. . .
MONDAY, 9 OCTOBER, 2017
I’m reading Vivian’s last letter to me, again. She’s always telling me to get some help. I don’t know what she means by that, like I’m the worst human being on earth. I fold back the letter, open the drawer under the tabletop and toss it in. I can imagine what she must think of me. She must think I’m a spoilt brat that’s got no clue about life. She must think I’m over-pampered. She must think we’re so never getting back together.
I’m hearing sizzling sounds outside; the sound of impatient winds, the sound of pregnant skies. I can tell through the curtain that daylight has taken cover. It’s dark outside, a sweet kind of darkness. I can imagine commuters on the streets, they are taking shelter under bus stop shades, dreading what is to come. What is heaven for me is hell for them. But such is life, I guess.
I’m wondering what to do now. Sleep or write? The bed looks so very convenient right now, it’s like it’s calling at me, Come to me, come over and enjoy this weather with me. I don’t fall so easy. I wish to write. Every part of me wishes to write. There’s so much in my mind, I just want to pour it all out. I just want to get some ease, some peace. But I can’t write. Not because I have writer’s block or whatever, but because I don’t know how to continue. Everything is changing so rapidly. Names are changing, settings are changing… looks are changing! Like what the hell! I hate myself right now, even more than Vee hates me. Does she really hate me or pity me? I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I think of Vivian again. I imagine what her life must be. She’s working class now. She dresses up early in the morning and zooms off to work, some branch in the State capital, Ikeja. I imagine what transportation must be like for her daily; the bustle and wrestle just to get on a bus. Thank God for BRT buses, now people line up like normal human beings. But sometimes the BRTs are too slow and you have no choice but to board the conventional danfo: yellow Volkswagen vans that have conductors shouting at the peak of their voices in search for passengers.
It’s raining now, alternating between drizzling and downpour, just the way it did yesterday. Makes me think if the rainy season will ever come to an end. Also makes me think of global warming.
I finally yield to the bed’s call. I move my laptop from the table unto the bed. It feels convenient. Maybe I’d actually write here. But I still don’t feel like writing, and the more I think of writing the more my head hurts. I hop up and pull open the fridge. There’s one last bottle of Heineken left. I pop it open and take a long sip… heavenly. Maybe this will open me up and bring me some fresh ideas. Or maybe this will send me off to bed.