Of Rain and Pain...

There are things one finds out as one goes along in life. Some of these things are deep, painful things inside of you; the world tells you that the pain will make you stronger. You discover the hurt that can come from things you did not know existed, or knew but ignored. I'm in this situation at the moment. Even breathing hurts. I feel like a train ran over me and I don't know if I can get out of bed. It fucking hurts. I guess I had, long ago, filed away the knowledge in some lower cabinet of my brain storage. Yesterday brought it all back...the realisation that I had muscles, especially stomach muscles. They are all on fire at the moment. The hurt I am feeling from my first hour of working out is unbearable. It feels like my stomach muscles have died and are in purgatory getting pulled by the devil from his perch in hell.

Sometimes I'm not sure why I'm doing something. Like this working out thing. I quit my job last Sunday, and joining a gym seemed like a very logical next step, never mind that I weigh 45kg/99lbs and have an amazing (read as "good") body. I don't know what my therapist will say about this -- quitting my job, that is. I don't care. Life does stuff to you. Sometimes you endure enough of a person or situation and when you can no longer do so, you weigh your options and pick the best... or the second best -- murder is still a crime. You're young, you should do what makes you happy. Right? No? Fuck all that anyway.

I'm in Ibadan and it's raining. Earlier, as the cab driver drove through Moniya, I was hit by a painful knowing, a painful longing. I saw a house. I thought it was THE house; the little inlet was right where memory said it had been and the storey building next door was as it had been. The shop where the old albino woman had sold polybags was still across the road Sis couldn't cross because she was afraid of cars. I called Ma immediately and asked her if Ita Baale Olugbode was in Moniya. She said no. I told her about the house. I said it was THE house, Baba's house. She said, "No, it couldn't have been. Baba's house is in Oranyan." THE house is one of my earliest memories. I feel like I have buried things in those early years -- things I need to find. Sometimes, I think that if I could walk along my roots, I'd be fixed. That's why I put THE house in my story, Re-Memory. Now, I find that there are corridors of memory that the rains of time erode and shape-shift.

Electricity

Yesterday, you learnt that a slice of bread can conduct electricity. The toaster and a harmless looking slice taught you.

At night, you tell him about the toaster. Then. You say to him, "5 months." He asks you what you mean by that and you tell him that in the past four and half years, this is the longest stretch the two of you have been together without breaking up. He is surprised that you notice these things; time constructs are nothing to him in a way that annoys you because you envy it. Now, here you both are again.

Do you want out?

All I can say is that it is overwhelming

So by not answering directly you mean to say, yes, you want out?

No, I'm just saying I can't answer yes or no. If your brother told you he was going through this in a relationship what would you tell him?

I'd tell him to get out

See what I mean by it being overwhelming?

No, I don't see. But you should get out of it. I'd tell you to get out of it.

He says that he'll be right back. That he needs to send an email before the light goes off. You're not sure what emotions are real. Maybe you're milking your life, subconsciously craving disaster and the depression it will bring. You don't know what you'd do if he chooses to accept to get out. You know that you'd fall apart. You just don't know the number of ways in which you'd fall apart. Yes, there are ways of falling apart.

Once, the first time he 'broke' your heart, you fell apart to Leona Lewis' 'Happy'. For a week, you slept on the cold tiled floor of a friend's apartment, you played 'Happy' on repeat, and you cried. The next week, you fell apart in a separate way. You went back home, took Leona off repeat, and you lay in bed with your eyes open, your face dry, counting the ways in which you could end your life. Going through your mental file of methods. Then you fell together and layered your soul with ice, preserving it for when the return would happen. It did.

One time you fell apart to Pink's 'Beam Me Up' and took long walks from Magodo to Ketu and back and forth till you could no longer feel your legs. Till you could only collapse in a cab at the point that your rock feet refused to move one more step. And similar, for weeks. You fell to 8kg less and gauntness and fruit salads only. Just enough to stay.

Today, when you tell him that you're leaving work because you feel faint. He says to you, Baby is it coz of our little fight? You tell him it's your allergies and the fight. You are reminded why this works -- he gets it. He gets you. He knows that a misunderstanding will manifest in physical illness in you. He doesn't tell you that it's weird, or that you're crazy or that you're trying to manipulate him. He says, Baby I'm sorry. And you feel a little better.

In the past, you'd fight and afterwards you'd fall ill. Sometimes, terribly so. Then you'd make up and the next day you'd be fine.

Your brain, sometimes, has no idea how to deal. And so you cry, and rage, and beg, till your brain decides that if those aren't working, the problem isn't emotional, it's physical. So it keeps you in bed for days, with an illness you can feel but maybe not describe. This time, you can describe it. It's a cough and a cold and a fatigue in your bones so that they won't do your bidding.

Freedom Was... and still is

Sunlight and Love

You were god speaking this wind to being. Unearthing flamed wings from my uptight side.

In lying. On your chest, listening to your words but more to the rhythm of your heart. You, dancing to the rhythm of mine. Me absorbing you.

Freedom was in the Ashes of Angela you stirred for me. Politics of Literature. Religion and Sex. Literature of politics.

It was in dangling feet while you cooked, bending knees to worship at Jesus' feet.

This freedom you gave me. This dysfunction we were. The one I loathed yet crave deeply. How it let me be god. Create in its throes. Beauty and disaster as I willed. And now this cage of fear I skirt around.

I fear that someday I will no longer remember. Your face; the tiny incisions it bears -- witnesses of a second coming. I should have clawed replicas on your skin after your second coming. Maybe they would have bound you once more.

Tell me, will there be another coming? Would it be fair to ask that Jesus rise for me one last time? It was not I who sinned after all. Would it be selfish to ask that he give himself so I could be once more? For I fear that someday your name will come to mind but no longer will a face ride in on that memory. And so I want to inhale you. This mix of scents that is you right now. Me. You.Cum. That's how my nose wants to pay you homage.

And this weave, this intertwined fingers of ours, the soft flesh barely concealing the bones on your lean frame. The bones that make me call you tinrin. I fear I will forget that too. The nicknames and teasing.  Our language. I fear the day will come when you will no longer be mine. Even in memories. Most especially in memories.

So I write. Mummifying you. Carefully preserving you for the days when this wind may be still. The days when freedom might have been forgotten.

I'm keeping you in a zipped file, to bottle the days of freedom and love. When I cry ‘Genie' will you come?

I fear freedom, not the one you gave me but the one that takes you away from me. The one that cons you into building a prison around you, into forgetting that doors should exist or, at least, windows.

But I want, more than anything, for you to be...you, happy, free, loved.

*I'm rereading Angela's Ashes for the umpteenth time and I remembered writing this over three years ago about the one who brought McCourt, other awesome writers and other awesome things into my life. I'm glad freedom still is. I hope it always will be.

Adebola Rayo: On dealing with mental illness (YNaija's 30 Days, 30 Voices)

For over a decade, I’d known something was not quite right with me mentally. I’d been living with the needless, sad and mad (as I called it) since I was about 8 or 9 years old, but speaking to anyone, let alone doing anything about it, was tough. When I was in the university, I used to go to the guidance counselling department regularly. It helped, but it wasn’t professional help in the real sense of it. It was just a way of coping without dealing actively with what I was going through. I left school in 2010 and from that time it was a slippery slope. I would have episodes and each time I’d tell myself that I really ought to get professional help, but then I’d start to pull through after a few days or a couple of weeks, so I never went in to the hospital. I was very functional.

By 22, I had my LLB and B.L. While I was still in Law School, I got recruited into the company I’d dreamed of working at. I was good at my job – Rewriting and Copy Editing – and within 18 months I’d moved on to better prospects twice. To everyone around me, I was good but to myself I wasn’t. I had always felt like I wasn’t good enough, like I could never be good enough. Mental illness clouds one’s judgement seriously. Outside of work, however, my personal relationships were a mess. I didn’t like people and kept away from them as much as possible. The ones I let in constantly had to deal with my moods. I was good at putting on a smile and what I called my “normal face.” I was good at holding the turmoil in for whatever number of hours I needed to. What no one knew was that I was dying inside. I’d go to bathrooms or toilets to cry, or just breathe, and then I’d blot my eyes and fan air into them, put back on my “normal face” and come out to face the world.

That had been my life since I was a child. As a teenager I used to say that I’d die young. Most people thought I was being melodramatic but I wasn’t. I really did believe that I’d die young. I wanted to die young. Dying would be better than trying to live with emotions that were like a swing set — up and down, never quite still, tormented by some ill wind. I believed I had somehow broken my brain. My doctors would later tell me that I have something called Borderline Personality Disorder, and one of its effects was exaggerated reactions and emotions.

Click HERE to read the full article about the main issues: Stigma, Education, Support Systems, and Overcoming.

The Things Unsaid (My Next Big Thing)

I can’t remember how I met Gbenga Awomodu but it was online. The first time I met him in person, I was still in UniLag and so was he. I was standing with a friend and when she introduced us, he said, “I read your blog.” That freaked me out coz we all know this blog is a dumping ground. Last week, Gbenga asked me if I was interested in talking about my next big thing. I jumped at it, even though my next big thing is still a bit up in the air J Read about Gbenga’s next big thing HERE, and read on for mine.

The Things Unsaid (My Next Big Thing)

I’m the laziest writer I know. But I’m currently working on a collection of long short stories. I’ve been working on it for a few years, but I’m determined to be serious about it this year. The book (if it ever becomes) will contain 4 or 5 long short stories.

What is the working title of your book?

Erm, the title changes all the time... coz I’m unstable like that. But right now, I’m between these two titles: The Things Unsaid, and Coffee Shop Scribbles. Coffee Shop Scribbles because that’s where I jot down most of the ideas for my stories (God bless Araba's Caffé Tranche)... The Things Unsaid because I write the words that choke me. I don’t know if that makes sense anyway.

What genre does your book fall under?

Prose: It is a mix of fiction and faction (fictionalised telling of facts).

Where did the idea for the book come from?

I’ve always written short stories (fiction), so I knew somewhere along the line a collection was inevitable. However, what I’m working on isn’t going to be just fiction. About four years ago, I started to write my life. I’d take events that happen to me and fictionalise them. For me, it was a way of dealing with issues going on in my life, but for others I guess they made good stories. Often, I can’t tell where I end and where the work starts any more, so I decided to just go with it.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a tough one. They are short stories, but if I had to pick someone to act in the story titled The Things Unsaid for instance, I think I’d go with Genevieve Nnaji as the female lead, or Kerry Washington. I love Kerry, she’s so me (whatever that means). For the male lead, I’d pick Michael Ealy...just because he’s beautiful. Sue me.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

See, the thing about short stories once more is that I can’t say “this is what the book is about.” Aaaargh. But there are stories about love, about life, and sadness and finding one’s feet and trying to be fierce as heck.

When will your book be published?

This I do not know. I guess the main question should be when will you finish your manuscript. So I’m just going to move on to that.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I’ve been working on this thing for years and will probably continue to do so for the next year or two. I’m not in a hurry. I’m more concerned about putting out great work...because I’m obsessed like that.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

They aren’t coming of age stories in the strict sense of it, but they are stories that people will be able to relate with coz they’re human and unpretentious and sometimes funny....

I’m passing this on to Oyin Braithwaite, and Obii. I will update the post to reflect their bios before the end of the day.  They will be posting their "Next Big Thing" on Wednesday, January 23, 2013.

Road Trip!

Lagos - Cameroon - Gabon - Equatorial Guinea - Congo. 50 days. Trans-African photography project. I'll be blogging the journey at The Invisible Borders blog. Read my first post, The Journey is the Destination.

I'm very excited about this, for my art and head. It's a bit daunting to just up and leave though. I'm going to miss certain things, people. Hajia Laraba, CB. I'll really miss CB. Not sure how I'll cope with that part...

I'll try to update this blog from time to time too.   

Drowning

You're on your way to work when the bike man reaches the stretch of road before the beach. You've always thought about doing this, so you tell him to stop. And you get down and climb one of the steps leading up to the beach shore. A few years ago, the state government had pushed back the shore. Before then, it often flooded the road and the buildings close by. At the top of the stairs, a gruff, omo-ita looking guy tells you an entry ticket is N200. It is morning. You have a N200 note in your back pocket but you reach into your wallet instead and hand him a N1,000 note. You have gambled right. He doesn't have change. He asks his red-eyed fellows to break the money for him. They don’t have change too. It's not yet 10am. You get a free pass in. You’re sure the money goes to their ogogoro and not the state anyway. You climb some rocks and the concrete barriers that are in place. You are careful. You have a history of falling and these jagged slabs could injure you badly. A man comes and tells you they have fish. Beer. Who drinks beer at 10am? You think maybe you should. He walks ahead of you to the shore. There are umbrellas and plastic chairs dotting the shore. You want to sit on the sand though, and you tell him this and ask if there's a part of the shore that is clean enough for you to sit and read. He tells you it is better for you to sit under a tent. For security reasons, he says. You nod. You have your laptop in your bag. It has the past 7 years of your work and life. You never back things up. You accept his offer of a plastic chair and wonder how much he plans to bill you when you're about to leave. You type this memo. After that, you will pick up Farad and continue reading it. The author had given you a copy to give to your friend. You had started reading it on the bus this morning. A line had caught your attention. To remind you that you have to put the pieces of your manuscript together. And that you have to put the pieces of your relationship together.

You sit and read for a few hours. People come and go. Men. The smell of igbo wafts around you. subtly teasing. You have always liked the smell of cigarette and weed. You call him and he comes. You go out to meet him. As the red-eyed fellows ask him to pay his N200, they say in Yoruba that you're both bookish. You're holding Farad. He's holding Open City. You both ignore them. You both sit and stare at the sea, silent. There are things you're thinking. Things you don't want to say. You sit silent and think about drowning. You don't tell him that... He puts his leg on the table. Sand drops from his shoe unto it. You stare at the sand thinking about how the wind will soon blow it away. How the wind might someday blow your frailness away. He says, sorry. You ask him why he is apologising to you. He says he saw you staring at the sand and thought it annoyed you. You say no, it's nothing. You raise your gaze to the waves. He makes a wisecrack about how you poets always describe it as crashing. You want to tell him you're not a poet. You also want to tell him you'd been thinking about the crashing before he came. You don't really think waves crash, at least not these ones. These waters swell, till they can no more, then rise and with frayed edges, curve, and then dissolve into foam. And again. He starts singing. He has a lovely voice. He teases you about getting free music... You feel the sand beneath your feet beat like a heart before you see the flash of hooves go by. He says you should both ride. You say the horse might go into the water. You're thinking about drowning again. You wonder what he'd do if you walked into the water till you were no more. You wonder if your soul would meet Olokun. You wonder why you're wondering such. Why do you want to drown? Shock value? Or the longing for nothingness? You keep staring at the sea. He says random things. You reply. There are smiles. Little ones... You can't remember what started the current fight. Actually you can. But in the books and movies they always say they can’t remember what started their fights. You hate your memory. You want to unclench it and let things go. It remains clenched tight, like in an epileptic fit. It will be your undoing. A boy passes by with a sieve full of fish. He beckons on the boy. He stares at the fish with curiosity. You stare at him staring at it. The boy says he is going to dry and sell them. He says they're called eja olokun. Something inside you jerks. You don't really understand your fascination with Olokun of all the gods, but it's always been there. You've even put her in one of your stories. You tell him to come closer. You pick one of the fish out of the sieve. It is silver. He tells you they shine in the sun. You raise one and tilt it to the sun. It glints. You smile and stare at its dead eyes. You think how steps keep taking you closer to Olokun. You know you need to meet this god. A man walks by with beads. You like some of them but you don't buy any. You dismiss him with a smile. You stare at the sea again. You think that someone might try to save you if you were drowning. The thought keeps you glued to your seat.

No Permanent Address

I love this poem coz I find it so easy to relate with what she is talking about. I got addicted to books at a very young age. They made structured sense vs. the real world doesn't really. I could sneak a peek at the end vs. I'm still wondering what the heck I'm doing here with no end in sight. Books were an escape, a refuge... they still are. Listen, like, comment and share my friend, Obii's entry for the NaijaPoetrySlam organised by Bassey Ikpi.

These are important... somehow

There's something I'm searching for, it leaves me roaming in my head a lot these days. I just can't figure out exactly what it is; peace? away? noise? quiet?

I need to stop re-reading Ntozake's 'For Colored Girls'

I think my writer's block is shifting. I hope it is.

I haven't slept in a while. I need the world to pause.

Sometimes I need reassurance, a stranger to tell me I'm doing something right. An email did that last week.

I want to move to Abuja, or I want my girlfriend to move back to Lagos. I need one to shift.

It's the year of the dragon, remember!

People need their heroes.

I'm in motion. Scared to stop coz then the push to restart might not come for too long.

Adebola Rayo get out of your head. Do.

Tumblr would make more sense.

Art, Law, Love...

This place has been too gloomy in recent times. Haba.




Went to the Afromysterics art gallery in Abuja today. Awesome, Awesome art works. Those guys are freaking good and uber talented - not just at art, music too. Oh and they were fun too. *sigh* I love visual art, can't wait till I can afford good works. There was so much culture, beauty and truth in the works. Felt like taking the works home with me.



Got called to the bar on February 14. It was a six year journey to that -well, six and a half, seeing as I passed my bar finals six months ago. Even if I don't want to practice, it felt really good to hear Musdapher Dahiru (Chief Justice of the Supreme Court) say "you can now wear your wigs".


Also, my girlfriend got me artworks and this really silly card for vals. I hate vals but I love her, and the gifts.