Ways of Remembering

I had a good dream today. It put me in a good mood. I smiled and chuckled all day. In fact, there’s still some leftover glint in my eyes even though it’s been hours since I first open them to the waking world. It’s funny ’cause I woke up doubting, not sure that I had actually been asleep. But the dream was there as proof. Surely, I couldn’t have dreamt without having slept? Naturally, I went about my daily routine: washing my body, sipping tea, reading, taking notes, wolfing down sandwiches, drinking coffee, reading some more, waving the librarian goodnight, and walking home in the dark. Through all these, I kept thinking about the dream not because I could remember the smallest bit but because, strangely enough, thoughts of the dream brought up  images of my childhood days.

A band of fruit thieves standing around a cashew tree and looking intently at a lonely cashew at the very top. The fruit is too high to reach by climbing. So they are poised to pluck the one fruit using their shoes as projectiles. I am the one waiting at the foot of the tree, hands stretched out to catch the fruit when it fell. 

Little dark girls, bony and naked, bathing at the public tap. I can’t hear them laughing because they are frozen. These images, by the way, were merely flashing photo-like in my head. Or maybe it’s because I am the girl who is not laughing, whose eyes are shut tightly from soap sting. 

A boy’s face. His name is Sunday.

I was seven at the time and believed I had fallen in love with Sunday, or rather, with his face. I had little trouble getting used to seeing and conversing with the face only. A cute sad face. The challenge was keeping the rest out of view. The rest of him was scaly and fell all over in tiny flakes. The rest of him was also gangly. And then there were knee caps as big as oranges.  When he stretched out his hand, it made a V shape. Something to do with his elbow never quite healing properly after a dislocation. I was convinced that these elbows that flicked V-wise were the most unattractive thing in the world. I was often rattled to the point of tearful disgust whenever he paraded the deformity in front of the other children, encouraged by the cries of surprise, insults, and admiration.

Oh well, it’s not like I miss home or like these images are meant to substitute the real thing.  After all, is home not merely the traces of an unremembered dream?

Tags: , ,

I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

2 Responses to “Ways of Remembering” Subscribe

  1. Suzanne 2012/02/07 at 11:03 #

    You write so beautifully. I like.

  2. Ainehi Edoro 2012/02/09 at 04:29 #

    Thanks Suzanne!

Leave a Reply

I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Archives

The 2017 Writivism Short Story Prize Goes to Nigeria’s Munachim Amah

13173450_1619200638400857_2469687830281826926_o

The Writivism Short Story Prize has gone to Nigeria’s Munachim Amah. He won for his short story, “Stolen Pieces.” He will […]

First Photos from the 2017 Writivism Festival

20819345_1994689334093219_6214976035878503585_o

The 2017 Writivism Festival just wrapped up in Kampala. It was held from 17 to 20 August. An initiative of […]

The Fall of the Gods | Chapter 1: ọ̀kan | Anthony Azekwoh | #TFOG

the fall of the gods (1)

  Ẹni tó ńbẹ̀rù àti ṣubú, àti dìde á nira fún un. Whoever is scared of falling, would find it […]

Wana Udobang’s Sophomore Poetry Album is a Sonic Book of Memories

wana udobang in memory of forgetting

Wana Udobang, popularly known as WanaWana, is no stranger to the Brittle Paper community. We’ve read her poetry, enjoyed her […]

Opportunity for African Writers | Submit to The Bare Life Review

barelife review

The Bare Life Review is a biannual literary journal that gives publishing opportunity exclusively to immigrant and refugee authors. They are […]

I Hear a Few More Things When Bob Dylan Says ‘a Hard Rain’s a-gonna Fall’ | Chisom Okafor | Poetry

33130808452_c617d33eb3_o

My father plays a song aloud on Sundays, that begins with ‘Where’ve you been my blue-eyed girl?’ We scream on […]