Love Drops E-Book

by Seun Odukoya

  “And you can’t do all that at mine?”

  She saw clearly, for the first time, as though a veil was literally being lifted from her face – just how conceited and selfish he was. She liked being with him – that much was evident – but it was always about him.

  A chuckle bubbled up her throat like vomit, and she spat it out.

  Stuck between a boyfriend who is too indifferent and another one who is too clingy.

  She opened the car door and got out.

  “Hey – hey! Where are you going?” he rushed out of his side of the car and came to stand beside her.

  “Home,” was her brief answer as she opened the back door and pulled out her bag. “I’m going to my place for a shower and sleep. After that – “ she shrugged.

  “You’re stubborn,” he said, mouth set in a straight line.

  She smiled, head shaking slowly. “No, baby. Not stubborn. Just tired – of you.”

  Swinging around, she walked towards the kilishi stand and hailed a taxi. A face momentarily flashed in her mind, a round face adorned with glasses and a smile that was somehow juvenile and old at the same time.

  She missed that face.

  Maybe tomorrow, I will make an effort to talk to Ahmed again – maybe call him and speak to him about second chances…

  But not today. No, not today.

  Today, I am good and happy all alone.

  soliloquy – just me

  I have this recurring dream.

  I am travelling down a slippery slope – driving; actually. I am driving down this slope and I suddenly realize; I am the one behind the wheel but I am not the one driving.

  The car suddenly makes a sharp left turn – and I am thrown out.

  But instead of hitting tarmac, I fall into this huge pit beside the road. I fall, screaming –

  and then wake up in my bed, sweat soaked, gasping for breath.

  Writing is a lonely endeavor. It’s almost like a child trying to take her first steps – she keeps trying and keeps falling. At times, the parents – or at least someone – is there; other times not so much. Rarely do parents ever get to watch the miracle of that.

  What they; the parents call ‘first steps’ is actually ‘first steps in their presence’. They have absolutely no idea what or how long it took the kid to arrive where she is.

  Writing is lonely endeavor. Most often than not, you have no one cheering you on – at least; not during the creating process. You keep doing, you keep going – and what you share with the world; most of the time is a finished product. Only writers like you can even begin to appreciate the rigor that goes into it – but even they don’t exactly know; simply because writing is as individual – as personal – as a thumbprint.

  At least ideally.

  It’s almost like sex – more specifically; sex with intent to procreate. A million sperms are released; but only one makes its way to the egg. And then, the man keeps hoping and hopping from one foot to the next; not exactly knowing how it works (or maybe he is a brilliant surgeon) but hoping something; someone would make his efforts count – and something of himself would be left in this world.

  Writing is a very intimate endeavor. Like sex.

  To me, I mean.

  I don’t take it lightly; writing – I mean. I still don’t believe I’m any good at it, so I stay in school, paying attention to all the available teachers – the bloggers whose works are praised as crap, the ones whose works are criticized as ‘perfect’, the books that didn’t sell a single copy, the not-so-best bestsellers and the actual ‘bestsellers’, the dreamers who just want to ‘dream’ on in their space; yes, even the ‘attention seekers’, the attention whores – yes; all these people are my teachers and I pay rapt attention to them while I scratch my internal head and wonder why I’m not as good as them – why my writing isn’t any good.

  Maybe I’m not meant to be; I console myself with.

  Writing is lonely.

  There’s always that frightening reality that no one actually understands what jargon I just spent hours scribbling. That understanding that humans are fickle – today we scream ‘messiah’ tomorrow we’re yelling ‘crucify him!’ That awareness that sometimes – all I do is to put the words together in an interesting way – that what I wrote really does not make an iota of sense.

  Well. I’m paranoid.

  Understand; this is not some attempt at humility or anything close. I hardly ever like anything I write simply because my stories rarely come out the way I see them. It’s frustrating – but I’ve learnt to accept it –the exact same way I’ve learnt to be grateful. I’m really privileged to make a living; a comfortable living off something I enjoy doing – even though I really suck at it.

  Something that gives me great happiness. For that alone; I will always be thankful to God.

  Writing is sharing. A piece; a story – a thought is simply saying; in a manner of speaking – here; I thought about this and I wanted to share with you, in the hopes that it connects and resonates with you in some unspeakable manner. I hope this helps you makes some sense of your world, I hope it helps you escape some drudgery and boredom, I hope it broadens your mental horizons – and I really hope; at the very least, it makes you smile.

  It is to invite a random stranger to step in your shoes for a moment; a minute, a second, an hour – a day – or even for longer; see the world through your tortured/lonely/tormented/inspired/fired/tired/suicidal/haunted/happy/distracted/excited/traumatized/crazy/insane/colorful eyes.

  To love a writer is to know pain. To let a writer love you is to live forever.

  Em. That’s a shameless plug ashually.

  And you read something – and you laugh; pound on your table at work in excitement, or you’re angry at the stupidity of another human being (a character, actually) – or you tear up – happy or sad tears depending – or you’re struck speechless and people around you are wondering what the matter is –

  But you would have; for a moment, seen what it is like to live another life.

  Such is the power of the writer.

  And; in the will-live-forever words of Uncle Ben –

  With great power comes great responsibility.

  I have this recurring dream.

  I am travelling down a slippery slope – driving; actually. I am driving down this slope and I suddenly realize; I am the one behind the wheel but I am not the one driving.

  The car suddenly makes a sharp left turn – and I am thrown out.

  But – instead of falling into some bottomless abyss, screaming all the way, I find myself going upwards.

  I am flying.

  At first; it’s a really strange and odd feeling. But, as is the way of humans, I get used to it. I look around, marvel at the beauty of night – of millions of lights; if NEPA allows it – and I smile.

  And I wake up in my bed. Laughing. Beating the pillow and screaming into it.

  Another demon exorcised. Another mountain climbed.

  And – as it will be till I die…

  Another story to write.

  On The Lagoon Front – Dotun and Wunmi

  The early evening air brings her scent to me easily. I smell her – long before I see her. No o; this is not some werewolf/vampiric Twilight bullshit. I mean, even if those things exist, not in Nigeria, right?

  It’s bush-babies we deal with.

  I smell her because she smells…and I lack the word to describe it, but she smells as good as Agege bread would smell to a starving bricklayer.

  Yes. It’s that good. She smells that good.

  I act like I don’t know she’s near and keep observing the softly crashing waves; setting sun creating the perfect background – I feel as though I am staring at a live-motion painting. I particularly like the Lagoon Front at this time of day – and then she’s all over me and I can’t pretend anymore.

  I shiver a little as she caresses my neck with a warm palm. A hot mouth hangs tantalizingly close to my ear and she whispers, “Have yo
u been waiting long?”

  “Since I called,” I respond as she glides in front of me, spinning in a circle of blood-red splendor before dumping herself into my lap and wrapping long arms around my neck.

  “Are you sulking?” she asks. I do not answer, intending to punish her for keeping me waiting. She sits up and tries to see my expression, but I evade her penetrating glance by turning my head.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. I hadn’t bathed…” I silence her by pressing my lips to hers. I feel hers curve in a smile before her mouth opens up and embraces me in its warmth. We kiss like new lovers usually do, prying, plying – trying to find out exactly how much the other person knows. It’s as though our mouths are talking without our tongues; saying I know you know what you’re doing. I do too; but this is new for me as it is for you. So teach me; be patient.

  I break the kiss.

  My heart is pounding with intensity; something close to the vibrations of the stampede that nearly killed baby Moufasa in the first Lion King – if you ever watched that movie via very loud home theatre you’ll understand my meaning. I feel the vibrations in every angle; every plane of my body. I wonder if she can hear my heart beat – then I smile self-consciously.

 

  What a fool in love I am!

  She sighs happily and rests her head on my chest again, playing with my fingers. I look over her head at the waves crashing in submission to the winds. I caress her face gently, burying my nose in her fresh-made hair as I intimately learn her features. There’s a floaty feeling inside my head – something that makes me feel as though I could just spread my arms and take flight. Something as familiar as the scent of my room whenever I open the door.

  It’s a flush of intensity that touches every part of me, and leaves an alive feeling in its wake –

  It’s also a frightening feeling. I have felt this way before, you see.

  I don’t know how she notices the shift in my mood – but she does. As soon as I realize it’s a familiar feeling her head comes up and she looks at me.

  “What is it?” she asks in her Tiwa Savage-trembly voice.

  “Nothing,” I respond, as I try to distract her by touching her face again. She impatiently shrugs my hand off and looks at me sternly. “It’s too early to be lying to me,” she says.

  “I’m not –“ I start to argue but then, I see the fear in her eyes. I shouldn’t be responsible for that.

  “I’m scared,” I say, through a throat that has become clogged with too much feeling.

  And just like that, her face changes from a girlfriend’s to a lover’s (does that even make any sense?!). She keeps her eyes on mine and gently rubs my chest. She does not say anything for a bit, and then; “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

  I’m tripping for her all over again. I look at the irresistible softness of her lips – lips that have a curious shine in the dimming sunlight. I cannot stay away from them – and really; they look like they don’t want me to stay away either.

  But I know kissing her now would only mute me – and I want to talk about my fears.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I feel so…” I slow down, because I need her to – she needs to understand clearly what I’m saying.

  “I feel so much for you – no, let me finish,” I say as she starts to smile. The smile remains there as she nods encouragingly. I kiss her nose softly and look away.

  “Being with you is so overwhelming, so…empowering and intoxicating. I feel like I can do anything. It’s true,” I say, feeling ridiculously self-conscious. I plunge on, regardless.

  “But I worry. What if you don’t feel that way? What if you don’t feel for me the way I do for you? What if you wake up tomorrow and – something has happened, as they inevitably will? What will I do with myself? What do I do with all these feelings?”

  As I end my semi-monologue a bird – or something cries not too far away from where we are. I hear the soft rustle of wind-stirred leaves…a chuckle and soft moan remind me that we are not alone. It is the Unilag Lagoon front after all; and it is evening. Love rendezvous ideas are not exclusive.

  Not where we are, anyway.

  Finally I look at her. She’s patiently looking at me, soft chin on a firm hand, braided hair blowing crazily in the wind. She looks so calm and resolute – so beautiful…

  I’m starting to sound like a broken record even to myself.

  “Do you love me?”

  I nod.

  She asks again. “Do you love me, Dotun?”

  “Yes. Um…I guess I do. I do, I mean.”

  She nods and smiles. “I love you too. And I know you know we’ve seen enough movies, read enough novels, blogs and heard enough stories to understand how clichéd that has become.

  “But I love you.”

  She touches my chin – my small growth of beard – before turning and presenting me with a pleasant view of her neck as her gaze turns towards the ocean.

 

  “When we’re together…everything else stops. And it’s not the I-don’t-read-my-books-because-I-can’t-stop-thinking-about-you kind of love. It’s more of the I-must-read-my-books-to-make-you-proud variety. When I apply my makeup, I think of what you would think – and it’s not me insecure in myself. It’s me wanting to be your woman. Do you understand?”

  Somehow I do and I tell her so.

  “I know you’re not too Christian-inclined, but I am and I make no apologies for that. My point is though – the bible says perfect love drives out fear and I believe that. I need you to believe that with me; and we’ll be fine.”

  I am speechless. This is my girlfriend – the girl whose longest sentence comprises ten words. This is my girl – my woman who I thought I would have to instruct in certain matters.

  Man.

  “Will you marry me?” I blurt out before I can think about it.

  She smiles and hugs me. “Tomorrow morning, after a night of me snoring, drooling all over your chest and feeding you pickings from my nose – ask me again. I’ll answer you then.”

  I am content.

  And just like that, I find my wife.

  On the Lagoon front.

  I Dare Call Her Mother

  You see, I really hated my mum.

  For the earlier years of my life anyway.

  She was always beating me. Always making me wash plates and pots. Always making me sweep the entire house and then wash the curtains. And me, barely twelve!

  Also – she left me by myself most nights. She was hardly at home after seven in the evening; I was usually by myself – and she insisted that I didn’t go out.

  Imagine. I thought she was just wicked till an incident happened that completely changed my mind.

  When I was in J.S 3, there was this girl at school. Her name was Banke.

  Banke was a brilliant student, tall, strong and finely made. She was the school runner and junior sports captain. Add that to the fact that she was the principal’s favorite and completely spoilt; and you would understand why she was my enemy.

  Me, who could barely get anything right.

  She was rude and inconsiderate. She did anything to look good – and more often than not that involved using us; her classmates to shine. She particularly delighted in teasing Chioma, my school sweetheart. I bore the indignation and swallowed my ire best I could…till one day I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Chioma was just as brilliant; if not more so than Banke. But where Banke was very eloquent, Chioma was timid. Which was what endeared her to me. Honestly, I didn’t know words like ‘eloquent’ or ‘timid’ back then. No.

  My vocabulary was more expansive, containing words like ‘weed’ ‘video games’ ‘tete’ ‘kashi’ ‘opa eyin’ ‘kelegbe’ and other related street slangs. I couldn’t much figure out Pythagoras – wetin consaign me with ‘mean median and mode’?

  All that na grammar.

  It wasn’t like I wasn’t smart; I just did not like school. I was much more street-smarter than most of my t
eachers. In fact, I once saved one young sexy teacher; Auntie Edna from rape – but that came much later.

  Now I was in J.S 3 and my biggest problem was Banke and the coming junior WAEC exams. Chioma promised to teach me whatever I needed to know – and that, coupled with the two growths that seemed to be growing out of her chest made me want to kill Banke.

  Which eventually, I nearly did.

  One afternoon we had just finished break and I was walking back to the class with my best friend back then; Aliu, when the wind seemed to carry a scream our way.

  It was coming from class.

  We started running, I faster than Aliu because I thought I recognized the voice. When I got to the class, I was shocked. Banke had Chioma on her knees in front of the class eating custard from a bucket.

  Whatever gave her that idea I never bothered to ask.