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Dear Bolu,
“I am finished”, the doctor says to say. My sessions at these conventions usually go thus, and this year’s wasn’t different. I’d taken the day off work on Friday to make a trip west and observe the seventh annual Gathering of Finished Men which was to be held the next day. It’s worth noting that if the existence of the Gathering is news to you, then let it remain so and at the end of this letter, you shan’t have heard of it. I tell you of the Gathering only because I’ve grown to trust your confidence and discretion, and if that trust is misplaced, please remove yourself from this conversation immediately. I risk injury believing that nothing herein will travel outside the lonely corridor between my ball pen and your eyes. So if you’re still here, for my sake, breathe no word of these things you shan’t have heard of to another soul. Promise.
It was the seventh edition, and it was also my seventh time in attendance. What more can I say? I’m a stickler for consistency, except when I have to make a bowl of pap or custard. I couldn’t miss this one for the world because Dr Pukki, the renowned researcher and scholar on matters relating to finished men, was to be in attendance. He’s the author of two bestselling books namely, Men, Finished and The Finished Man Prognosis, both of which I’ve read. Dr Pukki is also rather unironically Finnish, and he led his keynote speech with a pun alluding to that wonderful fact. It was a brilliant speech, overall. A good deal was spoken about concepts already well established in his books such as certain defining traits of finished men and the stigma that comes with being one. My curiosity was most alive when he touched on finished women, a phenomenon I’d occasionally pondered. He tried to answer questions about them—do they exist? Why do we rarely hear about them? What makes a woman finished? What happens when a man and a woman are both finished? The doctor shared some of his thoughts on these questions, which I found interesting. He also promised us more answers in his next book titled Women, Finished, set to be released next year.
This was by far the largest Gathering I’d been to since the first edition. Whether it’s that men are getting more easily finished or we are now less embarrassed by the condition, I can’t say. We were in the hundreds so I spent some time queuing to get Dr. Pukki’s autograph on my copies of his books. Lunch came soon afterwards. I had potato porridge, salad and freshly squeezed orange juice. After lunch, we had 1-on-1 sessions with the doctors in attendance as usual. Each session was to last about 30 minutes and I’d hoped to get Dr. Pukki in mine. I did, and we had a good chat. He was a pleasant man, and our conversation lasted way beyond the regulation time. It started out with me admitting to being finished, after all, it's said that the first step to managing a condition is acknowledging its existence. Thereafter, he asked for her name. "Kiisi", I answered. I asked him the same question. "You know", he quickly replied. He was right. I knew. We all did. It's the title of the first chapter of Men, Finished. Olga. We talked about her, how I've managed to remain finished for seven consecutive years, and the possibility of bucking the trend next year. Again, it was a good chat.
I would tell you about Kiisi, but I'm fairly certain I needn't describe her. You know her, maybe by a different name. Olga. Onome. Patricia. What does it matter? It's the same person. You've seen her. In a lab coat or a pair of shorts at youth camp; on the reels of the church's social media page or on the campaign trail. She's interned at your company and accompanied you to site inspections. She's worn weaves and cowries and wool and beads and silver. She's sculpted with that rare stone; a plaster of perfection. I needn’t tell you about her because she dwells even now on your mind, in mom jeans at the bazaar or a bikini at the year-end beach party. She's the booktoker with a talent for making obscure paintings and a memorised list of constellations visible to the naked eye. I could describe her in many ways, but there’s just one image you wander to. You even have it saved and backed up, that picture of her, her bronzed nose and a straw hat in a field of gold. I can't tell you more about her than you already know. Dr. Pukki certainly knew her. I know her. I’ve known her seven times.
When the doctor asked about my fondest memory of Kiisi, I said there were many. I lied. There’s just the one that I’ve relived too many times and under varying levels of soberness to be sure about what really happened. The way I tell it now is that we sat on the low brick fence at my friend’s to gossip and watch the stars. I made a joke about how shooting stars are stars playing football because that’s the only joke about shooting stars I know. She said I might be right, but we must not also discountenance the possibility that they could be stars engaged in artillery warfare. We later formulated tactical and battle formations in the sky in the event that one of our theories held true. And we talked about everything. If something good ever happened after 2 a.m. it did that night. I could’ve sworn our stars were aligned but somehow, I suppose, I missed the fault in them. “We’re fortunate to have loved…”, Dr. Pukki began towards the end of the session. I knew what was to follow as the quote was from his second book, so I continued, “…and only unfortunate to have loved alone”.
On my way home that Saturday night, I stopped at a bar for a lager. I’d hoped for a peaceful time with the bottle but my hopes were dashed halfway through my first glass. A dancing troupe had providentially chosen the bar to unwind, and for them—at least for that night—unwinding meant dancing and loud music. They played songs of the Latino persuasion and danced to them. I can’t say with any reasonable degree of confidence what dance styles they baptised the bar with, but I figure there was some salsa and some tango. The performance was brilliant and my fellow drinkers seemed to enjoy it, some even joining in on the fun. I watched on with mild enthusiasm, that is until I spotted Kiisi. She was there. Of course, she was part of the troupe. She reminded me of Uche Jombo whose beauty is, to date, unforgivably unheralded. I watched Kiisi with double enthusiasm, observing her delicately swaying hips and the miles on her travelling feet. She seemed to dance much better than anyone else, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. Every now and then, she would stop dancing and go stand in front of the nearest electric fan. It was hot after all. She was too. She poured the smoothest caramel skin into the blackest dress you'd ever see. How could I not be smitten? I stood no chance. Having found courage in a few bottles, I approached her on her next short break. "Hi, I'm Ẹ́nítán", I began. And dear friend, I knew that I'd all but confirmed my attendance at the next Gathering of Finished Men.
I’m finished.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
I enjoyed reading this so much
Amazing 👏