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Dear Bolu,
I’ve never been so alone. I’ve never had this much quiet to myself. It’s so much; it fills my days with an uncomfortable lingering dread and fear—fear that I am unloved by everyone I know, fear that I am unloved by myself. Do you love yourself? Do I love myself? I don’t know, partly because I’m scared of the answer, and I’m unsure of what it means to love oneself. Can you love yourself without being selfish? I don’t think so. Is selfishness, then, a good thing in this case? I don’t think it is. To say that I love myself is to admit to being selfish to some degree, and that is not an admission I’m proud of. Is it love, dear friend, if it isn’t selfish? Is it love still, if it is selfish? I don’t know. What I know is that I’m alone, and I wish I weren’t. I hear the world around me give off dead silence when I’m mute and a loud echo when I speak. I see shadows around every corner, except they’re not there when I’m not. The only signs of life besides me are the ants that conspire to find a route into my milk jar and the geckos that mock my aloneness by shaking their heads whenever we make eye contact. Every now and then, I see a cockroach scurry across the room or perform some impressive acrobatic manoeuvre. However, as a matter of personal principle, creatures that hell spat out do not pass the “signs of life” test, and the cockroach is top of that list. I’m alone, and I don’t want to be anymore.
Twelve years ago, this house would have been very busy. Bodies running into bodies. Spaces intersecting. Questions asked about missing chocolate cookies and Capri-sonnes. My name would have been on everybody’s lips. Murty, go put on the generator. Murty, see who’s at the gate. Murty, take the fish soup out of the freezer. Murty Murty Murty. Then, I would wish for some quiet—a lot of quiet, in fact. I would wish my name were forgotten and I had me to myself. I would listen to music on the highest volume so that I could honestly say, “Sorry, I did not hear you call me seventy-seven times”. I would dream of a day like today, where I’m by myself. Now that I’m living that dream, I want nothing more than to wake up from it. And have someone call my name, even if it’s to accuse me of Capri-Sonne theft—a crime often labelled against me but always with insufficient proof. What has changed since then? I don’t know. Maybe we never truly want what we think we want. Maybe it’s the fact that then, I sought aloneness as a form of escape, and I found joy in the seeking. Now I’m joyless because there’s no seeking of any sort, as aloneness is imposed on me. Anyway, the only remnant of the lives that were here a dozen years ago is the family picture in the rear of the dining room—that, and the note on my sister’s door that reads, “this is girls room. knock before entering”. I don’t know what happened there—perhaps I barged in one too many times without observing the ritual of knocking. I suppose I wasn’t the best brother when I had the good fortune to play that role. I’d trash the note, but I find it useful in reminding me that my past is not entirely imagined. Although it’s a little too late, I now knock every time I go into the room. But no matter how polite or courteous I am, I don’t find her there. I’m instead greeted by the same things every time, namely an empty bed, dust, cobwebs, purple floor and wall tiles, and more dust. I’m alone, and I don’t know how to fix it.
For the last year or so, I’ve wanted to talk to only one person. I’ve wanted to be in her orbit and to see all her angles. She’s great, and I spend many moments telling her this. I would ask her to help rid me of this aloneness, but she’s far from here, and it would be unfair to make such a demand. Perhaps if I truly loved myself, I would be selfish enough to make the demand of her. Regardless, I’ve recently realized that she may not be for me after all. Her graces more than makeup for her faults, but she’s not who I want to put my arms around. She’s not smooth jazz; no, no, she’s not a Louis Armstrong special. But I swear by the little lights still in my life that she’s brilliant. She’s like rap. She’s like a Kendrick rendition—one that leaves me grunting, bopping my head, clenching my fists, and saying “yes” as he delivers each bar that I can make sense of. And in true Kendrick fashion, I can’t fully make sense of her. She’s electrifying, not in a manner that’d leave me numb or paralyzed but one that pumps me full of energy. She’s like a million gold rings to my Sonic, which is great but ultimately not what I want. I’ve found that I have enough gas to go through life at a reasonable pace, and what I most need is a soft melody to put me to sleep. To warm my dreams. To relax my fists rather than clench them. To rest my head rather than bop it. To hum her rhythm rather than grunt. A melody. A piano joint or a sax solo. That’s what I want, but that’s not her. And I couldn’t agree more with George Jean Nathan's take on electrifying and drowsy love. I’m alone, and love is a remedy outside my reach.
When I listed the signs of life around me, I left out Atlas, the family dog, because his kennel is outside the house. He’s been with us for a long time, so he’s no longer a spring chicken—not that he was at any point a chicken, of course; I just meant he’s no longer young. He is frail now, in the twilight of his years, and I’ve come to appreciate the passage of time by watching him age. If death is a little patient with me, I’d be like Atlas someday—with even fewer little lights than I have now and a greater surrender of the life I still call mine. Those are the thoughts I have when I see him and when we sit together after a short evening walk. He’s a good dog, and we all loved him. If he were human, he’d be good people. He’d ask, as I imagine he always does when we sit, “where did everyone go?” And I’d say that they’ve all gone to rest someplace safe. He won’t ask me why they left or how. He won’t demand I revisit the memories of the pandemic horrors I lived through. He won’t cry and induce tears in my eyes. He won’t scream and make me even sadder. Instead, he’d ask with a face that’s more defeated than cute, “will I see them again?”. “Sure you will”, I’d say. “Sure, and soon”. And we’d continue enjoying the evening breeze. Atlas is one reason why being home again is both hard and easy—he reminds me a lot of what used to be a happy home, and it’s always good to see a familiar face. I’m alone, but not so much when I spend the evening with Atlas.
Now that I give it some more thought, it’s possible Atlas questions what happened to the people at home because he hasn’t been eating as well as he used to. It is routine for him to eat whatever the house eats, and I’ve tried my best to maintain that tradition. The problem with this is I’m the last person you want in the kitchen, except the goal is to do the dishes. It’s not that my culinary skills are bad; no, it’s that they’re terrible. The good thing about living alone is that you can consume whatever mess you prepare without judgement from people who magically become expert food critics when you turn on the burner to boil water. So I enjoy my mess, and unfortunately, Atlas has no choice but to partake in said enjoyment. And it’s safe to say that his taste buds have suffered a serious downgrade in the quality of ingested food samples in the last year or so. Most recently, I attempted to cook stew. I mean, I cooked something that was supposed to be stew, yes, but it didn’t come out as stew. It’s probably the most non-stew stew you’d ever see. I still don’t know what caused the emergence of such a ruinous concoction. Maybe the blame should be placed on the thyme I added in significant quantity. Maybe the unhealthy ratio of the oil to the tomatoes is at fault. I can’t say. But I ate it regardless, and my body acquired the necessary nutrients, which I believe is the primary reason we eat. When I brought some to Atlas and put it in his feeding bowl, he shrugged and seemed visibly downcast. I could feel the glare of his eyes on my back as I turned to leave. He must have been seething with fury at just how bad it was. But he couldn’t reject it. Oh no, unless he wanted to starve, he couldn’t say no to the dish. He cleared his bowl promptly and probably cussed out in dog-speak as he lapped up every bit. I’m alone, but moments where I do things for someone besides myself—for Atlas—make me feel less alone.
When you’re in my city, do stop by. You’d see a tall troll at the third toll who’d be there no matter what. Ask him for the road that leads home, and he’d direct you to my place. When you get to my gate, knock on it to the tune of Ritchie Valens’ La Bamba. If I don’t hear the knock, Atlas would, and he’d bark to get my attention. I’d let you in after spending 5 minutes convincing you to believe me when I say that the dog wouldn’t bite. I know that’s what all dog owners say to visitors, “come in, my dog won’t bite”, but Atlas won’t, I promise. I’d welcome you in and ask you to feel at home. The unreliability of the power supply will, of course, manifest and seeing as there’s a scarcity of fuel in my city, the generator would be out of commission. The sun would coincidentally be out in its full glory, so the temperature would be slightly elevated. We’d both continuously wipe the sweat off our faces, but you wouldn’t mind because I’d be effectively giving you the warmest reception ever. We’d talk about you—your year and yearnings. We’d talk about me, Atlas and my distant affection. After some moments, I’d ask if you’d like some food. As is customary, you’d politely refuse and instead request a glass of water. “Thank you, Murty, but I’d rather not impose anything on you. Some water would do just fine”. As is also customary, I’d strongly insist and say, “oh dear, you can’t come all this way and not eat something”. And then you’d insist more strongly, and I’d insist even more strongly, and so forth. For a while, we’d share this dance of insistence till one of us gives up. It’d likely be you because I have home advantage. When the dance is over, I’d bring you a generous serving of freshly boiled rice and my infamous non-stew stew. As you ingest one spoon of the rice and stew, your face will contort ever so slightly because although the mess you’ve swallowed is that bad, you’re still averse to upsetting or embarrassing the host. You’re obliged to speak glowingly of the meal, saying, “oh Murty, I had no idea you cooked wonderfully”. And with the usual air of pretentious humility ever-present among hosts, I’d say, “well, now you know,” followed by a light chuckle. At this point, you’d have had three spoons of rice as well as three glasses of water, almost as if the water’s purpose is to neutralize the abomination on the table. You’d have reached your limits with nine-tenths of the food still left, and my graciousness would, again, come to the fore. I’d ask if you’d like some more stew, but you’d politely decline. Finally, I’d ask you if you’d like to take some home and maybe—just maybe then you’d lose it. I’d be glad to have you around for sure. I’ve been home alone a little too long, dear friend.
Fin.
P.S.
This one is a nod to Michael Kiwanuka’s Home Again.
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- Wolemercy