If i was a bird i would land at my own windowsill, too.
That's because it looks homely—old and forgotten, the wall it peaks through is crawling with vines; aged vines, budding tendrils, it doesn't matter, they all died when the house's decorator, whoever he or she was, covered them in a heavy coat of cream-coloured paint.
The pigeon at the bowed ledge of my window waddles about on dragon-scaled orange feet, its body a startling snow white that defies the principles of natural pigmentation. I have never seen the like. The bird belongs on the prow of a war ship, carved and etched in fine timber. I rap my knuckles against the mirror like face of the glass, examining its feathers. It doesn't so much as flinch, only its eyes move; unblinking jet black dots flecked with raisins of curiosity that follow my every motion. If I had my phone I would have taken a close up picture of its streamlined figure. I would have Google-searched its name. I pull out a
Amanda looks beautiful in that jeans pinafore, the honey brown of her face shining with that soft sleek translucence of oil. Her hand flies to the black choker circling her neck; she clutches it, her pupils dilating. I think have had enough of people stare at me with round eyes for one full day, so I go ahead to recite the sentence I repeated in my head over and over again on the way here till it started to sound right. Trust Chantelle, she won't come with me even when I begged her. In my experience, an extra person makes for easier conversations and less awkwardness. I practically groveled at that chap's feet; she wouldn't budge. Some much for Bro-code."Hey, Amanda, afar? You weren't—". She didn't even let me finish."What are you doing here?" She whispers. Good question. An even better answer: I let bloody Abe talk me into coming to your house."I just decided to come—"."How did you know the way to my house?". If sh
Someone should as well come up to me and ask: Any last words?. Because i am a zombie, walking dead. A meat suit on two feet if Daddy catches me. Catches us. I jerk him into the sitting room by a handful of his dress shirt and shut the door behind us, quickly."Amanda, slow down first. What's happening?" He asks.How about "my Dad is going to murder us".I shush him and pull him by his hand past the sitting room, past the black glass dining table we don't eat at, through the passage and....into my room. I have been doing that a lot lately, dragging him around, I mean. In this scenario, it is absolutely necessary. We enter my room and I close and bolt the door, panicking myself shitless. A thrill runs through me, climbs up my tummy and evaporates into my chest in a shiver. There are beads of sweat under my arms, uncomfortable, like shards of glass, and the butterflies in my stomach are flying around my insides like mad. I would recognize the feel
The voice beyond the chestnut brown door reverberates with the same sonorously sweet huskiness I fell for a month ago. Still, it is different, more controlled. It is like steam; tepid and everywhere. If Amanda's voice had feet and it could on walk on water, this is exactly what its footsteps would sound like."This is the eyeglass from the clinic. Try them on a d check if it improved anything. Remember to take the drugs we bought. Two in the morning. Two at night. Okay?". She doesn't reply immediately, and although she says "Yes Daddy" sweetly after half a second, I smell the terseness in that nanosecond, amplified and velvety, and it eroded the silence into a chasmic void. Next, i hear the slap of shuffling foot, going in the opposite direction, away from my position. I hear her barefoot sweep against the face of the tiles when she steps back to shut the door. Then the slapping sound stops, and returns to the door. My head is on fire, and I am wondering how he saw me,
The beguiling fear passes soon enough, and with it, the urgency in my thighs that made me imagine i was about to wee on myself. It would have been a disaster if Dad saw Chideziri. I swear."Were you sick? Is that why you didn't come to school?". I look down at the paper bag in my hand, Thelma's eye clinic is scrawled over it in bold Sanserif, at my phone, at the shiny Teddy bear ears on its pouch shimmering like its saying "did you miss me?"."No," I say. I sound calmer than I should be. "My Dad caught me coming back from the party and....as you can imagine, he was properly pissed," Chideziri grimaces at the thought. It makes me want to laugh."He seized my phone and made me stay at home through out yesterday and today. And Viola! here I am." I shrug."I'm sorry I got you into that mess" he says, looking doleful. I've noticed he has a habit of saying he's sorry for things he didn't do; things he has no control over. We are st
Democritus, this old philosopher of the classical era propounded the Atomist theory. He argued that everything there was that existed on our dew washed dune of a planet was formed primarily by a rare convergence of atoms. He believed that these atoms where colourless, transparent bodies of varying shapes and sizes and weights; the purest of which were made up of fire. People didn't believe him. They didn't believe him the same way they didn't believe Leonardo Da vinci who imagined men could one day fly.After Amanda's exploring fingers have ignited a sure trail of wild fire in every fibre of my being, I feel inclined to believe Democritus. Her kisses are feathery like a brush of paint against a canvas, yet each one burns. Between my eyes, at the slim drawbridge of my nose. Tenderly on the valley between my nostrils and upper lip. On my lips. My eyelids seem to have lost the power to unseal themselves. They tilt and flutter and quiver, and the only thing in sight is the
AMANDAIt is late evening when I ask Dad for a pen, when he goes into his bedroom to sort out one of the fancy biros he stashed in the lower drawer of his reading desk. I sneaked Chideziri, quickly, into the kitchen and out, to the back of the house through the pantry door. Though he didn't seem a tad worried about my Dad smelling him out, I hurried him anyway, but I made him wait for me at the gate. I think of how we watched the twilight born together, saw it fall asleep, slowly, leaving a map of scintillating pink, orange, red and yellow continents stretched across the worn out sky. We talked about everything, and nothing. Movies and books and songs, and wondered why another person could tickle you but you couldn't do so if you tried your hardest. We talked about poetry and lyrics, our favourite places in the world, and tattoos. When he asked me if I would like to have a tattoo, i said "yes", and I told him it would be at my hip—a giant bitumen-black butterfly—t
It's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am gateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come it is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it u on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself.There was no electrici
Daddy took me to school in the morning, himself. We drove in silence, he staring at the wheel, me staring out the window. When we drove past Elimgbu junction, I thought about the crossroads the four-way junction had created. One time, Dad told me that back then in the village, some people who believe in one deity or the other would go to a junction that is a crossroads and makes sacrifices there. He told me how he would see cowries and red brown blood on the coal tar when went out for water—some times even a dead chicken or two in the middle of the road. He told me how he saw that bizzare sight so many times that he became used to it. His face contorted into a grimace when he said it and i knew he was thinking about all those wasted birds that someone could have eaten and been satisfied with. I thought of them, too. Although I had never seen such—i still have not—i was angry at them, whoever they were, for all that wastage. Whie zooming past that spot, I imagined 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.