Loss is Present Continuous

‘Pemi Aguda on Loss

My story of loss is a story of losing. It is a story of the futility of will, and the limitations of drugs against the stubbornness of genetics, of body.

I start to write this story in my head while staring at myself in the mirror, combing Cantu-covered fingers through wet hair. As yet more strands of hair with white bulbs at their roots, which confirm closed follicles, leave my scalp, I know that I want to write about losing hair, the continuous loss of it.

Balding is a word I’ve come to love. Okay, like. It is not a kind word. Like the cold probing instrument in the hands of my trichologist, it zooms in so my scalp resembles a desert on the monitor, and it leaves no place to hide. Balding lacks the soft landing of hair loss, which is gentle in its s-es. As the tongue leaves the upper palate on the second syllable in bal-ding, friends flinch, and you might find yourself recoiling from the widening patches of gleaming smooth scalp.

In losing hair, you will meet your insecurities on the street. You will come nose-to-nose with the monster of your vanity. Your fears will move into the apartment next door with ashy bald heads, ears pressed to the thinning wall, waiting for your next sigh. You might even find yourself shifting to the second-person point of view mid-paragraph. Anything to distance yourself.

I have met the indignities of fighting hair loss. Rubbing onion juice and foul-smelling concoctions on a situation that my mother’s head, my grandmother’s head, and the trichologist’s report tell me won’t change. And yet the irony is that I reacted to expensive Rogaine with a face full of hair so that for the first time in my life I was worried about too much of that furry substance—multiplying on my legs, darkening my arms, lowering my hairline . . .  it grew everywhere but where I wanted it.

I want to say that I’ve found freedom in this losing. Like the woman who empties her savings and travels the world on hearing she has a month left to live, it would be nice to say I’ve gained some irreverence in styling my hair. That I now dye it in a range of colours that would make my mother clutch her heart. But no. Within this stubborn body is still a wishful soul.

In a way, every story of loss is a story of losing; it never ends. Scalp where hair used to be; pillow where a head used to be. But in the roots of the stubbornness of body is also the resilience of body. You will maybe hurt less every day and my hand will rise less and less to my scalp, searching.

I’m losing, but I’m adapting. What I see is that despite the futility of will and the limitation of drugs, adapting is a way for my stubborn body, not yet thirty, to forgive itself for its own shortcomings.

  1. Cantu – Brand of hair care product; conditioner.
  2. Rogaine – Minoxidil; slows hair loss and promotes hair regrowth.

© ‘Pemi Aguda 2017

‘Pemi Aguda writes short stories and flash fiction that have been published here and there. Her short story Caterer, Caterer won the Writivism Short Story Prize 2015. She co-curates the website, Nik-Nak.co

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2017

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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February, in Retrospect

language

February some say is the month of love. Work that should have been finished in January dragged into February and filled February with editing and late-night reviews. It meant that I put new projects on hold, but who was keeping tabs when love was in the air?

“How old are you?” I asked the man who seemed smitten by me.

“Thirty-six.”

“And you’re not married?”

He started to explain the difficulties of finding the girl of his dreams, and I realized he had read my question wrong.

“I just wanted to know if you’re married,” I said softly when he paused for air.

“Oh?” he said, and then smiled, reminding me of the way he looked a few days earlier, when he had accosted me at the supermarket with, “Let me help you, you look tired.”

I had been dragging my feet behind my shopping cart as though the sum of the hardships of living in Lagos, sat in it. He charmed me into small talk and out of my phone number.

Later when he called, his many compliments and my thanksgiving done away with, there did not seem to be anything left to say. I was surprised that a man, who had used a shopping cart effectively, could not find his voice. He must have interpreted my silence as a semi-colon because he said, “Your driver seems nice,” referring to that night when my driver retrieved my shopping cart from him and loaded its content into my car.

My driver is not nice; my driver thinks he should be my boss, but I did not tell him that. I asked him about his line of work instead of putting a full stop at the end of his sentence.

I persevered to get to know him because I am curious about people, not because my friend had said, “You never know, why not give him a chance?”

But I knew. A woman knows. I knew that I did not always want to be the one to steer conversation to a place of interest for both of us. I knew that I could not continue receiving SMS messages like this:

Gud mrn pretty. hw waz ur nyt. u r sum1 worth reely lykng. deres just sumtin abt u. hapi Sunday.

I would not, and none of my friends, would abbreviate their text messages like that. It would take too much brainpower.

“I think he lied to me,” I said to my friend, “about being thirty-six.” 

I replayed several incidents for her to decide. They revolved around language, or rather the lack of it.

“Or maybe he is thirty-six, but his brain is nineteen.”

We laughed; it seemed altogether plausible.

When our laughter subsided, I accused her of being cruel. She quoted Chavez, “Our language is the reflection of ourselves. A language is an exact reflection of the character and growth of its speakers.”

I was troubled by her inference. Wasn’t the shorthand way he fashioned text messages a positive measure of his ability to adapt to a mobile culture? Weren’t his text messages a genre of contemporary poetry; language is fluid, after all? Or, was it not more likely that the eight years between us equal a generation gap because as some have said, a different language is a different vision of life?

“Let’s keep it simple,” she replied. “It is either he’s nineteen or you are a grammar snob.”

In March, all my delusions will fall off.

 

© Timi Yeseibo 2017

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

More Than the Sum of All That

compass

My aunt is wearing a striped tube dress with spaghetti straps. When she sits, love handles circle her tummy like three rubber tires. “Timi, where have you been?” she asks, but does not expect an answer. I am there and it is enough. She sucks me in a tight embrace, her warmth spreading over me, her smile wide. 

The years apart are too many to fit into an evening. We make small talk highlighting the events that count. Did I hear what happened to her son? Only God could have saved him. And what about me and my hopes for tomorrow? I do not burden her with sad news; there is no need to slow down the tempo of the music we are making. Soon we are silent, each of us locked in our world, making sense of words.

When my sister says, “Aunty you look as young as ever,” she returns to the present.

“No o. I am old.”

My sister counters, “You’re looking young. No one would believe if you tell them your age.”

“Please don’t deceive me, don’t give me false hope,” she says like a woman who has been lied to and preyed upon. She pats her Halle Berry wig and looks at me with a small smile.

She is seeking corroboration from me. I cannot just give it, mouthing empty words. I do not know how old she is. I have no compass with which to navigate true north, therefore I cannot tell if she is indeed looking young. Having not seen her for years, in which I harboured memories of her younger fashionable self, she is in fact looking old to me.

My sister and my aunt continue the cycle of compliments and weak rebuttals. I fight within myself. Where is true north?

“Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place,” Cormac McCarthy wrote. 

My aunt’s husband is long gone; one son is far away, the other closer by, and her only daughter died too early. She has forged a whole life for herself apart from them. Her carefully made up face—thin black-pencilled brows, two large dots of muted raspberry rouge, and red lips that complement her hazel skin—is like a photo from another era. She has weathered storms and raised many children that are not hers, including me. I sense her hunger to be seen and admired as I too have on occasion hungered to be seen and admired.

I stop fighting because I have conquered myself.

“Aunty,” I say, “You look young and beautiful.”

It is not false hope; it is true. I remember learning that a (magnetic) compass almost never shows true north. True north is different from magnetic north, which changes depending on local magnetic variation. About a million years ago, the position of magnetic north even wandered closer to the geographic South Pole.

I had planned to ask my sister how old my aunt is. But when we leave, I let the question die in my throat. What does it matter? I am in charge of my compass. Moreover, she is more than the sum of all that.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2017

 

Photo Credit: https://pixabay.com/en/compass-magnetic-orientation-801763/

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To Close A Series [1]

shakespeare-quote

As someone who steers clear of romantic love, I seldom write love stories to avoid sounding like a fraud. Writing this series has therefore been a learning experience, both in the art of collaborations and writing love stories. The process was easy because Timi called the shots, setting the premise and plot points, while I simply reacted to the elements of the story she threw up from the conversations. This also freed me to focus more on the personality of the characters than the plot points, because if left to my whims, all love stories would end as tragedies.

In writing the series, I tried to pose questions to myself and find answers in the conversations of the characters. What hope does a guy who isn’t assertive have in a relationship? How do men talk about the things they are accused of avoiding in conversation? Readers’ responses to the characters’ conversations were illuminating, showing how we gauge romantic relationships we observe close-up. No question was as instructive for me as this: at what point, and because of what traits, do we declare someone unworthy of another’s love?

Love, like a drug high, pushes people to act in ways that appear insane to outside observers, but carry a fierce internal logic to the people in love—the ones shooting up. So, when we proclaim that an observed trait in someone renders them unlovable, it sometimes turns out that that very trait is the reason their lover has chosen them. The more we criticize their lover, the less sense we make, and the more they are disposed to ignoring us.

In spite of the insulation by romance that the above suggests, couples rarely escape the influence of the times they live in, including their cultures and upbringing. We are products of our interaction with other humans, whether we acknowledge their influence or not.

Without discounting personal responsibility, you and I are more culpable in the actions of people we berate than we think. In the series, a twenty-nine-year-old man contemplates dating a thirty-five-year-old woman and confides in his friend, his worries about her fertility. What would have happened if his friend responded by telling the story of his aunt who married at forty and now agonizes over not having a child or having a baby with down syndrome, which made her husband marry a second wife?

In the past year, I’ve fielded more questions from friends and family about my romantic life than the two decades before it. Why are you not in a relationship? Is something wrong? Ife, are you keeping her way from us? I often tell people I don’t have time to think about these questions, but whom am I kidding? I cannibalized some of my experiences from answering questions like these in drafting the dialogues.

We should stop blaming fairy tales and Hollywood for love fantasies being absent of reason, or people doing stupid things in the name of love. That is how all lovers look to people like me who are too scared to be enchanted by it. It is not reasonable for the Beauty to love the Beast, but she does, and we root for them. Jack should have stayed away from Rose, but he didn’t and the Titanic sank.

A character from the movie Hellboy said, “You like people for their qualities, but love them for their defects.” And while I think this is the loophole that serial killers exploit to find lovers, it’s also the premise of our greatest love stories: Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Ifemelu and Obinze, and so on.

Stories, when done right, should make us more empathetic, more open to possibilities in the human experience that are outside our imagination. So, perhaps we should reassess the conditions we set for finding people desirable and worthy of love. Not just when the potential lovers are ours, but when they are of people close to us, too. This isn’t a call to remove all relationship standards, but only that these standards—be they age, class, or temperament—be filtered through lenses coloured with kindness. After all, a wise man once said, the law was made for man, and not man for the law.

I still believe fairy-tale endings are an exception in this fly-catching business, but I’m all for lives suffused with kindness that give way to love.

 

©Ife Nihinlola 2016 @ IfeOluwa’s Rambles

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

To Date A Fly

to date a fly

Follow the story, read: To Not Catch A Fly

 

To Date A Fly

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, eh nothing.”

“You’ve been frowning . . .”

“I’m just looking at the menu that’s all.”

“Oh? I think you’ll like the plantain and coconut fritters served with peppered ginger sauce and sautéed prawns with herbs and seasonal vegetables. You could do a side order of—”

“Well I don’t see why they have to decorate fried plantain and stew and call it by a fancy name. Dodo is just fine.”

“It’s fine dining cuisine. It’s not just about frying plantain, it’s about the textures and flavours—”

“Are those codes for the food? Those numbers on the side of the menu?”

“Ha ha ha! You’re joking right? Duh, that’s the Naira code, the price.”

“Whew! Wow that’s one expensive plantain. Did they import it from the Amazon rain forest?”

“What’s the problem? This is my treat. They should have given you the menu without—”

“I’m taking you out. There’s no way I’ll let you pay—”

“Point of correction. I am the one who asked you out—”

“Okay, it doesn’t really matter who invited who. We’re here now and I’ll be handling the bill—”

“Then stop moaning please . . .”

“Sorry about that.”

“Shall we order? Are you ready to order drinks now?”

“Y . . . yes.”

“The wine selection is excellent. This special occasion calls for a—”

“Th . . .Tho . . . Those begin from N13,500 for a bottle?”

“Actually that’s like. . . what’s today’s exchange rate . . . $13 for a glass, if we just go for two glasses, which is why . . . anyway, what do you fancy?”

“I think I’ll have water. Whew! Em . . . this water, is it from a mountain in Israel?”

“You’re joking right? You’ve started again . . .”

“It’s it’s—”

“What is the matter now?”

“Look let me just be honest. I don’t spent this kind of money on meals. It can feed many starving kids in Ethiopia!”

“Your car . . . You have a car, right?”

“Of course!”

“Why haven’t you sold it and used the money to buy bicycles for the suffering in India?”

“B . . . But—”

“And for your information, don’t buy into that poverty porn narrative. What Africa needs is solid capital inflow to the real sectors—”

“Okay. Okay already! I’m just not used to places like this . . .”

“Well I don’t come here everyday either. Since it’s the first time we’re going somewhere other than a seminar, I just thought . . .”

“I’m not blaming you or anything. But I don’t want to disappoint you because what if I can’t keep up . . .?”

“Can I ask a personal question? Don’t you work in oil and gas? How much do you earn?”

“Em, that’s a bit invasive don’t you think? On a first date?”

“After eight seminars, no I don’t think so. In fact let’s even address the elephant in the room.”

“Sigh! The age thing is tricky—”

“That’s like the second elephant—”

“Oh?”

“What are we doing? I mean where’s this thing headed?”

“Well we are getting to know each other better—”

“Is that it? Is that all?”

“I . . .I . . .I  have an undeniable need to stare at your DP on WhatsApp ever so often and I lie awake wondering if midnight is too late to chat with you. I want to call you first thing in the morning because I wonder how you are but also because I like the way you sound and the memory of what you sounded like the day before is no longer enough. I want to lace my fingers with yours and watch you add color to my world as you laugh at something silly I said . . . When I’m with you, I feel ten feet tall—”

“Oh . . .”

“Say something. Have you fallen for me like I’ve fallen for you?”

“I’m six years older! By the time I started developing breasts you were learning that one plus one equals two!”

“And I grew up to be excellent at maths—”

“Be serious!”

“I’m serious. I’ve thought of nothing else . . . I even watched a programme on Al Jazeera about the viability of eggs in older women—”

“Excuse me? What did u say? Thirty-six is not menopause!”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“We don’t even know if your sperm can swim!”

“Ah-ah is this how it’s going to be?”

“How can you say something like that?”

“Do you want me to be lying to you?”

“At least you could have been diplomatic . . .”

“I’m sorry that my honesty is unbecoming. I promise to lie through my teeth to satisfy your vanity, so help me God!”

“Ha ha ha!”

“I worry that I need to make more money to satisfy your taste for this exotic plantain—”

“Ha ha ha! That’s it! I’m paying for dinner!”

“Give me your hand—”

“Why?”

“Woman stop fighting me at every turn! Give . . .  yeah, that’s better. Listen, six can be the number that conquers us or it can be our special number. I don’t have all the answers, but neither do you. I’m willing to work with you to check all the boxes. And when we come to a difficult one we’ll work on it together. Deal?”

“Hmmm. Okay.”

***

“The food wasn’t bad was it?”

“Plantain from the Amazon rain forest, prawns from Gambia, virgin cocktails from Mars . . . no, no, it could not be bad at all. It had to be good!”

“Ha ha ha! Please pass the dessert menu.”

“You … You’re having dessert?”

“Geez! Junior you look like you’re going to faint.”

“I am!”

“Ha ha ha! There are going to be many boxes to check under finances—”

“I can see that already . . .”

“Okay let’s skip dessert. I know this great ice cream place—”

“Ice cream from Jupiter?”

“Ha ha ha! From Earth, so pretty affordable—”

“What are you doing? Pass the bill—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m the one that brought you to Venus—”

“Stop! What are you doing? Stop! Waiter! Don’t do this—”

“Done. Paid with my card. That’s settled then. Ready?”

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s not make a big deal out of this please?”

“Babes, two of us can’t wear the pants in this relationship—”

“Meaning?”

“Let me be the man.”

________________________________________

Dodo: Deep-fried ripe plantain

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

 

 

 

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To Not Catch A Fly

To not catch a fly

You’re interested in a serious relationship that ends in marriage, would you date a man six years younger than you are or a woman six years older than you are?

Read the backstories: To Catch A Fly & The Riposte;
To Catch A Fly . . . Again & The Riposte

 

To Not Catch A Fly

“It’s not the way I pictured it . . . you know, I always saw myself with someone older. . . I don’t know if I want to catch this fly.”

“I know—”

“I mean, my dad is older than my mum . . . my sister’s husband is older than her . . . the man is always older . . .”

“Well there was Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher—”

Puhleeze! Let’s talk about real peopl—”

“Gabriel Union and Dwayne—”

“I so love Gabriel Union! She’s so cool! Bad choice though . . . Anyway, I can wrap my mind around one or two years, but six!”

“Eva Mendes and Ryan Gosling are six years apart—”

“Can you blame her? If Ryan Gosling was knocking on my door—”

“Keeping it real please! I can’t think of any real couples right now, but I’m sure many people must have done it successfully—”

“I need a man not a baby to look after for crying out loud!”

“Funny, eh, stop being dramatic. Before you knew his age, he was okay. He didn’t seem immature. He has a good job, rents his own place, car . . . you never said he behaved like a baby—”

“But maybe that explains his slow coach. Don’t you see? He’s young, maybe he’s not ready for marriage . . . you know, he’s just checking out the field—”

“So he didn’t react when he found out your age?”

“I don’t know o! I was busy having tantrum like a drama queen while he was cracking jokes.”

“Hmmm . . . you guys sound right for each other—”

“I watched this movie once . . . em, I’ve forgotten the name. Older woman, younger guy. So, they’re like lying in bed. She’s reading something serious like The Economist, he’s playing Nintendo—”

“Hmmm Hisssss! In your case more like he’s reviewing seminar materials and you’re eating shawarma!”

“Ha ha ha! Your head is not correct! But what will people say? What will my family say? Abeg joor, I can’t.”

“People will always say, it’s your family that counts. To convince your family, you must first convince yourself. Last time I checked, he met your specs—”

“No, no, no. Oh no, last time you checked he was a seminar-inviting slow coach!”

“But you like him?”

“Yeah, I do. I like talking to him and I enjoy his company. . . a couple of his shirts need to be donated to Red Cross, but he’s not bad . . . there’s good chemistry in the works . . .”

“You see . . .”

“Yeah, I mean I was going to just ask him point blank where all this is headed you know, and then bam! The age thing. Maybe it’s a sign?”

“Sign of what?”

“That it isn’t meant to be . . .”

“Nonsense. I’ve learnt that love can come when we least expect it from unexpected people and from unexpected places. Don’t blow your chance at love. Give him a chance—”

“And can you imagine I’ll start greying first. Oh dear, I’ll grey down there first and look like his mother!”

“Nonsense! A brazillian can fix that. Did you hear anything I said?”

“Is this dude paying you to do PR for him?”

“I just want you to not let conventions limit your chances. This guy may be younger but he has potential and he is solid.”

“Let me just call him—”

“W . . . What are you going to say?”

“Listen, I’ll put it on speaker.”

 

***

“Hello? Hello? Junior, it’s me.”

“Ah Senior, how are you? I ate my vegetables and brushed my teeth before going to bed.”

“Ha ha ha! Seriously, I’d like to ask you out—”

“A date?”

“Yes, like dinner and a movie . . . no seminar . . .”

“Of course I know what a date is. I wanted to ask you out—”

“That’s okay, I’m asking you. So shall we do dinner this Friday say around seven-thirty-ish?”

“Yes, that’s well before my curfew, I can swing that—”

“Ha ha ha. This boy, you’ve started o.”

“No o, you started it.”

“I’ll whatsapp you details ok?”

“Ok.”

“Bye now.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“You have a lovely smile and rich laughter.”

“Thanks. Did your English teacher teach you that at school today?”

“No, actually it was my literature teacher . . . today we did poetry . . .”

“Touché! See you Friday.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Bye bye.”

“Bye.”

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Riposte: To Catch A Fly . . . Again

aging

 

Ife Nihinlola’s article follows from last week’s dialogue. The question is: when it comes to romance, does age really matter?

 

Riposte: To Catch A Fly . . . Again

“Hey, someone did not sleep well today. So are we celebrating?”

“Celebrating what? See, we have work to do this morning, let’s just focus on that.”

“Wow. Did she curve you that badly?”

“No one curved anyone, okay? I’ve not even asked her anything yet.”

“Okay. This is becoming a problem. Talk to me. Is this psychological?”

“How do you feel about marrying someone older than you?”

“I see what is happening here. How old is she?”

“Answer my question first. Would you have married your wife if she was older than you?”

“Of course I would. She’s a great woman. Age is just a number, you know?”

“What if that number is thirty-five?”

“Ermmm, are we talking about the same person you showed me her picture on your phone?”

“Yes. And this universe is a cruel one. Just last week, I watched this thing on Al Jazeera about women who tried to get pregnant later in life . . .”

“Slow down, slow down. Now you’re thinking of kids.”

“My friend, focus. I’m talking about something I watched and how that was all I could think of when I heard her age. Do you know women are often advised to freeze their eggs when they’re young so they can have better chances of conception later in life?”

“What are you talking about? Who wants to freeze eggs in Nigeria? All I want to know is what went down between you two yesterday.”

“There’s actually nothing to know. All that happened is that I heard her age and my brain hasn’t stopped doing calculations ever since. Do you know she actually thought I was thirty-eight?”

“You’ll soon be thirty-eight and single at this rate. So what did you guys do when you found out your ages? This is actually good you know—knowing this early so you can get the awkwardness out-of-the-way?”

“How is this a good thing? I’m actually trying to move on right now. That’s the goal of the next two weeks.”

“But she has great genes sha o. That is how I want my wife to look at thirty-five. You know, one of my aunties gave birth to her first son at forty last year, and he’s a very healthy boy. Very healthy.”

“What are you saying, this man? You think I should go ahead?”

“I’m not saying anything, but at least take her out on a date, just one date to make up for all the seminars you’ve made her endure.”

“Isn’t that stringing her along? Because I don’t see how she is even interested in me anymore. You should have seen her face when she realized I was twenty-nine. It was like she wanted to faint.”

“Doesn’t mean she still won’t appreciate you making an effort. Let me tell you something about women: no matter how old they get, they still appreciate a guy treating them decently.”

“So you get married now and suddenly become a girl whisperer?”

“Trust me on this one. I know it because I read my wife’s WhatsApp. You should see how much they rate young men who know how old they are and still pay them attention like they’re twenty-one year olds.”

“It won’t be bad to take her out on a date sha. You know she likes Sade too.”

“What is my own with whether she likes Sade or Emile Sande. All I know is that you should call her now and ask her out on the way you should have done yesterday.”

“Okay Sensei.”

“And put it on speaker; there’s no one in this office yet.”

“Yes Sensei.”

***

 “Hello. Hello? Hello?”

“Hello, can you hear me? It’s me.”

“Of course Junior, I know it’s you. Ha ha ha! I hope you made it home before your curfew last ni—”

 ***

 “Why did you cut the call?”

“I . . .I—”

“Never mind, Did she just call you junior? My God. Wife this woman abeg.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can, and you will. You’re going to call her again and ask her out properly and live happily ever after. That’s a fact. I’m going to my cubicle.”

 

©Ife Nihinlola 2016 @ IfeOluwa’s Rambles

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.