Nescafé Conversations
Life comes at you so fast that the moment you think you have got your hands on it together like the way a hand claps around the butt, it slips from you and everything crumbles. From the last time, I realised that healing is a phase necessary for every pain; it comes differently — still, it is important. For what is pain when joy is abundant? When people happen to you — for sadness, you — a wingless angel, do not keep languishing in pain of what has already slipped away rather revel in joy. The thought of writing this essay did not come out of pain but of longingness, of memories, of twenty kids who could not wait for twenty years before they stopped playing rather they went silent after three years.
Distance creates a chasm that never existed and sometimes it reveals the fallibility of friendship. While in school, you think you have a best friend because you talk often but once you step out of the school, you realise that you have been friends only because you see each other every day. Conversations dwindle because binding subjects changed. Questions move from, “will you be in school today” to “how is life fairing to you” and in extreme cases, there will be no conversation at all.
As this Bus passes by the Chapel of Resurrection at the University of Ibadan, I am drawn to some kept memories, some late-night conversations, laughter and music, love and jests, and incessant philosophical questions I have shared with some people I do and do not know during my phase of 100L second semester to 200L. It was a pleasure to have experienced living in this period.
Every evening, after my classes, I sit at the Nescafé (which I love to pronounce as Nes-Cah-Feh) garden and listen to the bustle of students lamenting either about prolonged classes, their wretched life of studentship, a lost love, a movie, a — sometimes I fake a smile in response of greetings while I quickly think of discarding of the greeter. Life was simple in that phase. I had a lover too but we never had our Nescafé conversation except once, to settle our childish skirmish.
The earliest episodes of my Nescafé conversations were with Tunmise. We would stay back at the faculty after our class in the evening and discuss poetry. On days we steered off poetry, she would tell me about other poets who were crushing on her. It was a situational irony because my name was meant to be part of the list but rather I sat down there, listening to her speaking about these guys and myself, gutted with my inability of expressions, and turned to an advisor. When ‘Mobewaji came, Tunmise and I stopped, then she transferred to Law and Nescafé became quiet.
The birds still chipped. Intermittent fruits still fall from the two big trees. Students still moan about their hardship but the absence of Tunmise changed everything until one evening Charles stayed. Our conversation kicked off the abysmal nature of Nigeria’s lifestyle. We discussed the essence of History as a course, reminisced various historical moments as we’ve read, and shared opinions on how Nigeria can be great and left.
Not long after, Gbolahan began to join us. With him, the conversation tilted more toward Pan-Africanism. Each evening comes with a different perspective. I would read more actors of African history so that the conversation might be longer. While the aims were achieved, it came from a place of loneliness because by this time, ‘Mobewaji and I had parted and these conversations were solitude for me. Despite the intent of the conversations, I learned so much about other subjects in African history hitherto unknown. Can we then claim that the presence of selfish interest can impede knowledge?
One of the nights I loved most was the one with the mystery lady. She came with her man — supposedly, sat opposite me, and began to talk about books. Hidden in the secret of darkness, I listened to them while they contested their best authors. Suddenly the lady mentioned my best author and strengthened by the power of darkness, I interjected, “Dan Brown is a great writer!” She screamed in affirmation and asked if I had read Origin. We discussed extensively on Robert Langdon and shared insights on Origin, Lost Symbol, and Angels and Demons. I still reminisce about that night because it was the night that I knew who Jeffery Archer was and the brilliance in the Path of Glory. I left them behind, never spoke beyond books, filled with eagerness, I went straight home to read about George Mallory.
Slowly, Nescafé conversations began to dwindle as the exam approached and Fiyinfoluwa entered the limelight. I shortened my stay-backs at this garden and hung out more with the person in whose arms I found brief comfort. Quietly, silence crept to my spot and Nescafé conversations dwindled into bits now shattered as memories.
