When The Echoes Come Back To You

It's been a while I wrote to you. I am so sorry. But this is the highlight of my year.

I.

The time was 2:47am before I got up from bed. I sat in the middle of my living room, thick in blue light, and called my brother’s name. I waited for a response. Silence. I called his name again. This time, twice. Silence. Baba Imam. Silence. It was when I called his name for the last time that it hit me, he wasn’t there. I wanted to scream. It became heavy for me to hold, so I gently lay on the floor. Previously in the afternoon, I was walking back and forth, carrying the cooking gas from here to here, my fan from there to there, demonstrating how I wanted the living room to look when a visitor comes in. I went to the bathroom and switched on the tap. Yes, the water was flowing. If a visitor comes in and asks where the toilet is, I will point; this way, just straight. At night, when I covered my wet, naked body in my duvet, I sighed, letting the fan blow so hard that the duvet stuck very  to my bare body.  I closed my eyes and allowed myself to accept that for the first time in my life, I was sleeping alone in an apartment I paid for. I swum in that thought till sleep engulfed me.

It was a brief moment before they started chasing me. No one. It just felt like that. I opened my eyes and it felt as though I gasped for air like Louise and Adele in Behind Her Eyes. I didn’t. I just opened my eyes and I couldn’t hold myself. The darkness became too dark that it was difficult for the tiny red led from the socket extension to penetrate. I scrambled towards the door. I had lost place of where the switch was. As I emerged into the living room, in the blue light from the blue bulb, it felt as if I stepped into a dreamscape. Where am I? I knew where I was. But it just didn’t feel right. The night before, I was sleeping in my brother’s third room, and in the morning, his son would have knocked on my door, calling, “Bramaad, Bramaad, Bramaad”. That boy, my name was one of the first words that escaped his mouth. That moment, it occurred to me that the boy won’t knock on my door. He would knock on my door, but not this door. And I was thinking how it would feel for him, entering the room and meeting an empty bed. If he could talk properly, I’m sure, he would run back to his mum and ask, “where is Brother Ahmad?” And his mum would respond, “Brother Ahmad has gone.” I’m not gone, Imam, I just took a step I felt was necessary.

As I lay there on the floor, and allowed the tears to drop on the cold tiles, it dawned on me that I have decided to embark on this journey. I have always wanted to live alone, but, apart from school, I was scared I can’t afford to live alone. Not for money, but with the mental structure of my thinking. When I was finally leaving my brother’s place, I attached one of my keys to his key bunch and told him, “In case I commit suicide and they need to lift out my body.” He said God forbid. There are things that God forbids, true, but I am not sure a decision to end my life is something God can forbid. I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I can’t do it. I don’t trust myself.

It’s been days since I moved into my apartment and I am still struggling to set myself in. Things are scattered everywhere. My blender is in my wardrobe. My iron is in the kitchen. My clipper is in the living room, but my books are at my side. MyM told me to build my bookshelf soon and I am working on that. I might build two. One in the living room for exhibition, in case people come over. They deserve to know what I survive on. And the other in my room to quench my deceit. The one in the living room is a deceit because I won’t touch those books. Yaasin ngbo. I realised, from the first day I entered this place, I won’t be spending much time in the living room. My desk is in my room. The magic would happen here, in this room.

I have been struggling with everything. I have not been very active at work. My reading life is in shambles. I am just trying to get myself to write. But yesterday I started Lola Shoneyin’s The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives. I have been struggling with those because everyday I wake up, I remember that I need to fill my stomach with something. I am sure noodles cry every time I step into the kitchen. I eat noodles everyday.

I am writing this now to assure myself I have already emerged into this journey and there is no going back. It would have remained a fantasy if I had let the idea slip out of me. But moti gbe idea sori, and here I am, eating watery noodles everyday and myM will soon call to laugh at me. It’s all good.

II.

I am the only Muslim in the compound. Every morning, I wake up to voices singing praises and shouting, “baba,  shey funwa, baba, gba adura wa, baba jeki eni dara funwa.” One day, I woke up and didn't hear the voices. I thought I had woken earlier than usual. When I checked my time, it was past 8 O’clock. I wondered how I easily became used to the voices that I became worried when I didn't hear them.

III.

The year was a good one. I lived. I cried, a lot. I jerked out of my terrifying nightmares. I lived, true true, but I am not sure I am ready to ride the boat again next year. I am simply tired of life-ing.