Friday, 20 November 2009
I woke up from a bad dream that Friday.
The remnants of it were still with me as I recognised that I was now awake. In the dream I was masked, and I was holding a wooden staff, charging through the streets of Lagos in broad daylight with a crowd of other men, also dressed in white masks, and holding staffs. It was an Eyo masquerade. I hadn’t thought about that in years.
Weird.
The clock beside the bed glowed with red digits: three sixteen in the early hours. I tossed and turned, but I could not get back to sleep. I got up since I was thirsty, and I whacked my shin on a box that I had left in the way.
‘Shizer!’
I really had to get around to doing my decorating. Despite the sharp pain I still wasn’t fully awake. I got a glass of water from the kitchen, gulped down half of it in one swallow, and went to the living room. Channel surfing. I was bored and still sleepy. I tried to get into a black and white Japanese Samurai movie but my brain wouldn’t engage. I tried to read, but nothing went in, and yet I couldn’t sleep.
I picked up my skipping rope and jumped, twenty, thirty, fifty…I gave up. No spark. It wasn’t happening. It was four a.m. and I wasn’t sleepy. I scrolled through the photos on my phone idly, smiled when I came to a photo of Lola that she had sent me by text. I wished I could chat with her just then.
Restless, dissatisfied, I wasted time till it was time to go to work.
‘I need a woman in this house,’ I said to the empty flat. You talk to yourself when you live alone.
This also happens when you’re mad.
On the way I stopped at the florist and dithered over what to send. Roses might be too strong a message. Tulips were wrong. Lillies were too mournful the way they drooped. The more I vacillated the more time ticked away. Not like me, but I was sleep-deprived.
‘Well?’ said the florist, waiting for my order, impatient, but smiling.
I ended up picking an arrangement of lilies, pink roses and orchids. I could not think of a proper message so I just wrote: for you. X
My eyes could not stay properly focussed. In the office I sat for minutes looking at my email inbox without comprehending any of the words. I drank black coffee, something I hadn’t done since Uni days swotting for exams.
I received three phone calls, all related to work. I digressed and dodged. There was no way I was getting anything done today. I gave up.
The PA I share with three others was called Anne. She was a round-faced Irish girl with the perkiest disposition in the world. Nothing upsets her.
‘I’m leaving, Anne. Tell the world to leave a message if they need me.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sick.’
‘What do you have?’
‘I don’t know…bubonic plague, tuberculosis, something like that.’
‘The Fischer Account complained that their network isn’t working. They want you to get back to them.’
‘I already explained why. Someone on their site is stealing their routers. Tell them to refer to the email I wrote about site security. Good bye, sweet Anne.’ I bowed, and left.
Friday sickie. Not good for a new job, but what can one do?
I swear I didn’t plan it.
One minute I was dreaming of sleeping all day with the blinds closed like some hermit. The next thing I got into my car and found myself driving southbound on the M1 from Milton Keynes to London.
To see Lola.
I drove through Staples Corner at the end of the M1 just after one pm. She would be at work, of course, and I hadn’t phoned ahead. I weighed options and drove to my aunt’s house.
‘Are you all right?’ Aunty Bisi said from the doorway when I pulled into her drive. ‘Se kosi?’
‘Haba, Aunty, can’t I come and visit?’
We hugged and went inside. We caught up on family matters and she put on a Naija movie while she prepared lunch. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew it was about four pm and my Aunty Bisi was laughing at how loud I snored.
‘Your father used to snore too, you know,’ she said. ‘The whole house full of it. Your mother would complain, but nothing could induce her to get separate bedrooms.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. I had been too young to remember that kind of detail about him. I suddenly felt sad at not knowing this simple, mundane detail about my own father. I got up and said I had to leave, which was true in a sense. I had to get to Moorgate, where Lola’s office was.
I kissed my aunt’s forehead and told her I would visit soon.
I parked illegally and waited outside the building for Lola. The nap had worked, and I felt more alert, more awake. Except now that my brain had started working I wondered if a surprise like this might be a bad idea for Lola.
Too late. I saw her walking out of the revolving doors towards the staff car park.
She was beautiful! I just waited, watching her for a while, her walk, the shift of her thighs under the skirt, her skin, the way she rooted though her handbag for her keys while walking. She had lost some weight since the last time I saw her. Not a lot, but it was noticeable.
I almost lost the nerve, but I snapped out of that mindset when she got into her car. I phoned her.
‘Hey, you,’ she said. It was odd seeing her pick the phone inside the car. ‘How you dey?’
‘Look to your left, babe.’
She saw me, and smiled. A real, proper grin from the heart, wide eyes, open mouth, everything.
‘Wole!’ she came out of the car, excited.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to be cool when I wasn’t.
We hugged. I inhaled her perfume and held the embrace for a couple of seconds too long.
‘Mmm, I needed that,’ she murmured. Then she was suddenly alarmed. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Over there.’ I pointed.
‘They clamp here. Just follow me. You should have told me you were coming, this man. Don’t you know I have to do my hair?’
‘Your hair’s fine, Lola.’
‘Why, thank you.’
London traffic makes me want to pull out my hair most days. It took an hour to get to her flat.
It was only my second time there, and after parking I walked with her up the stairs to the second floor. The flowers were waiting outside the door.
She knelt, picked them up slowly, and read the small card. She brought the bouquet to her face and turned towards me. ‘You sent these? To me? Today?’
Again, I did not plan this. The light in the corridor hit her face at such an angle that all I could see was her forehead and her lips. Everything else was in shadow.
I kissed her.
In that place, on that dark strip of corridor outside a flat I knew she was shy about and in her work clothes that I knew she wanted to get out of, with the scent of her perfume mixing with the blooming flowers, and ambulances rushing out to drunk British teenagers outside, and the music of Kasabian coming from an apartment somewhere in the block, in that place I kissed her, and she kissed me back.
She was a lot stronger than I had imagined. Holding me her arms were tight, clamping on to me, yet she felt fragile, like I could break her if I held on with the same intensity. Her chest rose and fell, and we crushed the flowers. Her mouth tasted of Earl Grey and Spearmint and reciprocation. Her hand came to the side of my neck and up to my face. I opened my eyes, and she was staring up at me.
‘Hi,’ I said, and I knew I was smiling.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you think, perhaps, I could get my keys, now?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ She reached in her handbag. ‘You’re going to have to wait out here for a minute. I have to do some quick housework. Shame on you. Don’t you know you should never surprise a woman like this? Are you hungry?’
‘I’m glad you’re happy to see me,’ I said, which is not what I had in mind to say.
She reached out, stroked my cheek, and entered her apartment. ‘Count to…one hundred and twenty!’ She said, and I heard her rummaging about in the flat.
I leaned against the wall, thinking of her lips and mine, her lips and mine.
I remembered a poem, or some lines of it, memorised in secondary school because of some sadistic literature teacher:
Then Lola opened the door for me. ‘Are you talking to yourself?’ she asked, smile on her face, mischief in her eyes. ‘First sign of madness...’
I went in.
To be continued...
(c) 2009
The remnants of it were still with me as I recognised that I was now awake. In the dream I was masked, and I was holding a wooden staff, charging through the streets of Lagos in broad daylight with a crowd of other men, also dressed in white masks, and holding staffs. It was an Eyo masquerade. I hadn’t thought about that in years.
Weird.
The clock beside the bed glowed with red digits: three sixteen in the early hours. I tossed and turned, but I could not get back to sleep. I got up since I was thirsty, and I whacked my shin on a box that I had left in the way.
‘Shizer!’
I really had to get around to doing my decorating. Despite the sharp pain I still wasn’t fully awake. I got a glass of water from the kitchen, gulped down half of it in one swallow, and went to the living room. Channel surfing. I was bored and still sleepy. I tried to get into a black and white Japanese Samurai movie but my brain wouldn’t engage. I tried to read, but nothing went in, and yet I couldn’t sleep.
I picked up my skipping rope and jumped, twenty, thirty, fifty…I gave up. No spark. It wasn’t happening. It was four a.m. and I wasn’t sleepy. I scrolled through the photos on my phone idly, smiled when I came to a photo of Lola that she had sent me by text. I wished I could chat with her just then.
Restless, dissatisfied, I wasted time till it was time to go to work.
‘I need a woman in this house,’ I said to the empty flat. You talk to yourself when you live alone.
This also happens when you’re mad.
#
On the way I stopped at the florist and dithered over what to send. Roses might be too strong a message. Tulips were wrong. Lillies were too mournful the way they drooped. The more I vacillated the more time ticked away. Not like me, but I was sleep-deprived.
‘Well?’ said the florist, waiting for my order, impatient, but smiling.
I ended up picking an arrangement of lilies, pink roses and orchids. I could not think of a proper message so I just wrote: for you. X
My eyes could not stay properly focussed. In the office I sat for minutes looking at my email inbox without comprehending any of the words. I drank black coffee, something I hadn’t done since Uni days swotting for exams.
I received three phone calls, all related to work. I digressed and dodged. There was no way I was getting anything done today. I gave up.
The PA I share with three others was called Anne. She was a round-faced Irish girl with the perkiest disposition in the world. Nothing upsets her.
‘I’m leaving, Anne. Tell the world to leave a message if they need me.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sick.’
‘What do you have?’
‘I don’t know…bubonic plague, tuberculosis, something like that.’
‘The Fischer Account complained that their network isn’t working. They want you to get back to them.’
‘I already explained why. Someone on their site is stealing their routers. Tell them to refer to the email I wrote about site security. Good bye, sweet Anne.’ I bowed, and left.
Friday sickie. Not good for a new job, but what can one do?
#
I swear I didn’t plan it.
One minute I was dreaming of sleeping all day with the blinds closed like some hermit. The next thing I got into my car and found myself driving southbound on the M1 from Milton Keynes to London.
To see Lola.
I drove through Staples Corner at the end of the M1 just after one pm. She would be at work, of course, and I hadn’t phoned ahead. I weighed options and drove to my aunt’s house.
‘Are you all right?’ Aunty Bisi said from the doorway when I pulled into her drive. ‘Se kosi?’
‘Haba, Aunty, can’t I come and visit?’
We hugged and went inside. We caught up on family matters and she put on a Naija movie while she prepared lunch. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew it was about four pm and my Aunty Bisi was laughing at how loud I snored.
‘Your father used to snore too, you know,’ she said. ‘The whole house full of it. Your mother would complain, but nothing could induce her to get separate bedrooms.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. I had been too young to remember that kind of detail about him. I suddenly felt sad at not knowing this simple, mundane detail about my own father. I got up and said I had to leave, which was true in a sense. I had to get to Moorgate, where Lola’s office was.
I kissed my aunt’s forehead and told her I would visit soon.
#
I parked illegally and waited outside the building for Lola. The nap had worked, and I felt more alert, more awake. Except now that my brain had started working I wondered if a surprise like this might be a bad idea for Lola.
Too late. I saw her walking out of the revolving doors towards the staff car park.
She was beautiful! I just waited, watching her for a while, her walk, the shift of her thighs under the skirt, her skin, the way she rooted though her handbag for her keys while walking. She had lost some weight since the last time I saw her. Not a lot, but it was noticeable.
I almost lost the nerve, but I snapped out of that mindset when she got into her car. I phoned her.
‘Hey, you,’ she said. It was odd seeing her pick the phone inside the car. ‘How you dey?’
‘Look to your left, babe.’
She saw me, and smiled. A real, proper grin from the heart, wide eyes, open mouth, everything.
‘Wole!’ she came out of the car, excited.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to be cool when I wasn’t.
We hugged. I inhaled her perfume and held the embrace for a couple of seconds too long.
‘Mmm, I needed that,’ she murmured. Then she was suddenly alarmed. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Over there.’ I pointed.
‘They clamp here. Just follow me. You should have told me you were coming, this man. Don’t you know I have to do my hair?’
‘Your hair’s fine, Lola.’
‘Why, thank you.’
London traffic makes me want to pull out my hair most days. It took an hour to get to her flat.
It was only my second time there, and after parking I walked with her up the stairs to the second floor. The flowers were waiting outside the door.
She knelt, picked them up slowly, and read the small card. She brought the bouquet to her face and turned towards me. ‘You sent these? To me? Today?’
Again, I did not plan this. The light in the corridor hit her face at such an angle that all I could see was her forehead and her lips. Everything else was in shadow.
I kissed her.
In that place, on that dark strip of corridor outside a flat I knew she was shy about and in her work clothes that I knew she wanted to get out of, with the scent of her perfume mixing with the blooming flowers, and ambulances rushing out to drunk British teenagers outside, and the music of Kasabian coming from an apartment somewhere in the block, in that place I kissed her, and she kissed me back.
She was a lot stronger than I had imagined. Holding me her arms were tight, clamping on to me, yet she felt fragile, like I could break her if I held on with the same intensity. Her chest rose and fell, and we crushed the flowers. Her mouth tasted of Earl Grey and Spearmint and reciprocation. Her hand came to the side of my neck and up to my face. I opened my eyes, and she was staring up at me.
‘Hi,’ I said, and I knew I was smiling.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you think, perhaps, I could get my keys, now?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ She reached in her handbag. ‘You’re going to have to wait out here for a minute. I have to do some quick housework. Shame on you. Don’t you know you should never surprise a woman like this? Are you hungry?’
‘I’m glad you’re happy to see me,’ I said, which is not what I had in mind to say.
She reached out, stroked my cheek, and entered her apartment. ‘Count to…one hundred and twenty!’ She said, and I heard her rummaging about in the flat.
I leaned against the wall, thinking of her lips and mine, her lips and mine.
I remembered a poem, or some lines of it, memorised in secondary school because of some sadistic literature teacher:
“A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.”
Then Lola opened the door for me. ‘Are you talking to yourself?’ she asked, smile on her face, mischief in her eyes. ‘First sign of madness...’
I went in.
To be continued...
(c) 2009
Posted by Icepick Lobotomy at 12:01 AM :: 
