We Wait
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Dear Bolu,
The drama outside reminds me that there’s a world beyond my room that, I’m sure, has forgotten what I look like. Mama makes a point of reminding me whenever our paths cross that there’s more to life than my laptop and cartoons. She means anime, of course, but I've never bothered enough to correct her. “O o mo pe o n run le?”. “Don’t you know you’re smelling of the house?” I would say that I don’t know because I genuinely don’t, but I think she asks rhetorically. So I simply smile and look away. Regardless, our house smells lovely. And if I smelled any bit like that, I would be wholly pleasant.
I get the sense that mama pities me. And feels sad for me. Objectively, it’s hard not to, but I’d rather she didn’t. With pity comes the connotation that one is more unable than unwilling to help oneself. When you apply that filter to the many stories that touch our hearts, it becomes clear that many of us are undeserving of pity, including my very self. So I wish she stopped casting her spent, sad and sorry eyes on me whenever I limp by. And that she stopped saying, “rora ni ibe yen o, don’t fall down” as I slowly navigate any flight of stairs, however few or safe they may be. I neither deserve nor want her pity. What lot I have, I’ve bought with my actions and brought upon myself. My life is, after all, the unfortunate reality of the rarity that we get what we deserve, and I have made peace with that.
So I’m content to remain in my cosy bed and get out only when needs must. I’m content to create beautiful and messy designs all day on my MacBook, only taking a break now and then to catch up on Gintama and One Piece. I’m content that my friends don’t live in my city and that distance is a palatable excuse for not going out to see them. I’m content that my old lovers are unforgiving of my misdeeds and that the new ones are fantasies of my roaming imagination. I’m content to be here without any particular dream but a regurgitated desire to make it through the day on a full stomach and the night on an aching back. I’m content to leave my hair unmade without the risk of being admired or abused, and my nails unpolished without fear of under or over-dressing. I’m content that I can be a fly on the wall in this theatre that is living and not be fearful of getting swatted. I’m content. If there’s one gift the lockdown during the pandemic brought me, it was that I had no need to explain why I was content with these things. We were all alone together, and for a moment, I was able to leave my choices guardless without the risk of losing them.
Oh, dear. I meant to tell you about the drama in front of the house—a subject from which I’ve momentarily digressed. Pardon me. To call it drama is perhaps an exaggeration, but you must forgive my usage of the word as I haven’t seen this much live action since Cowboy Bepop, and that makes for a bar as low as the current value of the Naira. In any case, before my eyes is a group of schoolchildren. They all look old enough to be up to no good, but that describes most people, doesn’t it? With a bit of focus, I can comfortably make out the words of the most vocal child as he lends his voice in defence of the most diminutive member of the group. "I'm telling you the truth; how you're treating this boy is not good. Listen to me; I'm your friend.” Like the evangelist that knocks on your door when Saturday morning comes or the salesman who believes his merchandise is valuable, he was assured of his message. He spoke, and the group listened as if they cared deeply about each word he said. This struck me—this assertiveness and assuredness. And it reminded me of you.
I would be lying if I said I think about you often. Not that I’m above lying, no. I simply lack the gift. I don’t think of you often because I cry whenever I do. I already have enough tear-inducing thoughts, so it helps a little that I can knock one off the list. However, seeing a boy have his friend’s back is a thought trigger I never knew existed. I immediately thought of you at that sight. Even as I write on these yellow sheets, I think of you. And every now and then, I take off my glasses to wipe the tears off them.
You had my back growing up. You had your little sister’s back. My mistakes were your mistakes, and you made my failings yours. I’d bring up examples as testimonials, but I don’t remember a lot from when we were young. I don’t remember a lot of anything, in fact. How I got through school, only God knows. How I get through life—well, I don’t. All I remember is how you made me feel—safe, protected, and sure. And that suffices as I am not blessed with a good memory. That's one reason I envy people who easily clear their chats and gallery. People who comfortably do away with mementoes. And old gifts. And flowery possessions that, at some point, were lifetime treasures. I couldn’t. I can’t. It’s not that I’m unable to move on. I can. I have. It’s that if I give up these things, I’d forget. I’d forget forever. I’d forget that I loved, truly. I’d forget that I cared. I’d forget that I lived. I’d forget that I was. I know I did these things. I know I must have. How could I not have? But I don’t remember. Can one know what one doesn’t recall? And so I doubt myself. I doubt my flaky mind. But these things assure me—this poem that my note app says was written around 2 am; this hat I claimed ownership of with my lipstick smear; this playlist titled For Eva; this lyric card of my favourite Ed Sheeran song; this dark photograph of two shy people against the backdrop of an even shyer moon. These things assure me of a time that once was and a feeling once felt. So I keep them. Like I keep this calendar-wrapped notebook with your name on it—your name which says you were my brother.
Note wrapping was standard back then. I don’t know if it’s still done today, as I have lost touch with that world. We wore wrappers on our books to protect them from wear. One common wrapper we used was old newspapers, but that often wasn’t good enough. Newspapers are light, and they could easily tear. Moreso, the fact that they house printed text makes reading difficult when we write on them. So you may need extra focus when searching for your English note in your school bag. A level above newspapers are brown papers. They’re clear, making for better readability and an increased perceived neatness compared to newspapers. Never mind that they cost more than old newspapers (which don’t cost anything), they were worth it. But they weren’t the best, no. Calendars were top-tier. White as clear crystal. Smooth as a Nubian’s body and as thick as their thighs. Calendars were golden. White gold. Readability wasn’t a problem. And that was what you used for your beautiful notes.
In addition to your name, subject, and class, you had this peculiar habit of including a quote at the back of each note. Sometimes it was Einstein’s thoughts you wrote. Other times, Marcus Aurelius’ musings; Jesus’ teachings; and even, on occasion, the words of a particular fellow called Anonymous, who everyone unanimously claims not to know. I’d never seen anyone else do it besides you, which led—and indeed, still leads me to think you’d have the world at your feet had you stayed alive a while longer.
On this particular note, however—this Agricultural Science notebook that I keep—you’d written one of Alexander Pope’s more popular quotations. It’s the one that ends with, “Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned.” When I initially stumbled upon the note, I remember my precociousness jumping out. It made no sense to me that someone was called Alexander Pope for the simple reason that Pope is titular. Pope John Paul. Pope Benedict. Ergo, Pope Alexander. Having examined the evidence thoroughly and consulted the shallow depths of my imagination, I concluded that you’d made an unacceptable mistake. With an overwhelming sense of urgency, I set out to remedy this error you’d made. I took a pen, crossed out the misplaced “Pope”, and rewrote it so it read as it should have—Pope Alexander. After the deed was done, I hurried to show you the result—to show you your error and how I’d redeemed the situation with a few pen strokes that, in hindsight, look more like noodle prints than strokes. As soon as you saw it, boy, were you furious! I’d never seen you that mad and loud and harsh. And I wanted desperately to bite myself for causing you such pain, for blemishing your pristine notebook. All was well in a bit of time, and we got along. The tremendous cost I suffered as a result was that you never let me go through your notes again. And I never got more botanical names out of you. Years later, when I stumbled on the notebook the second time, I fought the tears, but I lost. You never did change it. You never reversed my erroneous correction. “Pope Alexander”, it reads to date. I'd ask you why, but I already know the answer. My mistakes were your mistakes, and you made my failings yours.
In moments when I’m unforgiving of my transgression of living on and not living well, I search online for your mates—the ones I'm lucky to remember. They're up to lots of good things, you know? Rasack passed the bar exams some years ago, and Sharun has been an OAP for a while now. I wonder what you could have been. A skit maker? Doctor? Deejay? Anything? Anything. You were so good you could've been anything. And, sadly, I took that away from you, my bro.
As your birthday nears, I'll think of you more often. You'd have been in the summer of your youth, shining, I'm sure. And this time, unlike previous years, I'd celebrate you. Last year, I'd asked mama whether she remembered it was your birthday and whether she still thought of you. She smiled and said no to both questions. "Melo ni no fe ran ti?" "How much do I want to remember? You know I'm already old." She was obviously fibbing. Like me, she also lacks the gift of lying, but I assumed she didn't want me to worry about her. What mother would forget her child whether they be dead or alive? What mother? Moreso, I had put my ears to her door very early that morning. I'd heard her praying. I'd heard her sobbing too.
Yes, I'd celebrate you with the bottle of wine I found in the store. It must have been there for a long time because it was painted with dust and ornamented with cobwebs. It's likely part of Mama's stash, but she doesn't drink again. She stopped when she found that thing called faith. And that's the only good thing I've seen religion do.
Oh, I hope you don't mind that the wine is cheap. I certainly don't. The slight fear I have is the missing expiry date on the bottle. I couldn't find it. My working theory is that wine doesn't expire, as folks in movies always light up when they're gifted a century-old bottle of wine. I could be wrong. I certainly have been wrong in my little life, and you know all about that. I'd drink the wine anyway. Should it have expired, it wouldn't be the worst way to go out. And whether my lot is eternal sunshine beyond the pearly gates or an endless dark outside it, I hope I get to stand on my own two feet rather than three when this is all over. I hope I'm able to walk over to you and give you a hug. And tell you how much I've missed you; how sorry I am for not looking to the left before crossing the road; for forcing you to jump in and save me; for making my mistake your mistake and my failure yours one last time.
Fin.
P.S.
The title of this letter is a nod to Other Lives’ We Wait.
P.P.S.
I’ve been away for a while without notice again. I’m sorry.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
Beautiful storytelling!