romancing the keys

ah, how i have missed you.

the words come to me slowly. i have been out of practice.
these fingers: they move more quickly than before, but clumsily. i do not remember you as i once did.

this is our last hurrah.
soon it will be the last time.
i have fallen for another.

three years we have known each other.
you have brought songs out of me, poetry. stories.
of discomfort. soreness.
exploration.
new beginnings.
unexpected ends.

the tale is complete.

and now your turn has come.
discarded onto a heap of electronic garbage, perhaps.
pulled apart by the deft fingers of the impoverished,
experts at discovering hidden value.
exploited for needing and knowing so little.

or handed down to one more needy, also lacking,
though more privileged in many ways.
little brother.
distant cousin, learning you in a ghanaian village.

you are magic.
but your sparkle has dissipated.
it is time to move on.

but for now
you remain
to tell the story of a closing chapter.

of romance that bloomed only to disappear sharply into a void of 'once-was'.
i am grateful.
of misery that tugged and pulled at itself until it discovered the hard seed of self-fulfillment.
my eyes have been opened.
of friendships, both quick and long-lasting.
i will cherish them. all of them.
of that which is new and will continue to reveal itself.
i will explore.
i have explored.

there is much to offer, and you have shown me this.
at once a tool and confidante,
you have served me well.
with fondness,

i bid you adieu.

sitting solo

The quiet moments are the worst. Minutes, hours spent gazing out an open window, deep in thought. There was a time when I always knew a call would come. A text, maybe, to disrupt my revelry right when I was on the brink of a definitive discovery. Infuriating at times, welcome at others, I knew it would come and I waited for it. A skipped heartbeat. Anticipation. A need satisfied.

Now all that remains is the wretched sting of knowing that there is no one who is obligated to care what I am doing this quiet, quiet, unending moment.

love on july the fourth: through a slit in the drywall

we will wake in poor man's luxury, a soft wind blowing through my subterranean window. on these summer days, i can peer out from underneath it to see the sun, hot and yellow, gleaming off the emerald leaves of the trees. the window's position does not permit those rays to warm me, instead letting in a smooth chill that hovers cozily above my eiderdown quilt. it will do.

he turns heavily, and in his sleep, his lips search for me, to kiss the first stretch of brown they find: a shoulder or its blade, the apple of my cheek. in these moments, i quietly enjoy being the center of his world. were he awake, i would swat him away and roll my eyes. but here, when i know i'm too far away, i nudge myself closer, hoping he will throw an arm around me or encircle me with his legs.

when i am sated, i will free myself from the custard-and-ivory tangle of sheets to lounge on the sofa and do a few crosswords, my newest obsession. or i will make myself a bowl of bran cereal with sliced bananas and only the smallest sprinkle of pure cane sugar, and read soyinka, levy, saro-wiwa or lahiri. i will not be wholly in the moment. i will be waiting for him to wake up.

if i am impatient, i will wash my bowl noisily, as the kitchenette sits but three feet away from my bed. he knows what i'm doing and i catch him smiling, eyes still shut. even in sleep, his eyes are beautiful. i am envious of his eyelashes, which are thick and dark and rest too close to his cheekbones when he blinks, but i'm grateful that i can look into them every day, where they frame a profound love for all that i am.

we play "whose breath smells more like manure?" for the umpteenth time, and though he always wins, he also leaves the bed with welts and scratches on his body, proof of my indignation at being pinned down while he tortures me, seemingly without end.

now we shower, now we change. the temptation to just sit and watch television in our underwear is strong, but we resist: it's the fourth of july and all sorts of american traditions await. he wants wings and beer; i want a burger and mojitos. we fight over lunch about how much of elvis's act was 'borrowed' from african american culture and, in anger, i stalk off and abandon him at the table. by the time i get to the door, i instantly regret my action, but i'm part leo and have committed to the drama. thankfully, he calls and tells me to stop walking - he's coming to get me so we can continue to enjoy our day as planned.

as the car pulls up, i fight the grin threatening to rend my face apart. i'm trying so hard not to meet his eyes, which i know will be laughing at me, forcing me to laugh back. in the end, i have no choice: he pokes me in the neck, and i have to turn to retaliate. inevitably, i break into a fit of laughter and lose my third fight that day.

much of the day is lost as we drive from one spot to another, in search of anything interesting but atypical to participate in, finding nothing. not that it matters: we have each other.

in the end, we find MF and his beautiful KR on a dark rooftop with belgian beer and an assortment of cheeses, encircled by the exuberance of a capital city celebrating 233 years of national independence, if not freedom. 360 degrees of explosive lights and sulfur: the national monument stood as always in phallic erection, its own fireworks more splendid and enormous than the rest of the city's combined. the climax was impressive. partly in jest and for my american comrades, i belted out a pitchy rendition of the star spangled banner. MF and KR, unable to withstand the poetry, kissed repeatedly. i avoided CB's amorous looks, but let him hold me from behind. pda embarasses me.

the night was full of ladders. we climbed one to get atop MF's roof. then we took a taxi a few blocks to scale another. it was splendid. fifty, sixty people spread into the night, tamping the tar roof sheets of their neighbors unknown, drinking (yet more) oaky wines and vinegar-and-malt beers. exotic elixir of the night. we could barely see each others' faces; the sky lit up only briefly and sporadically, as more roman candles exploded above us, showering us with fiery bullets and ashy debris. i knew but two guests, but felt peaceful, at home. their stories kept me amused for hours.

it was over for us too soon. we left at midnight, as the call of duty grew louder and we could no longer ignore the imperativeness of a good night's sleep, lest the next day be spent between my cotton sheets at someone else's expense. CB could barely find the energy to undress before he collapsed on the mattress, falling asleep almost instantly. as i always do, i turned off the light and slid in beside him, traced the waves in his soft, soft hair with my right index finger. my eyes were heavy, but before i succumbed to sleep, i succumbed to my obsessesion: the NYT crossword, a classic from january 16, 1998. early sunday morning, i fell asleep on the uncompleted friday grid, after his arm found its way to me and began to stroke the skin above my navel.

the divorcee

amaka rose early on a sunny monday morning, not requiring assistance for the first time in a long time. the furthest thought from her mind was that she would marry that day. and yet, like it or not, that is precisely what would happen.

she rubbed the crust from her her eyes and looked across the room at her younger sister, chisom, who was still asleep and drooling quietly onto her care bear pillowcase. satisfied that she could finally enjoy an unprecedented amount of freedom, she hopped down from her bed, tiptoed carefully past the crucifix that hung over the armoire and glowed eerily in the dark of night, opened the door and left.

at this hour, the house was quiet save for the hum of electronics and a thunderous snore down the hall. her older brother's, no doubt. she turned away from the bassoon and walked round the corner to the bathroom. reaching up, she turned the knob and entered: she was going to get ready all by herself today and shock everyone.

the response to her display of independence was better than she could have imagined. her mother high-fived her, her sister sulked. her brother, contrary to his usual indifference, rubbed the top of her head and messed up her afro puff, but she didn't even mind. as she chewed on her creamy golden morn, she couldn't help but feel that today would be a good day. the girls at school would let her play ten-ten with them, even though she didn't really know how to play; and that one girl who was bigger than everyone else wouldn't punish her for coming first in class last year by ripping up her art projects and denying her her "friendship".

it didn't matter as much that her mother once again chose to give her the grown-up coffee flask with brown stripes instead of the my little pony one she much preferred. it was some consolation that chisom didn't get a flask at all because she was still too young to drink consistently from a cup, unsupervised, without ruining her clothes. she would have to suffer the indignity of sucking her juice from a box of ribena. she, chisom, wasn't having it and let her discontent be known as loudly as she could. children! amaka shook her head, already weary of dealing with those so much younger and more immature than she. to her, chisom was the most foolish person she had ever encountered in all her years on earth, all six of them.

at her desk in school, which she shared with five other boys and girls, she became engaged in a staring match with chinedu, a long-faced boy who, for some inexplicable reason, caught her fancy today like never before. the feeling appeared to be mutual, because he didn't once look away. the air was virtually prickling with the sparks from their unvoiced attraction.

the ceremony unfolded in an organic manner, seamlessly and without announcement. as the other children looked on, stupefied, amaka and chinedu lowered their heads in near-unison below the table top and exchanged looks in lieu of the customary rings - at each other's underwear. hers bore pink pastel flowers; his were navy blue with a white, elastic band. it was a rite performed speedily and without pomp - overly simple, she would one day recall. but beautiful in its own way.

their marriage now sealed, they proceeded to spend the rest of the day in a version of holy matrimony, performing all requisite acts like seasoned professionals. they switched seats with some of their cohorts so they could sit side by side while they colored by numbers. at lunch time, they shared their jam sandwiches equally and each politely insisted that the other's was more delicious. they declined to split their beverages, but only because chinedu was not in the mood for amaka's blackcurrant ribena, preferring instead to sip on his orange-flavored capri-sun. and when it was time for siesta, the elderly mrs. singh amusedly watched them clamor to share the same mat.

alas, all good things must come to an end, and end they did. perhaps it was the forty-five minute nap that erased chinedu's memory of the rich morning that had transpired between him and his new bride. perhaps it is true that, as they say, all marriages are not meant to last. but as they rose from their siesta mat, amaka eager to behold her handsome partner with her eyes and embrace him with her arms, chinedu gruffly pushed her away as he rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where he was. proud as she was, amaka could not stomach his rejection. she stalked off.

and just like that, their actions signaled the end of a beautiful romance that had barely begun. by the time the mothers, drivers and house helps came to pick up their respective wards, the boy had teased the erstwhile love of his life mercilessly on more than one occasion, leading her to pummel him with her bare fists in order to save face. that day, she was accompanied home by a note in her school bag that was addressed to 'mama amaka', admonishing the little girl and cautioning her parents to ensure her ill behavior was not repeated lest she be sent to learn her sums elsewhere.

to this day, amaka claims that the tongue-lashing she received was worth every punch she laid on chinedu's fickle horse face. he insists that he does not remember.

woman scorned, woman burned vi

3:41. Stanley is standing behind the glass of the balcony, squinting up the street, at nothing in particular. His hands are in his trouser pockets. He stands perfectly still. In the nursery, the girl whimpers again. Calmly, he turns away from the street and peers into the blackness of the hall, then turns back. He's been thinking. Playing back time: a year ago, two years ago, twelve years. Trying to recall the feeling of happiness.

Once upon a time, happiness was a young bride with laughter like sun rays. New lovers spending lazy mornings in clean, cotton sheets that smelled like a spring breeze, charting previously undiscovered erotic zones on smooth, soft flesh. Leisurely strolls on the high street, shopping for the latest fashions. Quick trips to the supermarket, buying produce for a salad-for-two.

The whimpers have gotten louder, quickened. She cries now. He's surprised by how cat-like she sounds. He sneers. Beastly, he thinks.

She shows no signs of stopping. Stanley looks at his watch. 3:52. Leslie has been gone nearly half an hour. In the street, he sees no indication that she is on her way back. There is milk; he has no idea what to do with it. Best to quiet the child himself, then. He'll have to pick her up. He turns away from the balcony after a final hesitation and marches to the nursery. Turns on a light. The child is howling, her tiny face is hot and red. The sight of her, her volume alarms him. He goes to pick her up. She starts to go quiet, but resumes after a moment's respite. In his confusion, Stanley drops her back in the crib, picks her up again, puts her back down. Leaves, comes back.

Shut the fuck up!, he screams. She does not.

Happiness never looked like this.

It is now 4:04. And he's standing over the crib with a pillow in his hand.


"I missed you," he says. The warmth of his breath in her hair creates dewdrops that are quickly camouflaged by the dark.

She pauses, gathering herself, her thoughts. They tumble out of blackness, quick and fast: a culmination of the hopes she had placed on her relationship with him, the ways he was supposed to make her feel. In the first weeks of their romance, he bit into her neck, licked the inside of her thigh, and she remembered craving. He moaned when she teased him, not too stiff to show satisfaction, and she recalled the joys of giving pleasure. In the weeks that followed, she laughed more, danced more, played more, sang more. Tired from making love to him, she slept more. And she began to feel more like who she knew she was and how this man, her friend, had saved her from a hell she didn't know how to escape.

But the friendship is over. She left him, but he had abandoned her. Coming back now is merely an insult, an unforgivable rubbing of salt into the still-bleeding wound of a months-long absence. She can see him for what he is: a mere lover of passion, whose only desire is to play the hero, feeding off the desire of others to idolize him. A narcissistic parasite.

Her legs are trembling. She's cold. Putting her hand on his shoulder, Lolia straightens herself and takes a step back. I have to go. And without another word or another glance at his face, she starts to walk away.

*

The shadow of the pillow crosses over her tiny hot face, purple with anger, shiny from her tears. Stanley's breath quickens, his grip tightens. Logic deserts him and stands aside, watching from the doorway with wry, smiling intrigue. Will he or won't he? The beast will decide. As the first muffled cries fill the room, he feels calmer, relieved. She doesn't struggle, or yet grow stiff. Quieting her is easy. Killing her, Logic chimes in. Yes, killing her, and the ease of it. Because he has never so much as scratched another human being, he is surprised by how little effort he requires to snuff out a soul, even one as new as hers. He can barely hear her choking.

*

"What? Why?" John runs after her, grabs her by the arm. "Where are you going?"

She slaps his hand, then his face. Oh, you're so fucking stupid, she spits. She is wild, furious with herself and ashamed for chasing an illusion into the cold of February. He is momentarily stupefied, wondering what changed, why she is so angry. That he is so obviously confused only annoys her more. You're a fucking idiot, John. Just piss off. Leave me alone.

He stops her from turning away again, grabs her by both arms and shakes her because it's as much his illusion as hers, and he is not yet ready to let go. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growls.

And so they struggle, one to hold on to a past dream, the other to escape it.

Let me go.

"No."

She screams. Let me go!

"No!"

They ignore or don't notice the wet spots forming on the front of her blouse, a visible reminder of the call of a child.

*

Logic pushes himself up from his position, leaning against the door frame, and strolls over to Stanley: trembling, in a cold, foreign sweat, as he suffocates his wife's bastard daughter. Casually, Logic taps his shoulder from behind and asks a simple question: What are you doing? When Stanley looks around, there is no one there. And when he looks back, he sees that it is his own rigid hand holding a pillow over two tiny feet, wretchedly still. He snatches his hand back, in fear and shock. The pillow rests on Francesca's face.

*

"Everything all right?" A faceless man hobbles out of the fog, cautiously because he sounds old, and would not be able to help if the answer to his question were no.

John drops his grip, hurriedly, guiltily, and Lolia flees, leaving him to tell the lie that all is well. He turns in time to see the hem of her dress flutter and fade into the night. He starts to call to her then stops, sensing finally the futility she could not convey.

He will not see her again.

*

She's not moving. And he is too frightened to lift the pillow and see what remains when life leaves the body. Panicking, Stanley backs out of her room and for a few surreal moments, contemplates running away. Imagines what will happen when Leslie returns from her lovers' tryst to find her judgment. The thought evokes a twinge of pleasure from which he recoils in disgust. What the hell is wrong with me, he wonders, in helpless dismay. He is pacing again, confused again, but the eerie silence that fills the flat is starkly different from what caused him to do the same mere minutes ago.

He knows he will have to go back in there eventually, and so he does it now. Stanley has never been one to shy away from a task, no matter how fearsome or discomfiting. The room feels different: the shadows created by the dim nursing lamp are gloomier, heavy. When he sweeps the pillow off Francesca's face, the first sight to greet him is her bloody nose and mouth. The blood, dark and thin, smells fresh. Her eyes are puffed closed. He reels, overcome, and stumbles backwards, crumpling to the floor. He is heaving, unable to breathe. A moment later, he realizes it is because he is sobbing.

As he struggles to get back on his feet and clean up the infant before her mother gets home, he hears a familiar voice behind him say, What have you done?

the fallen one

Well, it’s official: I’m not a Christian anymore. We had a good run, me and religion. Two years, full of dedication and spirit. It took a while to get there, but after a mere six months of testing the sacred waters of the church, I never missed a Sunday. It is of no consequence that the main attraction for me was the cacophonic choir. They never disappointed. I was there from its inception, when a handful of elderly women decided to lend their hoarse voices to praising the works of the Lord, until it blossomed to include the younger though no less tonally-challenged voices of enthusiastic college students.

I remember the moment I realized that the choir held the key to my commitment, like it was yesterday: I was sitting at the back of the church as usual so I could slip out before the ushers had a chance to finally give me a visitor’s card. It was my third attendance but I had stubbornly refused to identify myself when the pastor asked new people to stand up and be welcomed – with a song, no less. It seemed ludicrous to me that I would let myself be known when I had no intention of coming back. Or so I thought. On this Sunday, several weeks since I was last coerced to attend service with this tiny, Nigerian congregation, I wasn’t hung over, which was a definite plus as I could pay closer attention to my surroundings. I had, of course, arrived too late to catch the opening prayer and the praise-and-worship session. But I settled in just when the ‘special number’ was about to begin. For my non-Christian readers, allow me to describe this distinctive moment in any church service lovingly referred to as The Special Number.

The Special Number takes place between ‘praise-and-worship’ and the sermon. I am yet to understand its relevance or necessity, but maybe that’s something you learn in year 3. Clarity notwithstanding, this is the portion of the church service when a congregation member gets his or her chance to shine. The spotlight is solely on this person; they get to serenade the Lord with a solo, and touch some souls as an added bonus. In most African-American churches, where actual talent is a prerequisite for holding a microphone, this time can be a very special, heartfelt one. At my church, the experience could range anywhere from pain to hilarity.

On this Sunday, The Special Number was a purely hysterical moment, since the sound guy was a volunteer, a recent immigrant from Nigeria whose day job was spent behind the counter at a drug store. It was very clear to all present that he was having great trouble figuring out what to do with all those plugs and wires in the makeshift sound booth. While the poor man struggled to get the soundtrack to play for Mrs. Akerele’s Special Number, she shifted her weight from one meaty leg to the other as she held the mic and scowled at him. He was ruining her moment.

To distract us, the pastor said, “Praise da Lawd!” to which the congregation heartily bellowed, “HALLELUJAH!”

It seemed to work. Along with Mr. Ojo banging around at the back of the church, we could hear the faint strains of Christian alt-rock. If he could figure out how to plug the CD player into the amp, we would be in business. He started flipping switches, plugging and unplugging things. It was like he was Doc in Back to the Future, only there was no Marty and he was only trying to get sound to come out of a speaker, not fix a car so it could drive back in time. He flipped one switch, and the music disappeared again. Mrs. Akerele said *mtschew* and shot daggers at him. The pastor stepped in again.

“Praise da Lawd!”

The response was less than enthusiastic, but still we answered, “Hallelujah.”

In the back of the church, a slow grin was spreading across my face. I was intrigued. I wondered: what are we all going to do now? Will the pastor ask Mrs. Akerele to sit down for a while until Ojo got his bearings? Will he ask her to perform a capella (God help us)? Will we have a special number? Personally, I felt Mrs. Akerele was over the whole thing and just wanted to sit down and move on. Had I been leading the service, I would have put her out of her misery.

Meanwhile, chaos was lord in the sound booth. Pastor decided to get his hands dirty at this point. He hurried to the back of the room and exchanged a few muffled words with Mr. Ojo. A moment later, he walked back to the front of the room and stood beside Mrs. Akerele, saying, “Children of God, we as’ you to please be patient wid us. We will ‘ave some music soon. You know patience is one of di fruit of di Spirit. Praise da Lawd!”

This time, only the most faithful could be arsed to respond, with a disinterested “Mmlelmmya….” A deeply uncomfortable silence settled over the congregation once more.

Suddenly, sound exploded from the speakers in the church! You could tell we were utterly caught off guard: everybody jumped, Mrs. Akerele shrieked, “Blood of Jesus!” She sounded like a macaw. And I fell to pieces. I literally had to leave the church in a convulsive fit of laughter. By the time I came back, the Special Number may or may not have taken place and there was a group of women standing in front of the altar, making noise about something good the Lord had done. I was hooked after that. For every Saturday night I spent at the club, I made sure that I was up and out the door in time to catch any of the musical segments of service, it didn’t matter which, every single Sunday.

But it wasn’t meant to last. Like all my relationships, the kulu-church connection ran its biennial course and came to its predetermined end once I went to grad school. It was worth every moment.

But now I’m a heathen again. I figured this out a couple of days ago at work, talking to my boss. I’m not sure how we got on the topic seeing as we were initially talking about narcolepsy, but somehow religion took the floor. Religious extremism, to be specific. We’re the same sarcastic person, so we toss facetious jokes back and forth regularly, like verbal tennis. I was halfway into it before I realized what I was doing. She said something about people who see the Shroud of Turin in a teacup; I came back with people who see Jesus in melted candle wax and cat fur. Before I knew it, we were suggesting Jesus didn’t really die, he just had a long bout of a strange narcolepsy that had him out like a light for three days; and that his post-resurrection appearance was really him returning after a long trip to India.

The guilt is eating away at me (damn you, missionary school!). For two days, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’ve lost favor with God and that I’m definitely going to hell. Mostly because it would probably take a whole bunch of repentance to get back in His good books after something like this, and I’m not ready to give up some stuff. Mostly sex, to be honest (and specific). There is always the chance that I can somehow reject logic and learn to live by faith. But I will never, ever learn to live without pre-marital sex. So now the question is: how can I get God to forgive me for messing about while I was bored and tired at 4:30pm at work? D’you reckon I can just say, “My bad,” and He’ll take me for my word and we can just dap up and be pals again? Or is it just going to be awkward now that He knows I’ve got some serious questions about Jesus’ mysterious behavior back in the day?

I don’t want to go to hell *whimper*.

writer's block

been sitting here for hours, trying to write.

tried to finish my series. i'm not doing it justice right now.

moved on, tried to write an article about the new wave of nigerian hip hop artistry. went on youtube to do research, got distracted for about 45 minutes trying to learn timaya's ridiculous but entertaining yankuluya dance. now i can't remember the original point i was trying to make.

thought i'd make a break for it, dash back to the past, and write something reminiscent of my more adventurous/procrastinatory days. but i think i'm getting...private. how fucking boring.

it was going to be titled "my vagina is dying" and even though it has nothing to do with death (or even vaginas, technically), i still can't write it.

i fucking hate writer's block, i really do. it comes at the most inopportune times. like, when you have a deadline. when people are counting on you to get something done. when you'll look most stupid if you don't finish something you started.

did i mention i'm developing a feature animation? my boss is expecting something great from me this week. i've figured out who the protagonists are, and that's about it. i'm so getting fired.