seyi followed, took it and placed it under the stairs. Femi, half asleep, picked it up and put it in a shoe.
By morning, the remote was in a shoe, which was in a cupboard, which was behind a door that nobody could remember opening. The family spent three days searching. They found it on Wednesday, in the garden, where it had been taken by the cat.
The Peace Treaty
On Thursday evening, the Bellos held a family meeting. Papa spoke first. “We cannot go on like this. We need a rule.” Mama nodded. “A fair system.” Lola suggested a schedule. Seyi suggested a vote. Femi suggested snacks.
In the end, they agreed on a simple plan. Each person would have one hour of control, in turn, and then pass the remote with a handshake. Papa had football on Sundays, Mama had her show on Tuesdays, the children had Saturdays, and Lola, with great generosity, would choose a film every other Friday.
It worked beautifully for exactly two weeks. Then Papa discovered there was a second important match, and the war began again. But this time, there was a handshake, a plate of plantain and a promise. And in that house, a promise was almost as good as a remote control.
