1. Between Plates and Pillows
1. Between Plates and Pillows
Yearning. It’s a Friday evening. A bitter, sweet, Friday evening. Sweet? Yeah, I get to go home to family, happy faces of my people; I’m sure they miss me, much as I do them. Bitter … Now how do I begin to talk about this part?
1. Between Plates and Pillows
I’m seeing family soon, I should have only one emotion outside stress and strain … While I’m coming home to them, it’s starting to feel like I’m heading to someone else's house, returning to someone else’s family and that’s where the wave of sadness begins … I should be heading home to My Own … My Place, My Woman, My Space, My Person.
1. Between Plates and Pillows
My Uber driver picks me up in a White Toyota Matrix, right outside the memorable gates of my father’s alma mater … “The pen is mightier than the sword”… his slogan used to read … UNILAG. The seat belt clicks and already my pulse thrums … Emptiness … I taste emptiness as my soul yearns for the unfamiliar taste of tomorrow’s supper … cooked by My Woman. The memory of her meals; I have not. Joker ! The self loathing word springs from within my soul as I quench my thirst with Eva water … Ohh Chim; Joker ! I curse at myself once more …
1. Between Plates and Pillows
I sit in silence, almost all ride home … As though fate is without a sense of irony, the driver makes a funny case of loneliness four curbs to the house … “As man dey close for the day, shebi him suppose go meet him pim pim, make dem love up run one or two this Friday night” … I gulped in agreement; more so in disbelief of this event taking place in real time … How did this man just spit his intrusive thoughts and they’re everything in my own thoughts … The simple needs of a man … It’s ubiquitous isn’t it?
1. Between Plates and Pillows
The longing for a lone silhouette against an amber glow, seen on the kitchen window… Sharp tang of vinegar on roasted greens and the soft hum of her song washing over the room … craving it like breath. Breathing in the night air and the faint whiff of fresh basil from her windowsill, accompanied by a trace of his own sweat after 5 consecutive fourteen hour work days. Oh; to just close your eyes and reach for the warmth you left behind. The more I age, the more I want distance from a plethora of women … Just one woman will do … My Own, Her Own Man. Craving my own rituals, our own rituals … It’s gut wrenching …
1. Between Plates and Pillows
We’re home … Ahh yes, I’m at my; his house again … Seeing my; his family again … Out of the car and standing at the entrance; each passing second stretches, as if the street itself conspires to slow my footsteps. I’m imagining the plank of our; mine and my woman’s wooden table, its grain rough beneath my palm … A thousand worlds do not begin to cover the possible timelines running through my head … The sound of her happy feet when she notices that I’ve walked through the door, that I’m home, in her arms, her bosom or the way her laughter bends shadows into gentle arcs across the wall.
1. Between Plates and Pillows
“Brother Sam, Sam …” … Familiar sounds fade back into my consciousness … I must’ve spent some minutes finding the right path on how to meet her, like Doctor Strange in that movie … End Game, is it? Little did I know I’ve been standing long enough for my little cousin to spot me and happily waltz my way … Not the sound of happy feet I want, but I guess it will do. Hey my darling, how are you and how was your day; I ask as she takes my bag and we walk towards my flat.