Cloud Head
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Dear Bolu,
I’m an honoured guest at this wedding and I cannot tell you why. You might suppose, perhaps, that my pride is to blame for keeping you in the dark, but that is not the case as I have done little in my thus far lonely life to lay claim to anything worth being proud of. Ordinarily, that would be an embarrassing thing to say, but it isn’t for me. Again, I have got nothing to be proud of. I cannot tell you why I’m an honoured guest in this lively gathering simply because I don’t know why I should be honoured for anything at all. Have I done a deed so remarkable or made an utterance so deeply felt that I should be deemed more honourable than the mere man that I am? No, I haven’t. But every other person in this hall seems to think otherwise. I’d like to think them mad for elevating me beyond my natural estate and myself sane for diagnosing the nature of their madness, but it’s unlikely that that’s the case. If so many people think you are mad and you think otherwise, odds are—contrary to belief in the will of the inventor or the visionary who is ahead of his time or the scientist going against the grain—that you are indeed mad. But of course, I should add that madness is an artefact deserving of a full-frontal display now and then.
I know not why I’m honoured, except that I am. I know I am because I’m seated away from the crowd. Earlier when I mentioned that my estate was elevated, I meant it somewhat literally, as I am seated high enough to observe the spectacle of the entire hall without any encumbrance. I see men in the many manifestations of white ankara designs, and women adequately replete with poise and beauty in their green outfits. It’s not exactly green, I should add, but I’m not too savvy in matters of colours as to draw distinctions between, say, pasture green, envy green, and pea green. In any case, they all look wonderful and delightful to behold, and I should like to tell them that if I had their audience.
My being separated from the crowd and in fact, facing them is somewhat reminiscent of that day in Class 4, where I was publicly embarrassed in the eyes of the whole school. It wasn’t a good day, I tell you—to be so young and yet so humiliated. You’d think humiliation scales up as one grows older, such that the more victories one champions and cupboard skeletons one stockpiles, the greater the shame and disgrace one potentially has to face. But I tell you once and once only, that never in my life have I been a victim of such indignity as I was that morning, and I strongly believe that I never will till I’m gone. Never mind that I was a laughing stock or that the flower I fancied wholly and in bits from the shadows was chief amongst the jesters or that the ground refused my earnest pleas to consume me or that the procession lasted longer than an infinity war but that I was scarred beyond healing and damaged beyond repair. My singular offence was theft; theft of the wonderful mind of a revered author; theft of the life and adventures of a young English man; theft of Nicholas Nickelby. I tell you this not because I am in want of your pity—should you give it, I assure you that it is wasted—but simply to draw a contrast between my current state and what existed many years ago. Then I was a boy, bald all over like an onion and consistently capable of bringing strong-faced adults to tears—not for my attitude, ability or lack thereof, but for being the blinding revelation that nature, for all the praise we heap on her many beautiful forms, has some ugly manifestations. Now, I’m quite the hairy gentleman, with a delicate, infectious and often perverse charm that makes me amiable. Then I was an object of shame but now, on this day, I’m an article of honour admittedly for reasons still unbeknownst to me.
To the list of things I don’t know, I must now add my appearance. I can make out what my face looks like, but not what I’m wearing. I’m confident that I’m wearing something as I should like to think myself not as delirious as the Emperor in his new clothes, but I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, however, I see everyone else in their completeness—everyone but the groom. His outfit is wonderfully superior to any image you could conjure, but I cannot make out his face. It’s obscured, as if by a transparent cloud and I don’t know why. The absence of my body and the groom’s missing face doesn’t seem to bother anyone but me so I keep it to myself. Ah, perhaps I’ve broken out of the simulation. Perhaps I’m an escapee from a madhouse. But I see what I see, and I won’t claim otherwise.
I see the bride, and I immediately develop some misgivings about her looks. She is glorious and beautiful. She is, I promise, but this is not her prettiest form. I know because I know this form of which I speak—this prettiest form. It is her with her hair unmade but neatly packed to the back. She is cooking and sweating in the burning heat of the midday sun. She is raw with the toil of man and the curse of Adam. She is scarcely clothed and her face is bare. And never have I desperately wanted to take her in my arms to kiss her and profess that she is the only one. Now, this form she presents on her wedding day is just not as good as her prettiest. It is just not as pure. Her face is accentuated with colours that take away from her, and if more has never meant less, it certainly does now. She needn’t become to be beautiful. No, she need only be. But it is not my place to judge. Her looks are for the groom’s pleasure and I hope he is mightily pleased. Even if he isn’t, he is obliged to say he is for today is one of those days that is memorable and permanent in memory—for both the good things that happen and the bad ones that impose themselves. A compliment would be good, and criticism would be terrible.
I find myself now lost in thought on the matter of marriage…Remarkably, marriage seems less of an obligation than it was a century ago, yet there is still an expectation of it from everyone, and ourselves. Love exists without marriage, doesn’t it? Yet there is something quite unsatisfactory and unrespectable about it. Love must culminate in a contract for it to become socially significant, the end of which is, of course, a change in name and the social obligation to be referred to as Mr and Mrs. The ideal, one might thus argue, is to marry simply for love but that is not always the case and when it isn’t, one might be inclined to call the marriage impure. “Oh, she got married to him for money”. One might sense something ignoble about such arrangements–marriages that weren’t naturally conceived by love–compared to the ideal marriage but perhaps that is not always a bad thing. Furthermore, I think we think too highly of ourselves when it comes to love. We think that we love people for who they are, but I’m inclined to rebut that. I think that we love people for the idea we have of who they are and who they could be to us. Do we love our brothers because of who they are—their attitudes, habits, and dispositions? Or do we love them because of who they are to us—our brothers? If we meet people with the same manners and likeness as our brothers, would we love them just as we love our brothers? I think not. But if we were to be introduced today to a long lost brother whom we’ve never met, almost regardless of what his manner is—a barbarian or a sloth—we’d likely love him in no time…
On and on my thoughts pour onto my consciousness till I’m prompted that it’s time to dance. Dancing has never been my strongest suit, but I can handle myself on the dance floor. I move my hands and legs and torso this way and that way in a very systemic manner. It’s not the most pleasant sight you’d ever see, but it’s enough to make me a reasonably good dancer. Oh, I also bob my head, as if to convey that I am in a state of oneness with the beat. Occasionally, I have grand ideas of new moves I could try and break into when the Deejay performs an orgasmic music transition, but I know myself well enough to exercise restraint. I know for sure that should I give in to the temptation of dancing wild and free, I would become that humiliated onion boy in Class 4 who had little else going for him than his solitude. The bride dances well, and I’m encouraged to spray her some money. I have enough to spray, to my surprise, and I generously oblige. The groom also sprays her and it needs to be said that he’s a terrible dancer. He bobs his cloudy head like I do, yes, but he’s not the slightest bit graceful with the other parts of his body. Thankfully for our eyes, he doesn’t exert himself too much so we are spared what I’m sure would be a ridiculous performance.
The rest of the wedding ceremony flies by unremarkably. I give a lot of hugs and am the object of what feels like a thousand pictures. I take some with the bride, in fact, but she isn’t in her prettiest form so I am not enthused to see the pictures. Then comes the time for all to depart, and I am relieved the event is over. I watch the bride go into the car and the groom follows closely behind her. At about this time, I also go into my car as I am tired from the day’s proceedings and eager to reconvene with solitude. In the car, however, I’m met with a big surprise—not solitude in radiant apparel, but more shockingly, the bride. Although she isn’t in her prettiest form, she’s still something to behold and I lose my senses in awe of her for a moment. While fawning over her, it dawns clearly on me; that she is mine; that the groom and I are the same; nay, that I am the groom, hence my honourable status. She asks if anything is the matter as she observed I seemed absent-minded at different points today. I say, “no, not at all. Nothing is wrong. You just look as beautiful as ever, and I will make the most of loving you”. This elicits a smile, but of course, it’s a lie. I will fail her, dear friend. I will fail her woefully.
Fin.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
this was such a joy to read as always
Interesting and beautifully written. Thanks for taking me on this journey!