Lately, I have been thinking about death. The how, when, where, who will miss me and whatnot. This is not an ominous sign, really. However there some days I step out of the bubble to reflect, especially as I have had near-death experiences like this.
Continue reading “Before Sunset”
I sit here, after my smoke, reminiscing about a year ago. You see, that was when everything started. All of it, smoking too because I know you are curious about that. Listen to me, let us decide together if I should stop.
I am running late to work today, for some reason, my alarm didn’t notify me. As I stand at the bus stop, I contemplate between taking a motorcycle to work or braving the traffic. I chose the latter, as I see a bus conductor shouting the fare at a cheaper rate. Like the proper Lagos girl I am, I clutch my bag properly and fight my way onto the bus.
It was one of those days, I wanted to be the neighbourhood girl. My braids were old, I was wearing a loose fitting gown with black pantyhose. I was standing eating ice cream as I waited for my movie ticket. Then I saw him, the former love of my life, as he walked towards me. I quickly dived into my bag to get my sunglasses. As I wore them and looked up, he was standing in front of me.
“You are as beautiful as you have always been”, he said.
My ice cream fell off my hands and he bent to try to retrieve the mess.
“I will have to get you another”. He smiled coyly, “I know your favourite flavour and toppings”.
Th e first time it happened, I was eight and it was two weeks after the elaborate eighth birthday party I had. He came into my room while I was doing my assignment and asked me to lie down. It hurt, like the way it hurts when my mother hits the iron spoon on my head for misbehaving. It was hurting after he was done, even when he asked me to clean up, even when my mother came home and I told her I fell down because brother Paul had told me not to tell her, that I would go to hell if I did. And I didn’t want to go to hell. The thought of fire burning my skin was too horrifying.
When I was given a scholarship to the Primrose College, my mother gave a very long testimony dragging her “Hallelujah” so that it became “haaaaaaaleeeeeeeluuuuuuuu…..yah”. She had tears in her eyes and said she could see me leading the family out of poverty. After all, 2000 children wrote the qualifying examination, is it ordinary that the daughter of a fish seller would be chosen among the needed 10.
The big 3 zero, when you can confidently say “grown woman” and flip your hair proudly. While I’m not 30 yet, allow me to write this from the perspective of a 30-year-old woman named Lola. If Lola, isn’t okay, we can change it… Lola is? Good! Now, allow Lola to tell you her story about being a spinster above 30.
