Afterwards, we sit on the jetty and listen to Teni's Wait on my earphones. One bud is his ear, one in mine. Honestly, I never, ever, enjoyed a song with one earbud. I still don't, but I like the sharing part. I wonder how Patoranking and Lil Kesh's is it because I love you will sound if I listen to it like this. It used to be my favourite song. I wonder about the mangrove tree near the jetty, its thick twisted roots growing into the river bank, I wonder how long it has stood there, watching silently. I wonder about the straight line of black ants marching up its torso carrying fresh green dicot leaves.
But I don't let myself drift very far away. I am sitting next to him, being here, whilst wondering about the world. Living it, breathing it, wondering about it. Oddly, it is not so bad to sit and watch for a second, like the tree.
I don't know when I start humming, humming to the next song on my playlist.
"Please stop," Chideziri begs. "Please."<
By the time darkness falls we have left the riverbank.The ends of my knickerbocker are still wet and they are cold, plastered to my knees.Amanda stopped us at the suya shop I'm front of the store. The suya man was busy arranging and rearranging the heap of meat stock piled on his table, a thickset man with too prominent a Hausa accent. He called her "Aunty", in that sly way traders do, even though he looks twice both our ages combined.He said, "Ah, aunty welcome. E don tey since I see you.".I got the feeling that she often stops by. I never thought of her as a carnivore. But we learn every day. I told her that, and she laughed, while pointing out the bloody red pieces of meat she wanted from the pile. When he had finished grilling the skewed meat over the improvised barbeque, he chopped onions and cabbage, with expert precision, added it to the mix and then rolled it up in old newspapers.Amanda said.
I close my eyes as I think of the sound of a popular Nigerian music in my head. The beat is steady and I can feel my eardrums vibrate to the sound of its intensity which tries to draw me apart. I try not to think of the music but I can't stop myself from enjoying its lovely taste.It takes a while before I realize that the sound I hear in my ears is not the sound of a popular Nigerian music but the sound of my own voice, warning me to pay attention carefully and always follow my heart. I rest my head on the bed and before I can recognize the sound in my head, I fall asleep.
It rains mad heavy all night. It is still raining by the time dawn ascends the horizon. I saw it all, from black to gray, then dark blue and later translucent turquoise; because after undoing my braids which were damp with rain and river water, and drying them as best as I could, I stayed up through out the night, texting Chideziri.It has been said once, that the best conversations happen around two-thirty a.m, when eyelids are drooping, when words are sincerest, and the awkward silences are not awkward at all.Amanda: ......Chideziri: Ikuku afaAmanda: What?! (Laughing emoji)Chideziri: Have you gotten home yet?Amanda: Don't try to change to the subject (finger pointing up emoji). What is that?Chideziri: Ikuku? (Grinning emoji) it means wind.Amanda: ??Chideziri: You run quite fast, like a petty thief.Amand
Tobi wakes me up Sunday afternoon with a toe in my side. It's barely still bright outside and there's a small drizzle falling.NEPA finally decided to show up after going AWOL on Friday night, when this three-day long drizzle started. That's the thing I hate about October; when it wants to rain it rains rhinos and elephants, maybe even a little bit of monkey, the entire menagerie in fact.I tumble out of the sheets—they smell like spice and use and unwashness—to plug my phone to the adapter on the wall socket. It was where I had left it before I fell asleep—drowned by the cream waves of my tousled bed sheets.Tobi doesn't strip down, even though he is half drenched. He is still in that his brown and black 50-over-50 woven sweatshirt with orange stripes at its shoulder, that makes him resemble a homeless person. His hair is in a disarray, in small tight curls like locks. It adds more realism to the homeless-
There are two Chideziris in the shop at once.It is the kind of thing you see in a movie, very much like that scene in Divergent where Tris went up against herself. Only this time one Chideziri is fair, as luminous yellow as the sixty-watt light bulb, and far more muscled, equipped with mountainous shoulders and a big mouth to go along. He has said like a thousand words within the five seconds I have been in here. He is also the Chideziri that's braiding my hair.After Saturday night, after I came in from the downpour and I couldn't blow-dry and re-braid my hair altogether before Monday, after Aunty Seedy called to tell me she couldn't come around because of a family meeting she had to attend (she still links up with her exes family. Don't ask me why. Of an inkling I have none), Dad decided to bring me to a saloon–the saloon, he said. He said he had a classmate in town who owns a saloon at Elimgbu. He just didn't tell me that that 'friend' was Chidezi
It ts that day Celine undid her buttons, all over again. I am so not amused.Tobi's hands move swiftly in her mane, yet softly, with greater care now. There's a bit of Apple on his arm and he slicks some onto his fingers every now and then.He leans towards her ear and says something I can't hear. She giggles. I catch fire.It's that bloody day all over again. Somebody hit the restart button on the DvD plate; it is only different now because she's my girl, and he's my brother—it is a measure more obnoxious. When he finishes, her hair is tapered down her nape in crooked lines, her forehead sleek with oil. She looks something fierce. She examines the hairdo in the mirror and smiles. Her full cheeks blossom and I am reacquainted to the lush sugar of her face.I know this Amanda, I think.I know this Amanda that smiles at people she does not know and plays with the tail of her braid, I think.Later
Fridays in October always start off as cool days. Often, they stay that way till tired Saturaday mornings arrived. Or they don't. At times, they melt slowly into afternoons hot enough to deep fry a chicken, so damp and itchily lukewarm that you want to shed your skin, exit, stray away from your body, just leave. On top of that our class has no fan. There is a single bulb, fluorescent, yet I felt as though half the heat in the square is a product of its emissions.Weeks go by faster when you are happy. It was only yesterday I was in blazers and skirts braving an early morning rain to get to school. Small nescafe ponds of water carpeted the estate's dirt roads and each time the car's tyre hit one, it sunk, sprayed water on unsuspecting passers-by. One woman, an old lady in a hijab cursed the loudest. Dad muttered a sheepish sorry that she wouldn't have heard even if the windows were rolled all the way down; they were not. Then I go to bed on an unceremonious
Monday morning at the assembly, that is where Mrs Epele tells us about Ralph: Raphael Ebigide. He was attacked at Eneka, late at night when he went out to the market atrhe second junction to buy stuff.Ralph is one of the big boys in SS2 arts class who has made close friends with most G's in our class already. That lively bubbly kind of G that sweats mad vibes.Apparently, the bad news is that he was hospitalized as a result of the injuries he sustained.The good news: He should be back to school within a week's passing, three at most.Reason for Announcement: "Please endeavor to stay at home if it can be helped. Those of you who move around aimlessly at odd hours. Please. Please and please. We have entered the ember months—"Aha!Finally, mention of the dreaded ember-months!I said it. I was just waiting for her to land and she delivered, right on target.Once we get into S
Calling Ma to tell her the exam is over will only make her rush me, I think.Today is the one day I don't want to rush things. So when others pull out their phones and gather round for selfies and corny posts such as GRADUATE IN A BIT or BEEN HERE, DONE THAT, I push my phone deeper into the slash pocket of my overall."And we good to go!" my best friend appears just as she disappeared: when I wasn't looking, and all of a sudden.She stretches her arms out for a hug."Ewwww." I dodge her. My best friend, Amanda, only seems to want hugs after one of her many visits to the toilets. There's enough bacteria on the doors alone to kickstart an epidemic."You know you want this hug," Amanda grins, inching closer.The periodic toilet frolicking is normal, the usual. The grinning is new. Whatever Port-Harcourt did to her was good. She even let me read her journal for like six seconds—which is a record. She n
I slump onto the grass next to Chideziri. He keeps staring up ahead into the tree, as if he's looking for something in particular, not paying me any mind. "G." Nothing. I shove his shoulder. Still nothing. "Are you going to sit here sulking all day?" Finally, he looks at me. "I can try, can't I?" "It's passing out day, you fool. We had plans, remember?" "Frankly, I don't." He says. I raise a brow at him; he only shrugs. I adjust myself till I am lying on my back in the untrimmed grass. "Well, since you don't remember, I'll wait here until your mermory starts to come back." "You'll be waiting for a long time" "I have enough time." I fire back. "Jesus Christ." Chideziri mutters. "Don't use the name of the Lord in vain, bro." "Guy, g
After four months of complete drought, March releases the first rains.Rooftops turn red with dust filled water, dust that accumulated over the dry season. Children play around under the rain, splashing in puddles.I spend half of most days in second term numb and staring. Staring at the teacher, at the writing on the board that makes no sense to me whatsoever, at the wall clock hung above the marker board. Then I spend the other half of the day noticing I'm numb and staring.In church, I no longer swing my shoulders to the music. I don't listen to J.Cole anymore.She is too everywhere. Too present to be so absent. My clothes smell of rain-beaten leaves, of abandonment, of freshly written poems. How hard I scrub makes no noticeable difference. Weeks after January the sixth, my knuckles are red and raw from trying to scrub her away, and failing to.She is too everywhere.I learn to stay in my room, curtains drawn
Queen's is as quiet and sprawling as I remember. Almost too quiet. The pinafores are also as I remember, shining from excessive ironing. But now the shirts are cardboard paper and the weather is always so dry that I have to keep lipbalm in my bag, just in case my lips crack. Again.Lorita's here, and she definitely missed me. I get cupcakes literally every day of the week, and a lot of guilt trip for that one time I abandoned her, went to Port-Harcourt, and while there, lived my best life.The absolute best thing about being back is that Queen's installed a new track. I'm feeling it.Now, I can run.As far as I want, as far as my legs will carry me. So fast that I fly. I close my eyes and there I'm in PH city, with Chideziri, sprinting, the rain right behind us.When I open my eyes, he isn't there.~
CHIDEZIRI I kiss her now, because when she's gone, I want to remember how her smile tastes mixed with tears. I want to remember the flayed pink that the sky took on, how rays peered down through clouds. I want to remember the mangroves, their dying leaves forming a glade of rusted confetti. I want to remember the sun, before it was eclipsed. ~ AMANDALeft to Aunty Seedy, suffocation by embracing is how I'd die."Nne, I'll miss you sorely." She says, smothering me. I lose count after the seventh hug. All our stuff will be moved to her house. Sofas,
The trees outside my window are almost naked now, burnt to figs by the ever angry sun. In the darkness of dawn, their branches resemble bones. I can't sleep, and being awake staring at the skeleton branches isn't helping, so I take Tobi's hoodie and leave the house. Outside is silent, much like everything else. So silent that when I pass the playround, I can hear the grass whistle. I walk. I walk by the tailors shop, to Close 4 and past. Past the hulking buildings and lonely trees. I walk till I get to the river. Elimgbu river has sunken so low that the stones underneath break its glassy surface. The first time we were here, it was full to its brim. Leaves floated on its surface. Pebbles lived under. It was beautiful. That is the thing about faded glory. It always starts out beautiful.
January, the sixth arrives quickly, quietly. January, the sixth steals our time. I wake up not remembering what the day means, at first. It comes to me slowly. The night before we leave, the night before January the sixth, I learn two things: there are two kinds of hunger, and one can keep you up all night, staring at the ceiling and missing a place and people you are yet to leave. It is two O'Clock in the morning and disconcertingly quiet when I decide that I can't endure the trashing and turning. I take a book from the shelf that will no longer be mine by evening, purple hibiscus, with the cracks on its cover and Adichie's delighted face above its blurb, and I go to the sitting room that will not be ours by evening. There, I turn on the light and cozy up on the couch. Halfway through the first chapter, feet shuffle in the hallway and Dad emerges from
Ahmed is stuck at his mother's shop. But as always, he finds a way to vanish. Abe's on his way already. Pacal posted pictures of the places his family had been to today: cinema, swimming at a pool and Ferris wheeling. The mere sight of the Ferris wheel gave me vertigo.By the tone of his last text, he's down for a reunion. Although he's never been as good as Ahmed at vanishing, I know he'll be there. Chantelle gets there first, to our spot at the river. Her sister's nurse friends visited, and in her words, turned the house into a marketplace. Amanda arrives last. The sun has sunk below the horizon by then and mosquitoes are biting. "I come bearing gifts!" she bellows, stomping down the planks, her footsteps heavy with the weight of five paperbags she's clutching. "Since when did Amanda become Santa?" Abe says. Yet he grabs his gift bag when it's offered.&nbs
Christmas is explosive. Literally so. The number of fireworks produced in a single annum is alarming. But what is even more alarming is the fact that the effing hoodlums that deadbeat parents in my neighbourhood call their children seem to think that detonating all those fireworks in the street just beyond our gate is cool. On Christmas eve, after one "knock-out" landed on our roof, I reached the end of my thoroughly stretched patience. I stormed out to yelled at a couple of them loitering in the street. All of which I did barefooted.Don't blame me, I was spectacularly pissed.The twenty fifth—Christmas day itself—is spent out of our house and in Aunty Seedy's, with her and Ozo. Dad wanted us to go to Chicken Republic, or one of the many fancy restuarants he made it his business to locate in the area once we arrived, since neither of us can boil an egg.