Longing
Another missed call from my grandmother this night. I do not believe that I am interested in phone calls. In fact, on some days, I struggled with anything more than a ten-minute call except for Emi. My grandmother calls me the most, and, even though I detested it, I have come to acclimatise myself to it.
For the sake of avoiding disturbances and annoying notifications, I keep my phone on vibration, and by doing so, it is much easier for me to be unaware of or intentionally discard some calls. The reasons for this are simple: I do not know. But since taciturnity can sometimes be akin to inner peace, I have never been bothered to probe further.
People leave us, and our hearts ache. I have always considered myself someone with a hardened heart. I do not miss people, I do not shed tears, I do not call, and I do not become free with visitors. However, the reasons for this are not as easy as they were as a result of my childhood experiences. People leave you behind, and a fraction of your heart goes with them. You begin to lurk in the silence that comes from the reverberation of their presence, someone will pass you by, and a scent will spark a memory; the house suddenly becomes bigger, and your heart — feels like it is going to burst open. Sometimes it does — in uncontrollable tears—but for me, I have torn through these moments, and now, I have become a master of a hardened heart: tears do not show, my heart does not ache, and memories are barely relieved. Sometimes, I think it’s nothing serious, perhaps I have become more mature.
It is 5:12 PM on Saturday, April 1, 2023. I silently sat on our gold-fabric three-seater, exhausted: from the stress of leading a programme, from the waiting of Emi’s message, from the loneliness that comes from being silent. Thirty minutes earlier, I had spoken with Daddy, and he had confirmed their arrival at their destination. My heart should be glad, one would think — but as I sat on that three-seater, exhausted, I wished there was someone around to talk to. There was someone to talk to about the programme, about the fact that I did not eat anything till 4 PM, about the Ṣàngó presentation and my fears, about my paper presentation and the accolades that followed, about those I met at the event, about my fears of people not turning up, about the burnt speaker chord, and about the fact that I forgot my belt at home while I checked my phone in between for Emi’s message.
But everywhere was quiet. I could hear a woman spitting wood for cooking, a child crying, a beating heart, and a rumbling stomach. There were no cries of a girl agitating for the remote control, no sound of SpongeBob SquarePants, and no Orlando Owoh blasting from an HP laptop—just silence embedded in loneliness.
I sauntered to my room, locked the doors, and lay on my bed, naked. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I should be in church.
The first instance I became conscious of daylight, I forgot that it was Sunday. Stress had set in so much that I did not stand up from bed till past 12 PM. I imagined my sisters clamouring for who would hold the remote for the DSTV, another crying for a slice of bread, another silently rummaging through the packed luggage. I imagined my father cautioning them so loudly that I think everyone in the neighbourhood hears him. But right at that moment, the only sound I could hear was the cacophony of speakers praising God and preaching the end times simultaneously. I flickered my phone on, and nothing yet from Emi. I slept again.
When you stay alone, hunger lives in abundance. I suddenly became too lazy to cook, I never opened my laptop, I still have unreplied messages, there were messages on the family group from my aunties congratulating me for delivering a paper on cultural neocolonialism; but as I lay on my bed naked and facing upward, I began the ritual of counting the lines of my asbestos—1, 2, 3, 4...
Falling asleep has never been hard since I passed the phase of my insomnia. I can just close my eyes, imagine a lake, and drift off. Sometimes, on days I can't find sleep, I imagine a waterfall the way the soothing voice of that woman describes it. This afternoon, I did not imagine anything; I just counted asbestos and went to sleep.
At 5 PM, I am on my way to the Qubes Restaurant to get something to eat. While I walked to the restaurant, I put a call through to my father, and he said he was on the road. The truth is, one does not know how much silence a mouth can hold until it is tested by loneliness.
Unlike before, my Monday did not start with the thought of rice or spaghetti, but rather with a race to meet up with the 7 AM class. I am getting to terms with this silence and this morning, to break this loneliness, I played Tonight by John Legend, and again, I think of Emi.
The mind goes where the heart stays. I had hardly finished my class on Monday morning when I ran back home. My head ached, my vision was blurred, and my stomach rumbled loudly. I ordered a ride, and in a few minutes, I am home—not alone now, but in the company of a friend. And that night, Emi broke the silence, and we talked into the night, grudgingly. There’s an ache of longing for a voice, a closure, someone, anything but this night—I can feel the heat.
Two weeks after Saturday, April 1, 2023, I will be home alone again, lying on my bed naked. I would sleep off before calling, and Emi wouldn’t be pleased this time. My mother would send me VNs she was sure I would not listen to; my father’s message would still lie unattended in my inbox; I would have spoken with my grandmother about my deteriorating health and the feelings of death; I would have watched the videos of my sisters dancing to Cough by Kizz Daniel; I would have had my friends over for an Easter catch up; I would have imagined crying myself to sleep; I would have dreamt of Emi coming back; I would have begun to get comfortable with loneliness; and I would have spoken to my father about the responsibilities that come with loneliness; but as I flickered my phone on tonight, 1 AM, I saw Emi’s message and another missed call from my Grandmother again.
