As you stood at the bus stop at Maryland downtown, hand in hand with Remi, the city lights twinkling like diamonds in the evening sky, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the world’s unending, never–meeting parallel lines.

This street holds all the memories of your childhood. St Peter’s Ave, Maryland downtown. Those days, from your apartment on the second story, you used to see all those eager faces, praying for NEPA to bring light. You used to hear those voices in the dimly lit streets at night. Voices filled with excitement and laughter. The joy that erupted in the neighborhood when NEPA finally brought light after a long day without power. On such nights, it usually lasted till dawn. The electricity distribution company was at one time NEPA, then PHCN, then so many absurd names after. Your father used to joke that whoever was in charge liked to rename the power holding company every three market days.

The nostalgia that clouds your thoughts as you stand there at the bus stop, fills your head with memories, like picture collages. Smiling faces on detergent sachets. Chocolate advertisements on the TV. Exciting quiz gameshows every Friday night. Filled bellies. Empty plates. Leftovers on good nights. Like the end of the month. You ate well on good nights. The sitting room filled with the aroma of fish stew. Your eyes glued to the TV. Parents delved in hushed gossips that you, the children didn’t even care for. And on nights when your father was away at work, you and Bisola would sit on little stools in the kitchen. Eyes glittering with reflection of the kerosene lantern close to the sink. Mother made you run little errands, like compensation for being there with her. “Kunle, help me pass that bowl. Bisola, bring my slippers. My feet will burn if I dare hold this pot with them bare.” But it made you and Bisola happy that you were involved in the cooking somehow. And in no time, the fluffs of elubo would turn into smooth brown pasty amala.

“What was your childhood like here?” Remi asks, tugging at your sleeve excitedly. You inhale deeply as you look around, and stroke your furrowed brow. “It was almost perfect.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. What was yours like?” you ask quickly, trying to avoid having to explain why your childhood was cut short.
But she insists, “I’ve told you about my childhood several times, but sure, feel free to ask me again when we’re in the neighborhood I grew up in.” And with the funniest smirk on her face, she asks persuasively again, “Almost perfect?”
You smile, and pick a strand of hair off her face, “My childhood was perfect until my Father died”
“Aww, how old were you then?” she asked, her hand squeezing yours tightly.
“I was eight.” You feel embarrassed by her empathetic tone and glance. “It’s nothing. I was not alone,” you add.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. It’s just surprising, you speak about your dad a lot, I thought you had grown up a bit before his demise. So those stories, they were passed down to you, right? Because there’s no way you can remember all those things from that age” That question fills your head with memories again, like collage of pictures.

Black clothes. A door with so many slippers. A house filled with people. People you had never seen. And the ones you saw only during holidays. The ones you only saw in school. The ones you saw in the streets, and in church. All in your house. Downcast faces. Clicking of tongues and shaking of heads. Heavy sighs. Sweeping of feet and knees knocking in shock. Or perhaps in fright. You remember seeing some of them a month after. When the crowd had finally reduced, a pair of slippers at a time. From people you saw in the street and in church, to people you only saw during the holidays, to the ones you only saw at home. Then, it was just you, mother and your sister. And a year after, you remember walking to the pulpit in church. During thanksgiving and remembrance. Your mother’s warm hands clasping yours and your sister’s. Your head buried in thought as if reality was a mirror tied to your waist, wallowing in self-pity. Then the shared tears in the car. And more shared tears at home. And more over the years.

“My memory is sharper than you think. Of course, I remember them all. Everything. Those stories, we retell at home. Not because anyone forgot, but to relive the moments, as if it were a loop,” you answer. Remi nods as though she truly understands, but you know she probably doesn’t.
“Yet you forget your own birthday sometimes.” You both burst into laughter. You haven’t told her that your visa has been approved. It’s been four days, but every time that you decide to tell her, the words harden in your throat like a lump of fufu, and you swallow, leaving the words unsaid.

You remember meeting Remi, just like yesterday. Instant dislike. Then as days turned into weeks; stolen glances, your hand brushing against her thighs briefly in class. Then slow soft caresses. The table, a sanctuary for your little sins. Then meeting at night, in empty classrooms on the top floor of a close faculty building. The view, beautiful from way up. One of those days, staring down at all those little lights, and then back at her. You kissed her, but not deeply. You met again in places like that. And kissed again, and again, and sometimes even went a bit further. But you managed to restrain from the part you both wanted the most. It is one of those things you left a mystery. A loose end. An unfinished work of art.

You are friends. Friends today. Lovers tomorrow. Life is life.

***

Just yesterday, you were out with the boys, drinking, smoking, and arguing over a football game until nightfall. At dinner, you refrained from speaking too much, or looking anyone in the eyes, because your nephew and sister who were also sitting at the table didn’t know that you smoke. Drinking, they wouldn’t mind, but smoking? That’s one vice you don’t think they could condone. Remi was slumped on the couch, fast asleep, a bottle of vodka hanging off her hand. She most likely slept tipsy. You take the bottle from her so it wouldn’t fall off her already loosening grip. Beside her was a brown envelope. You take a look at it, and it’s the rejection mail from MIT. It was sent as an email, so you worried that she went all the way to print it and put it in an envelope. Perhaps that was her way of dealing with the rejection, and the alcohol too. You cast a worried look at her, then at Bisola, you both heave a sigh and you take the envelope and the vodka bottle away.

Your nephew, Temisan, fumbled the remote control to find a cartoon channel on the cable network. Sometimes, you worried that he is too naive, or too soft for this city, although he seemed just fine. But this city breaks everyone sooner or later, that’s what it does. Mischief was the order of the day in your teenage years. When you were his age, you were already lighting rolled papers from your note books, like huge cigarettes. Not the tiny ones that smell just like your funny uncle — laughter full of mischief, a wry smile and bloodshot eyes. Your eyes didn’t look like that with the rolled paper from your notebooks. But they did when you smoked your first grass. Lit up matches. White rizzla. Brown grass. Clouds of intoxicating smoke in the air. The way you passed it reminded you of a relay race. Run. Run. Pass the baton. Puff. Puff. Pass the kpo. Then, your eyes looked just like your uncle’s. And there was the wry smile too. Your laughter, loud and full of mischief, and your sense of humour severely heightened. You and your friends kind of got it then.

But it made sense that Temisan is not like that. Even in your own generation, you were the black sheep of the family. At least, the only obvious one. You’re still the obvious black sheep of your generation in your family. Of course, there are other black sheep, and you recognize each other. But they seemed to have always done a good job at camouflaging the colour of their wool. Four years ago, in the heat of summer, you were the topic of an impromptu family meeting. You had called your aunt a hypocrite on the family social media group, and Olori-Ebi, the eldest man in the family, called an impromptu family meeting so that you would come and explain to your aunt and the whole family what the word meant. Your cousins and some friends who knew her shared the same opinion. So, when the group chat is restricted to admin only, perhaps in a bid to avoid whatever was to follow, your cousins texted you directly to commend your willingness to say the truth without sugarcoating, describing her with even worse adjectives.

You sat there, and read aloud from your phone, the Oxford Dictionary definition of the word ‘Hypocrite’ and afterwards, you look to her direction and ask, “Aunty Gbemisola, do you understand now how you’re a hypocrite.” That day must have added the final tarnish to your already stained image.
“You must be very stupid for that!” Olori-Ebi exclaimed, every other person in the room still at a loss for words. Your mother tied the hem of her wrapper as she walked hurriedly towards you and pinched your ears, tugging them violently.
“You foolish boy! Do you not get tired of being the cause of chaos and wahala all the time? Answer me!” she demanded, refusing to let go of your hurting ears. The other elders in the family pulled her away from you. But you looked indifferent to the chaos you had just orchestrated.

That night, you struggled to stay awake as you listened to your mother’s advice. You and your mother usually had deep conversations. Conversations on the veranda. Then when you were away at university, conversations on the phone. And a few times, conversations in private. Away from the sharp ears of your niece who, despite always appearing glued to the television screen, always had her ears trying to catch every hushed word. But this time, it was different. There were no clever jokes slipped between her proverbs and parables. There was no laughter. You hated it when she was this serious.
“Let me tell you, there are a thousand ways to tell a story. Each one unique in its own way. Yet in the end, it could be woven from the same experiences or same characters,” she said, swatting a mosquito on her thigh. As she observed the bloody remains on her palm, she asked, “Do you know what I’m driving at?”
I shake my head, “No Ma.”
“We are all walking storybooks, sometimes with the same characters and setting. But in your own story, you are the main character, and guess what? You have the artistic license to decide how you want your story to be told. It is up to you.” She stared at you as though from your facial expression she could tell whether you understood. You nodded to show that you did. She left you with a question before going to her room, and you wondered if it was rhetorical, or if how you lived from that moment was enough answer for her. “Kunle, how do you want your story to be told?”

You remained on the veranda for a while after she left. There are about 7 billion people in this world, you thought to yourself, that’s one hell of a library. Seven billion storybooks. Each one with a different main character.

***

While you wait for your Uber to arrive, a message pops on your screen as Remi helps herself with her bottle of vodka. You peer at the screen, squinting your eyes as you reduce the brightness. The sender is Mobola. You always find it difficult to decide what your fondest memory of her is. Perhaps, because there are too many, or maybe because the whole experience is. Those three weeks in youth service orientation camp were a blur of sweaty bodies in white round-neck and green khakis, drunken laughter, and intimate kisses in the backyard of your favorite bar.

One afternoon, while you were smoking bazz with your friends, waiting for pepper soup and cold pap with palmwine in hand, Ebube asked, “Do you think this thing you have with this girl will work after camp?”
You glanced sharply at him, puzzled, “Why do you ask?”
He reached for the small calabash of palmwine and took a sip before replying, “Nothing, really. It’s just that I’ve heard many things about camp love before coming here. And believe me, they say it never leaves camp. I’m just advising you to not catch feelings,” he added.
“Well, I’ve also heard of people that met in camp and got married. If they want it to work out and put in the effort, it’ll end well. Or not end at all,” you answered. You and Mobola have liked each other since the third day of camp. And until that conversation, your fondness of each other only grew stronger and passionate. However, you had not spoken to her about intent. What did you both intend to do to make it work outside camp? Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to discuss intent or define relationships when you were only having three hours of sleep a night, and bathing in the morning coolness of November harmattan.

Camp was like an imagery of a Fela song. Whistle. Horn. Soldiers. Man O’ War. Scatter. Corp members in disarray. But not you and your friends. You were still sweaty bodies, but not under the sun, nor in the rain. You were sweaty bodies in a bar with some of your soldier friends, drinking. All of them pretending as if you, their otondo friends, weren’t there. And with dusk came Mobola. Your hands on her fleshy hips. Bodies grinding against each other in the groove of social night music.

On the last day, reality dawning in that bus ride home, you smelled her hair while she slept, head leaning against your shoulder. It felt fucking good while it lasted, you told yourself. And it was true. Because when you returned to Lagos, her face faded away from your memories. But your memory is too sharp, so you still remembered her sometimes, but you did not give a shit anymore. And every once in a while, her message pops up like this — and you remember all the good times. The hiding from the soldiers that liked her but didn’t like you. The scent. The music. The grinding. The kissing. Her noticing the glint in your eyes and saying you’re high again. But you just let her messages stay on the notification bar for weeks. And then she fades out again.

***

Before you started considering that the land could truly be greener on the other side — green like the cover of the passport the immigration officer with the protruding belly despite his tight uniform handed over to you — you were determined to take your chances, fresh in the employment pool, full of energy and hope. You spent most of your days in either the waiting room of this establishment or that company. 9 am today. 2 pm tomorrow. Documents neatly arranged in a brown paper. Knotted tie and smoothly ironed trousers. Koin koin shoe. And with every, ‘We’ll get back to you’ here, and ‘Sorry, you have not been selected for the next interview’ there, you were gradually drained of all the energy and hope that you had in you.

Like a group of high school students, you and some other employment seekers laughed at the nation’s employment system after one of those interviews. Young graduate between age 25-30. 11 years’ experience required. You all laughed again. You were still young, but as the years went by, you stopped caring that you’re a graduate anymore. “Nothing beats entrepreneurship,” your friend Uche said one day after you ran into him at the mall, his wife smiling gracefully as she wiped snot off their son’s nose.

So, you started running your small startup business. You had the best thrift clothes. You enjoyed the little compliments from contented customers. Beaming smile on both of your faces. To tell the truth and let the devil be ashamed, you had the keenest sight for the most stylish thrift clothes in the market. Business was small and barely getting you by, but somehow, you always had so many blessings to count and name one by one, and you were grateful for that. For Remi. For your sister, Bisola. For Mother’s comforting presence. For your own story.

When you got that acceptance mail from the admissions office, Brixon University, you knew that your life was about to change forever. A fully sponsored scholarship from a top university in England. Life is full of so many bad days, but every once in a while, it presents pleasant surprises like this. And you know one when you see it. Love. Love is one of life’s most pleasant surprises. And when you found it, you were not even prepared, but you embraced it nevertheless, and it was whole, and true. The acceptance mail was another one of life’s pleasant surprises, but it brought with it a strange uncertainty to your mind.

There’s only one constant in this world, you think to yourself. Change. People change. Seasons change. Society changes. The distance between you and some of the people you have spent your whole life with changes too. Hence, the following Wednesday, after waiting for about an hour, you positioned your face steadily to get an almost perfect passport photograph in the visa applications office, but you had never been lucky with passport photographs.

Two weeks after, you said silent prayers as you waited to pick up your passport from the embassy. Hands clasped with your sister’s.

***

As your ride arrives, you open the door for Remi to get in the backseat and take the bottle of vodka from her. “Hey hey, you need to ease it down with the drinking. It’s only a rejection letter, not the apocalypse,” you warn as you wrap your denim jacket around her shoulders.
“Fuck that,” replied Remi, with a mischievous glaze in her eyes.

She’s a bit tipsy, but you decide that you will tell her about your visa status tonight. Perhaps she will dance in excitement, and you will smile through dinner too. But your head is filled with so many questions, yet you decide one thing — regardless of all your unanswered questions — to live in the moment, as if oblivious of the imminent change. Since the news of your visa status, you determined to live in the moment, to cherish every second of this fragile, fleeting beauty. You fix her hair at the mall. You follow her to church on Sunday. You go to the cinema, and go out to dinner after. And in the heat of pleasure, you hold her tightly, and want to taste every part of her. Your lips linger when you kiss. In everything, you are looking for the perfect collage for your gallery of memories. Moments that you will hold with you forever, no matter what happens.

Because soon, you will be parting people at the Muritala Muhammed Airport. Bodies clasped in warm embrace. Shared laughters and shed tears. Bisola will look at you, and you will see that she cannot hold back her tears. You will try to look elsewhere to avoid that emotional moment, but then you will notice that the most important people in your life are women, and there they are, wiping tears off their faces. You will not want this to be the last you see of them before leaving. So, you’ll crack a weird joke, yet they will laugh, their cheeks would still be wet with tears. You’ll embrace your mother one more time, and see that Remi seems to have all those questions in her head now, too. So, you’ll sit by her side and hold her hand. She’ll ask you why your hands are shaking, but instead of saying anything, you will pull her closer and inhale deeply to etch the memory of her fragrance in your head, then you’ll press your lips to her forehead. The gate agent’s voice over the local microphone will soon announce the final boarding instructions.

These collages of moments that make up your gallery of memories will always be your map home. You have a feeling that it is not as small of a world as you used to think. Because today you could be holding hands with your life’s most pleasant surprise, walking the streets of Maryland downtown — and it’ll seem unending. Tomorrow, however, you could be faces on your phone screens, and distorted voices from different ends of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Luke Witter on Unsplash