Forgive me Motunrayo, I Want to Sin

May 4, 2014 ~ livelytwist ~ 46 Comments

Sola remained quiet even though it was her turn to speak. As each second ticked away, I adjusted my expectations from support to understanding.

“It’s not done. Bimpe, it’s simply not done. Blood is thicker than water . . .”

“But we are not related by blood—”

“Who said anything about his blood? I’m talking about Motunrayo, your younger sister!”

She hissed the way our mothers used to. The way we said we would never do.

“Have you?” Her voice was soft. Her eyes were hard.

“No o! What kind of person do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Love makes people do stupid things.” She spat the word love as though it was bitter kola.

“Well, I haven’t!”

“Keep your legs closed and run as fast as you can.”

I tried to make her see that love could be sweet like chilled ripe mango slices. For two hours her eyes remained hard, the way my father’s and mother’s had been two days ago.

Finally, Sola shook her head and said, “Bimpe, love is not enough. Are you forgetting where we come from?”

I returned to my flat at 10 p.m., took two tablets of Paracetamol, and whispered for sleep to come. My phone rang.

“So, what happened?”

“Segun, it didn’t go very well.” I fluffed my pillows, sat up, and took a deep breath. “She said I was there to look after my sister not look after her husband. That it might even look like we conspired to kill her—”

“God forbid! I’m sorry . . .”

“I’m tired.”

“We can’t let other people dictate our lives. What we have is real.”

“Is it?”

“You don’t mean that—”

“I don’t know again. I still think it’s too soon. She just died six months ago!”

“How long do we have to wait? One year, two years, ten years? What if they never come round? I survived cancer. I narrowly missed that plane crash. I survived the accident. I feel like I’ve cheated death ten times. Bimpe, life is short.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“Say something . . . please.”

“Some days I feel good. Some days I don’t. If Motunrayo is looking down on us, would she approve?”

“We’ve been through this a million times! She wanted me to remarry—”

“But did she want you to marry me?”

“Life is for the living. She wanted me to be happy. I’m happy. Aren’t you?”

“But everybody can’t be wrong!”

“Who is everybody? We don’t have to stay here. I told you I have an offer . . . we can move to—”

“Didn’t you hear my mother? She said it doesn’t matter where we go, bad luck will follow us and blow us like wind; we will never have roots!”

“Please stop crying.”

“I can’t. My father threatened to disown me! You don’t know what it’s like. Your parents are dead and your uncles worship the ground you walk on.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s wait. I have so much to lose . . .”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? Listen to how it sounds, ‘He married his late wife’s sister’. Okay, what of, ‘She married her late sister’s husband’?”

Segun sighed, “Okay. How long?”

We waited another six months during which time, my father spoke to me twice, scowling as he did. Segun took the job abroad and relocated. I convinced him that we should cut off all communication to test the strength of our love. He did not like my gamble, but I needed to know if grief had masqueraded as love.

I waited for my feelings to go away. They left and returned with gale force. His absence made me weaker, made my love stronger, and my resolve tougher, so that when we finally reunited, l threw myself at him and he kissed me in the hotel lobby, not caring if any of the people shuffling through life might recognise us. I felt their eyes when I kissed him back. We broke away as we became conscious of their whistles.

He took my palm, “Feel my heart, it’s racing for you.”

I took his hand, “Feel mine too.”

We did not consult anyone after that. For the next three months, we made plans for me to join him like children whispering, “sssh, sssh,” in the dark. The day before I was to travel, I called my mother because she had said, “I don’t approve. If you marry Segun, your father will live as if he has no child left. As for me, I have lost one child. I cannot lose the other. I will always be your mother.”

I thought she would weep, but her voice trembled as she said, “Se je je oko mi.”

That evening, I ordered room service and pushed the omelette around the plate, then cut it to pieces. Nervous, I stood by the eleventh-floor window and watched ants clear the pool area for the live band. The first strains of the piano reminded me that my feet were cramping. I sat on the bed, leaned back on the headrest, pulled my knees to my chin, and wondered if black was an appropriate colour for darkness.

The twenty-four-hour wait seemed longer than the last two months of Motunrayo’s life. One day, when I visited her, I placed my mouth close to her ear as she dragged out the words, “After I’m gone, make sure he marries again. But not someone prettier than me.” I am prettier than my sister is and she grew up in the shadow of my beauty. Did she see Segun’s love for me and mine for him spark, although we did not, during the long days we spent waiting for hope and battling sadness?

One night I walked in on him keeping vigil by her side. I noticed how handsome he was and thought how lucky she was to have him. Because I have been unlucky in love, I wondered how it would feel to be loved by a man like him. Was that when I jumped off the diving board into the heart-shaped pool? I fell for Segun while Motunrayo was dying not after her death.

Crying, I called my mother again.

“Mummy, it’s me. Please soften the ground for me. Tell Daddy I have come to my senses. Tell him I am coming home.”

She said, “Ose oko mi!”

©Timi Yeseibo 2014

Se je je oko mi – be careful my child
Ose oko mi – thank you my child

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.

Image credit:
City by Jenifer Cabrera@CreationSwap: http://www.creationswap.com/media/12111

Fire. Passion. Desire.

February 8, 2014July 19, 2015 ~ livelytwist ~ 48 Comments

“It’s midnight.”

“I know.”

“I thought you said you were tired.”

“I am.”

“Come to bed.”

“Not yet. I have to finish this.”

When I finally stagger into bed at 4 a.m., I have a new definition for passion: the thing that keeps you awake while others sleep.

Is this passion?

I used to go to bed at midnight and then wake up at 3 a.m., to watch The Australian Open, while everyone else slept. I love loved tennis. I kept abreast of rankings; I rearranged players’ bios in my head. I tracked live scores on my iPhone during sermons on Sundays.

I put my definition to the test. I ask friends, “Does this mean I was passionate about tennis?”

“Nah, you are were passionate about Rafa Nadal’s biceps!”

Never mind my friends they are goofy like that.

I attended a meeting, where the speaker’s call rang true: we should be passionate about life. He didn’t tell us where to find passion, but I have a thought or two, and maybe you do too.

Passion- Origin

Middle English: from Old French, from late Latin passio(n-) (chiefly a term in Christian theology), from Latin pati ‘suffer’¹.

Pati, to suffer. How true in the sense that we willingly suffer pain to gain the thing we love. But the word has evolved.

Is passion duty?

I think of the nights in secondary school, when I read a small book called Calculations in Modern Chemistry—the bane of my fourteen-year-old existence. I couldn’t tell an atom from a molecule, those minuscule things unseen by the naked eye. Forged on I did, cramming formulas, until I decided I’d make my parents proud some other way.

“You want to drop chemistry from your electives? You won’t be able to study aeronautical engineering?” my teacher queried.

“Mmmm,” I replied, grateful that I would never speak of covalent bonds again.

Can Passion die?

“What happened to you?”

“I gave birth to the most beautiful boy in the world.”

“But . . . I don’t understand. You were going to go to LSE, you wanted to work for the World Bank—”

“When I cradled him in my arms; I can’t explain the feeling . . .”

“And now that you don’t anymore?”

“I don’t know, I mean, I have no desire . . .”

“Your degree?”

“Yeah, so what?”

Where does passion come from? Is it innate?

I stumbled on my love for writing, drawing, and music before I was eight. I experimented, my parents indulged. Books, art lessons, cassettes, and karaoke, kept me indoors and out of trouble, but I learnt they were not the path to wealth and security. So I chose another path, an acceptable one.

I remember watching planes land and take-off at the airport and the exhilaration that filled my young heart. Giant birds, what makes them fly, I wondered. Watching planes gives me a rush to this day. I know a little about lift and the law of motion. I know also that this thrill is not passion to study engineering. It is desire to fly and be free.

Passion is not the romantic word I once imagined it was. For me, it is natural ability honed by attention, repetition, focus, discipline, excellence, tenacity, and commitment. It grows, it dies, it resurrects, and it changes, as I evolve.

The desire to be a good mother, a loyal friend, a mentor, coach, teacher, the desire to tell stories, to influence lives, and to blaze trails have stayed. The how changes and control of the when slips from my hands when I clench my fist, but these desires, they are like liquid fire in my bones.

P.S. Aha! You thought this was some witty post about sex romance, so you kept reading waiting for the twist—gotcha! Maybe I like Rafa Nadal’s biceps, but that is a part-time obsession passion. What keeps you awake when the world sleeps?

©Timi Yeseibo 2014

1. Definition of passion at Oxford Dictionaries.com. http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/passion

Six is Just a Number

January 19, 2014February 8, 2014 ~ livelytwist ~ 73 Comments

“Six?”

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Oh my God, six!”

“I . . . I—”

“So six men have entered your pants! What kind of girl are you?”

“What do you mean? I don’t sleep around . . . I was in a relationship with all of them—”

“See the mouth you use to say ‘I don’t sleep around?’ What do you call f**king six guys? Ehn?”

“Hmmm.”

“You are quiet now abi? Answer me?”

“Look, I told you I didn’t want us to divulge this kind of information about our past—”

“So, you wanted to pretend I was the second ehn?”

“This is ridiculous! You knew I wasn’t a virgin when you married me?”

“Six? Haba six?”

“Stop shaking your head and treating me like a slut. What about you?”

“I’m a man o! You hear me I’m a man!”

“What about your younger sister?”

“Don’t you dare bring my sister into this discussion! We’re talking about you!”

“Double standards . . .”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Where are you going?”

“I’m coming.”

***

“Oya start writing.”

“What?”

“The names of the guys!”

“You can’t be serious! No way!”

“Ha! I’ve never been more serious. I need to understand what I got myself into.”

“You must be joking!”

“I’m not.”

“Where’s your list?”

“Here. I’ve written mine.”

“Hisssss! Wonders will never end. I’m not interested!”

“Okay, It’s on the table. Any time you’re interested, you can look. I’m waiting.”

“I’m going to bed jo. I can’t stand your childishness anymore.”

“Nobody will sleep in this house until you write the list!”

“Is that a threat?”

“I didn’t go to law school, you can call it what you want.”

“And if I don’t? Are you going to beat it out of me?”

“I have never laid hands on a woman, and I will not start today. But you will pack your bags and go to your parent’s house tonight.”

“Hissss!”

***

“What’s all that noise? What do you think you are doing?”

“Helping you pack.”

“What?”

“You may want to consider changing from your nightie. I will soon call a cab.”

“You are crazy! Put my things back!”

“No. I will call your dad and tell him to expect you.”

“What demon has possessed you? What’s wrong with you?”

“Write.”

“Sit down, ehn. Let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t have anything left to say.”

“Sweetheart, have I ever been unfaithful to you? Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me? Haaa . . . Say something . . .”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t touch me!”

“Baby, what’s really wrong? I love you. You’re the only man for me. I love you.”

***

“The cab is downstairs.”

“Seriously, you called a cab? Did you call my dad?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Hmmm. Tell the cab to go.”

“No. You go.”

“Six is just a number . . .”

“I disagree.”

“Where’s the paper? Okay, give me the pen.”

***

“Before I give you this paper, let me just say something. Don’t do this to us; things will never be the same between us after this . . .”

“Kola Shonekan? Number three, which Kola Shonekan?”

“He’s a lawyer I went out with when I was in law school—”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know; he used to live in Lekki.”

“He has an MBA from Wharton?”

“How did you know?”

“Jesus! You banged my boss!”

“Kola is your boss? He works for Accenture—”

“He’s my boss’s boss boss. He’s the head of legal!”

“It was a long time ago. We were almost engaged—”

“Which Kassim is this?”

“Isn’t his surname there?”

“Rufai’s younger brother—”

“You know Rufai?”

“How could you? That’s cradle snatching! He’s a small boy!”

“I’m tired of this your interrogation. You wanted list, I gave you list! I’m going to bed!”

“Kassim! Kai, I’m finished!”

***

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the guest room, so I can have some peace.”

“Kassim . . . Kassim that we used to send to buy Small Stout for us . . .”

“Get out! Leave me in peace! Do you hear me? I said, ‘Leave me in peace!’”

“How could you? Okay, just answer me, how could you?”

“He was nineteen, I was twenty-three; we were in love. Since when has that become a crime?”

“I’m disappointed in you!”

“Are you done now? Can I get some sleep now?”

“Yes. I leave you to your conscience.”

***

“What now? What time is it?”

“Wake up, wake up!”

“It’s not yet morning?”

“It’s 4:30. I thought you said there were six?”

“You’ve started again?”

“There are only five names?”

“The sixth one doesn’t count.”

“It does to me.”

“Well since you already have my sexual map . . . His name was Richard Morgan.”

“A white guy?”

“Yes?”

“So, this is what you went to London to do in the name of school? You were banging white guys enh?”

“I’ve had enough of your insults! For your information, he was my classmate. I was studying at his place. He made a move. I knew if I didn’t give in he’d rape me, so—”

“But what were you doing at his place so late?”

“You don’t get it do you? I was at his place in the morning! Anyway, you don’t need to worry about him being your boss’s boss boss boss! He’s dead!”

“Dead?”

“Yes! Complications of HIV, last year.”

“AIDS? My God! Oh my God! I’m finished!”

©Timi Yeseibo 2014

Image credit: curtain vector: zcool.com.cn

font: Scriptina by Apostrophe: http://pedroreina.net/apostrophiclab/0158-Scriptina/scriptina.html

font: Christopher Hand by El Stinger: http://www.dafont.com/christopherhand.font

design: ©Timi Yeseibo 2014

Happy New Love

January 5, 2014January 11, 2014 ~ livelytwist ~ 61 Comments

An indiscretion. A small indiscretion. A secret voiced. She buried her face in her hands. Then mustered courage to dial again. Things had started to go downhill after that night with Nengi.

“Who are you chatting with? What’s so funny?”

She had shown her the chat. That’s what friends do.

Nengi and Soba giggled like little girls playing house.

“You like him?”

“Oh, he’s just a friend. We’ve been friends like forever–”

“But you like him?”

“Never really thought about it. Yeah . . . I think he likes me too.”

They giggled like little girls playing house. They had moved on to other important things like purple lipstick, Ankara tops, and fast food.

And then Nengi had told Ebiere. And Ebiere had told Ibinabo. And Ibinabo had told Sotonye. And Sotonye had told Miebi. And Miebi had told George. Like a Chinese whisper, by the time the story reached Karibi, she did not recognise the monster they had created.

“So you’re seeing someone else?”

Fear squeezed her heart as Karibi towered over her, three days later. His apartment had two rooms and no place to hide.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong.”

He whipped her with his words. Like a koboko, they left bruises in their wake. When he paused, they reverberated from the walls and lashed her from head to toe again.

Explanations followed. Mollifications came next. She stroked his ego until he purred. Then she brushed it, until it shone brighter than a brass plaque.

“I want you to cut off all contact with him.”

“Wh . . . what?”

“Three people can’t sleep on the same bed. I’ve never been comfortable with your closeness with . . .”

“Dayo.”

“Whatever.”

Her wedding was three months away. Her friendship with Dayo had spanned twenty of her twenty-six years. The enormity of the files she would erase did not escape her. Her first bully. Her first Voltron, defender of her universe and her honour. Her first bicycle ride. Her first crush. Her first kiss. Her first relationship expert. Her first cigarette. Her first driving lesson. Her first interview. Her first job. Deleted.

Her marriage showed promise in the beginning before the accusations and jealous fits. He responded that way to her questions about his late nights, alcohol, and phone calls he would not answer in her presence. Then along came her baby girl and peace at last, peace brokered by her forbearance.

She was still in her pyjamas when war broke out. Every day, his rage churned like magma waiting to erupt. Two and a half years later, one black eye later, she closed the door quietly on that chapter of her life.

But fate is a wheel that seeks to make amends. Time is a bridge that links the dots of our lives. Nengi brought the news two days ago.

“You’ll never believe who I ran into today . . . Dayo!”

She was braiding Asikiya’s hair.

“Mummy, it’s too tight.”

She applied some hair lotion to the spot, “Better?”

“Soba, Soba, are you listening to me?”

“Yes I am. Please pass the beads.”

“Here, take. He looked sooo good and he’s doing well.”

She talked about school fees, house rent, and office politics, but Nengi wouldn’t let up.

“Do you want his number? No? Okay, his card is on the table.”

“Throw it in the bin.”

“What?”

“Throw it in the bin.”

After two days of wondering if Dayo had asked about her, if he wore a wedding ring, if, if, if, she dug in the bin through banana peel, slimy cereal, hair extensions, and day-old amala, to solve the riddle of her sleepless nights.

Would he forgive her four-year silence? He’d once told her that she was the only one who could listen to his silence—silent road trips to nowhere that she had not endured but enjoyed. However, her silence had been cruel. She had turned off the light and ripped the socket from the wall.

0-8-0-3-4-5-5-5-0-4

“Hello?”

Her heat beat so fast she thought her ears would explode.

“Hello?”

“Soba . . . Soba, is that you?”

She began to weep.

***

Dedicated to you.

Because your heart was broken. Because we ate popcorn and cried as we watched Dear John, and cheered as we watched Diary of a Mad Black Woman. Because even though we said good riddance to bad rubbish, your heart betrayed you with longing. Because at night you groped for a touch that you forgot was no longer there and when you remembered, you circled your pillow instead.

To all those who loved but had to let go of love, Happy New Love.

***

While we’re all in top gear shooting for the moon and beyond this new year, I’m mindful that our relationships can trip us on the way. Healthy relationships whether platonic or romantic, are a solid base for take-off, don’t you agree?

The Measure of a Man

November 24, 2013February 8, 2014 ~ livelytwist ~ 75 Comments

An apology that never came changed her view of life.

Bode and Chinyere met on WordPress. While working on his master’s thesis, Bode wrote retrospectively about the 2008 Financial Crisis when financial institutions fell like a deck of cards, one after another. The simple way he explained complex economic theories and the poetry he used to assign blame, in stanzas, inspired Chinyere to follow his blog. At the end of each blog post, he posed questions that drew comments from her. In responding to her comments, he stoked a friendship as though he was tending to embers in the fireplace.

When he wrote that post she didn’t agree with, she thought it best to send a private email. What started in public, mushroomed in private. Forty-four emails later, she knew his favourite food, sushi, the movie he never tired of watching, Schindler’s List, and that both his parents were professors. As they tangoed near the perimeters of their deepening friendship, she moved from being his favourite reader to his dear friend. The first time he referred to her as darling, she danced in tandem, placing a one-eyebrow-raised smiley next to the word sweetheart in her reply.

She imagined what darling would sound like if he said it; she envisioned a baritone, like her boss’s, whom she secretly admired. She felt safe in Nigeria, eleven hours away, from her Toronto sweetheart, Bode, whose handsome face smiled at her whenever she read his blog.

One Saturday, their email exchange, interspersed with LOLs and smileys, over the wonders of touch screen and autocorrect spelling, spanned the evening and spilled into the night. Joking about a political scandal that involved an elder statesman and nude photos of his beautiful mistress, he wrote, “I bet you’ve got a body to die for like hers.”

The half-smile, still on her face from their previous exchange, died and her lips closed into a straight line. Scrolling through the email thread, she searched desperately for it—that email or reply from her that gave him the nerve. She searched again. And again. Finally, she slept with a frown on her face, questions etched on her brow.

She did not reply the next day. Or the day after. She immersed herself in work like a zombie, neither feeling nor caring. How could he have written that? What had she done to encourage him? On the fourth day, he emailed. He had pined for her reply; he had grabbed his phone every time it beeped and driven his professor mad with error-strewn work. He guessed the joke had rubbed her the wrong way, but was it now a crime to joke with a dear friend? He was sorry even though he didn’t know what he was sorry for.

She read his email several times. He had written it in the same simple way he explained complex economic theories, using poetry to assign blame, in stanzas. But, it lacked the sincerity upon which people build great friendships. Two days it was before she fashioned a reply. Discarding the word sweetheart, she wrote:

Dear Bode,

Your joke was in bad taste. I have since evaluated the sixty-three emails we exchanged, and can find no reason why you would share a joke like that with me. Btw, I read your recent post and I agree that the bailout of banks by national governments should be a temporary measure only; it should not be the cure-all. I will share more on your blog later today.

His reply was swift. She had wondered if it would come. She had considered that the curtain had fallen on a friendship that spanned four months and she had already started mourning. Clutching her phone, hope fluttered in her heart and unsteadied her hands.

Dear Chinyere,

I am sorry. What I wrote was inappropriate and lacking better judgement. I offended you and I am sorry. If you can forgive me, I would like to continue being a friend.

That was not the reply she received; it is the one she wished she had. After two weeks, she knew his reply would never come. As weeks turned into months, she left fewer and fewer comments on his blog. She liked to think that his not responding to her comments did not influence her decision to stop altogether.

Today when Chinyere measures a man, she does not take into account the school where he acquired his MBA or the features that make him attractive. German or Japanese, his car keys hold no lure. It is his apology; the quality of his apology is the measure of a man.

Photo credit: primenerd / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Original image URL: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hiroic/8521967145/

Title: Stranger Nº 5/100 – Robbel

Dear Random-Guy-Who-Asked-If-He-Could-Share-My-Mini-Umbrella-At-The-Busstop

August 7, 2013August 7, 2013 ~ livelytwist ~ 2 Comments

Because you enjoyed my, I am Not Looking For Love, I am Going to Work, post, and because guys aren’t hitting on me everyday (it’s true!), I know you’ll enjoy eurekanaija!’s post as much as I did. We’re doing life together, so I couldn’t bear to laugh alone…

I am Not Looking For Love, I am Going to Work

August 4, 2013November 22, 2015 ~ livelytwist ~ 158 Comments

It began yesterday at the government office, which was saturated with immigrants whose anxious stares alternated between the digital display boards and their tickets, a square piece of paper with a number printed on it. At the sound of the beep, everyone looked at their ticket, and then the display boards. Some sighed. Some continued talking. Others continued sleeping. One person rose to meet an official walled in by glass on the other side of the counter.

My wait was shortened by an acquaintance with whom I chatted until our conversation lulled to a comfortable stop.

“Excuse me, it seems you are from Nigeria.” A tall man sitting a few spaces away from my acquaintance smiled at her.

“No, I am not.”

“Ah, but I thought—”

“I am from Democratic Republic of Congo.”

With her thick Igbo accent, she delivered her last words with a finality that inspired no argument from the man. He fanned himself, and then pretended to read his letter from the belastingdienst.

Because I am slow to change the expression on my face, she saw it. The disbelief. The wonder. The perplexity.

“Don’t mind the idiot. If not for dis yeye tax people, where e for come see me? See as e dey talk as if e be my mate. E nor see im type?” she whispered for my benefit and his.

I nodded like her co-conspirator, as though I had been dissing guys for the last ten years. What else could I do?

Determined to be a better person, this incident is hovering at the back of my mind when a young man approaches me today as I wait for my tram.

“Hello, are you from Nigeria?”

Surely there must be a better opening line? I give nothing away as I nod and he introduces himself. I tell him my name.

“Ah, Timi. Timilehin? You are Yoruba?”

“I am Nigerian.”

“I know, from whose part?”

“We have left Nigeria. Let’s pretend ethnicity does not matter. I am a Nigerian; that is enough.”

He looks at me as though the sky has descended on my head and I am unaware. Undeterred, he forges on in pidgin English. I respond in proper English.

He ditches Pidgin in favour of a kind of English that is interspersed with incorrect tenses and Dutch words. This is a cross some of us bear. The effect of speaking Dutch with non-native proficiency is the tendency to forget English words and to adjust our tenses automatically to match the wrong grammar of English-speaking Dutch people.

I am aware of every mistake he makes. Like the freckles on my neighbour’s face, they are many.

“I saw you at this tramhalte iedere dag, I mean, every day. Are you going to work?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

I tell him. And then I help him because he seems lost, “I haven’t seen you before?”

“I know, but I am seeing you. You are very mooi, beautiful.”

I take in his overalls. He does not look like Idris Elba in Tyler Perry’s Daddy Loves His Girls, but this is real life.

“Thank you, where do you work?”

He talks about his work, links that conversation to how long he has been in The Netherlands—fifteen years, and then ties it to his goals and dreams like a neat bow at the end of a string.

My eyes do not wander from his face while he speaks. But my mind does. I wonder if he can read, understand, discuss, and comment on my blog intelligently.

Then there is silence. The wind dies. The leaves sleep. The seagulls take their leave. It is just me and him. And the silence. Without my help, he stews in it for a while—scratching his chin, brushing dirt from his overalls, staring at something behind me—before he says, “I must goes to my work place. Can I have your number?”

“For what?” Honest words spill out before I can reel them in. What else do we have to say to each other?

“I wan know you.”

I do not know why I did what I did next. Guilt—over what? My resolution to be a better person? Pity? Maybe, my thoughts had roamed to how he must have been eyeing me, calculating his approach. Religious fervour? Hardly.

“I would like to invite you to my church.” I fumble in my bag for the flyers the preacher says we should carry around for opportune moments, moments like this one I suppose.

He looks at me as though The Rapture has occurred and I am unaware.

“Ah, ah! Won’t you know me first before inviting me to your church? I already goes to church.”

It is as if he knows. That I am not very good at this. That church is a cop-out. That it is too late to tell him I am from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. That I do not have the heart to tell him he will not understand my blog, and therefore not understand me. He pounces on me like a wounded lion, as if to say, “This is for every man you ever dissed!”

“That’s the problem with you Nigerian girls! Church, church, church! Your mates don marry, you still dey here! Oya go and marry your God!”

He jumps on his bicycle in one swift motion and pedals away.

It is rare that I cannot express myself with words. But I am not writing a dissertation. This is life. This does not call for intellectual prowess.

I imagine that in a few moments, his bicycle chain would jam, forcing him to stop. I imagine him kneeling on the earth, humiliated, rattling the chains, while I watch from the elevated platform of my tram stop. Then the words that abandoned me would force their way out of my mouth, “I am not looking for love, I am going to work!”’

Nothing I imagine happens. He continues to ride and does not look back. But a curious thing happens. As I look, it is not him getting smaller in the distance, it is me!

A Father’s Love

June 16, 2013 ~ livelytwist ~ 26 Comments

My father’s love is different from my mother’s love because my dad is not like my mum, as it should be. He is a thinker, not a talker; his low rumble rarely punctuated the soprano-rich chatter that filled our home.

While I can dig up a dozen memories of my mum the superhero, without knitting my eyebrows and closing my eyes, I can only dig up a few of my dad. However, each memory, etched with a permanent marker in my consciousness, represents a turning point that defined me as a writer.

During my childhood, my father was two things to me: Father Christmas and the man I wanted to please at all cost. Perhaps it was because he lived far away and I did not see him every day; the heart often longs for that which is not near. He returned home at Christmas with lots of praise and presents. He brought us tons of Judy, Mandy, Betty & Veronica, and Archie comics.

He made sure I had one Naira every day so I could go to Challenge Bookshop or Leventis Stores to buy a book. That was how I discovered the enchanted world of Enid Blyton and my imagination soared to distant lands and distant shores. I cut my notebooks to mini squares and wrote the stories I would have loved to tell. That was how I learnt about pace and dialogue without going to writing school. Encouraged by my dad, I read and read and read.

As a teen, we read together because he was home every day. I scanned the newspapers daily, but saved the columns and editorials for weekends. Then I would lounge with him in our veranda, he lost in his world of words, I lost in mine, as the clock ticked away. When night fell and the queen of the night flowers released their scent, we slapped the moths and mosquitoes away, turning the pages of our newspapers faster than we had done in the afternoon.

He indulged my love for reading and there was always money to buy more books, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, The Economist, Times, Newswatch, and Classique magazines. That was how I learnt to argue for what was important to me with my words instead of my voice. Enthralled by the magic of words, my worldview changed one sentence after another. I wrote opinion pieces that enticed people to read and not skim, arranging my stream of thought in a logical flow. That was how I learnt about exposition without going to writing school. Encouraged by my dad, I read and read and read.

Now a young woman, it is my turn to be Mother Christmas, heaping gratitude and gifts, so my father can continue to read. When we talk, I listen. I listen for it. I listen for the lilt in his voice as I imagine the spark in his eyes, because something he read has transported him as it does me, to lands of possibilities.

As I connect the dots of my life, it becomes clearer and clearer still: my father’s love is different from my mother’s love. Her love is loud and the spotlight magnifies her heartbeat in motion. In the periphery, my father’s heart beats too, at a quiet even pace that masks its fervency.

My dad is the mostly unsung hero who in a time of uncertainty wrote me a letter that has frayed at the ends and torn at the fold. Whether soaring or plummeting, whether laughing or crying, his words have remained with me, reminding me of when I first dared to dream. Reading and rereading the letter through the years, his writing style has become my own.

Happy Father’s Day dad. Surely, my ink flows in part because of you.

Photo credit: http://www.creationswap.com/LuisGarcia