You're
on your way to work when the bike man reaches the stretch of road before the
beach. You've always thought about doing this, so you tell him to stop. And you
get down and climb one of the steps leading up to the beach shore.
A few years ago, the state government had pushed back the shore. Before then, it often flooded
the road and the buildings close by. At the top of the stairs, a gruff, omo-ita
looking guy tells you an entry ticket is N200. It is morning.
You have a N200 note in your back
pocket but you reach into your wallet instead and hand him a N1,000
note. You have gambled right. He doesn't have change. He asks
his red-eyed fellows to break the money for him. They don’t have change too. It's not yet 10am. You get a free pass in. You’re sure the money goes to their ogogoro and not the state anyway. You climb some rocks
and the concrete barriers that are in place. You are
careful. You have a history of falling and these jagged slabs could injure you
badly. A man comes and tells you they have fish. Beer. Who drinks beer at 10am? You think maybe you
should. He walks ahead of you to the shore. There are umbrellas and
plastic chairs dotting the shore. You want to sit on the sand though, and you
tell him this and ask if there's a part of the shore that is clean enough
for you to sit and read. He tells you it is better for you to sit under a tent.
For security reasons, he says. You nod. You have your laptop in your
bag. It has the past 7 years of your work and life. You never back things up.
You accept his offer of a plastic chair and wonder how much he plans to bill
you when you're about to leave. You type this memo. After that, you will pick up Farad and continue reading it. The
author had given you a copy to give to your friend. You
had started reading it on the bus this morning. A line had caught
your attention. To remind you that you have to put the pieces of your
manuscript together. And that you have to put the
pieces of your relationship together.
You sit and read for a few hours. People come
and go. Men. The smell of igbo wafts around you. subtly teasing. You have
always liked the smell of cigarette and weed. You call him and he comes. You go out to meet him. As
the red-eyed fellows ask him to pay his N200, they say in Yoruba that you're both bookish. You're holding Farad. He's holding Open City. You both ignore them. You both sit and stare at the sea,
silent. There are things you're thinking. Things you don't want to say. You sit
silent and think about drowning. You don't tell him that... He
puts his leg on the table. Sand drops from his shoe unto it. You stare at the
sand thinking about how the wind will soon blow it away. How the wind might
someday blow your frailness away. He says, sorry. You ask him why he is
apologising to you. He says he saw you staring at the sand and thought it
annoyed you. You say no, it's nothing. You raise your gaze to the waves. He makes a
wisecrack about how you poets always describe it as crashing. You want to tell
him you're not a poet. You also want to tell him you'd been thinking about the
crashing before he came. You don't really think waves crash, at least not these
ones. These waters swell, till they can no more, then rise and with frayed edges, curve, and then dissolve into foam. And again. He
starts singing. He has a lovely voice. He teases you about getting free music... You
feel the sand beneath your feet beat like a heart before you see the flash of
hooves go by. He says you should both ride. You say the horse might go into the water. You're
thinking about drowning again. You wonder what he'd do if you walked into the
water till you were no more. You wonder if your soul would meet Olokun. You
wonder why you're wondering such. Why do you want to drown? Shock value? Or
the longing
for nothingness? You keep staring at the sea. He
says random things. You reply. There are smiles. Little ones... You
can't remember what started the current fight. Actually you can. But in the books and movies
they always say they can’t remember what started their fights. You hate your
memory. You want to unclench it and let things go. It remains clenched tight,
like in an epileptic fit. It will be your undoing. A boy passes by with a sieve full of fish. He beckons on the boy. He stares at the
fish with curiosity. You stare at him staring at it. The boy says he is going to dry and sell them. He says they're called eja
olokun. Something inside you jerks. You don't really understand your fascination with Olokun of all the gods, but it's always been there. You've even put her
in one of your stories. You tell him to come closer. You pick one of the fish
out of the sieve. It is silver. He tells you they shine in the sun. You raise one and tilt it to the sun.
It glints. You smile and stare at its dead eyes. You think how steps keep
taking you closer to Olokun. You know you need to meet this god. A man walks by
with beads. You like some of them but you don't buy any. You dismiss him with a smile. You stare at the sea again. You think that someone might try to save you if you were drowning. The thought keeps you glued to your seat.
