‘Here’ and ‘There’

Photo reused from BrittlePaper.com

--‘Here’--

I shouldn’t be writing this. I shouldn’t be writing anything now. Lately, I have just been comfortable sticking to reading and reviewing when I must. I just can’t write. Or simply put, I can’t write from a vacuum. And my mind is so troubled right now. Writing anything from it might be spewing out boredom. But I am moved to doing this. I don’t why. I don’t how. Please, don’t ask me. I don’t want to know. Not that writing is spirit moving anyway. At least, not for me. I just write whenever I think there is anything sensible I may contribute to a discourse; a trend; a subject. Just to whatever catches my fancy. I am almost always never inspired to write. The only thing that inspires one here is shit. Maybe that’s why ‘here’ is called Nigeria. And I hate shit.

‘Here’, for me now, is where government has declared itself poor on education. Every day, I wake up, pray (pray hard), sip tea, scratch my butt until blood drops, mull over my blogs, meander between social networks and join in on any discussion, however lousy. That’s my regimen to survival, the most trustworthy. You once wondered what boredom can do. Now you know.

I am affected by the strike. An ASUU strike that has become normal, one we are long inured to. ‘Here’; where some academic body is on a walkout and the monthly pay still stays. Old news. I know. My brother had a taste of this, my sister too, and most likely (if I don’t get filthy rich soon), my children will join in on the ridiculous circle. That’s a stale issue anyway. We shouldn’t be bothered. Nothing bothers you when rot doesn’t smell to you anymore.

 ‘Here’.

I am new to this. I grow hard; grow hard of the many pains when solutions seem few. I shrivel; shrivel instantly when I know my desires wouldn’t be met, when I know there is no way where I seek a place. I climax; climax nonetheless, in frustration. Climaxing you do when your solutions are few, when there is no place where you seek a way. I shouldn’t have started this. Now I regret. But I want to continue. There just must be a way, a place, somebody I can put my thrusts into. My mattress is rumpled but only one sleeps on it. My mattress is wet but I don’t piss in my sleep. I now know why porn and alcohol sell well. My friend just started trading in them. He’s blossoming. His ATM card is smiling back at him. 

Every day when I sleep, I see porn in my head. When I am awake, I smell alcohol in the street, even in someone I know, in a person I have always known, for a long time. ‘Here’ is full of shit, of porn, of alcohol. Today, I must win a soul for Christ, I am told. I am expected to.

--‘There’--

I go to them always for jobs, they scorn me. They ask what if ASUU calls the strike off, would I still stay? I look bland, blank, stupid, I am unsure. I swear to them that ASUU will still be at for months and I will stay well, for some time. Nonetheless, I must leave; I must continue school when it stops, when it is called off. I am stupid; I am not qualified; I must leave; I am not ready. They tell me those in successive stutters. ‘There’ and then, I curse school. I want money instead. Tell me how to make one. But I must continue school. Know that.

My Christmas and the Boredom

I could quite take my memory back to the Christmas of 2009. The unusual thing that happened was that I never celebrated the birth of Jesus at the church with other saints. I thought this would come as a relief of the activities that got me sapped at the Christmas Eve service a day before. I never thought my staying at home portended more preposterous culinary activities {don't mind my grammar, I'm just trying to let words out quickly} that goes along with making the dining part of Christmas well. At the end of it all, when I was reliving the activities that characterised that day; all I could pinpoint to have done were that I helped out in the kitchen; 'murdering' some chickens and sending few texts to friends to extend the pleasantry of the season.

I never wanted that occurrences of last Christmas that got most of my time wasted on frivolities (save the season greeting that I sent to friends and loved ones) to catch up with me this Christmas again. I knew if it were to come this time around, it would come through my family. What I mean is this; the proposal of unnecessary activities of Christmas will come from them, in this case my mom. It would start like this: my mom will wake up on the morning of 25^th and tell everyone what our activities are going to be on to make the day special for guests and us. So, before that day came, I was prepared I was going to make this Christmas a special moment for myself only {don't tell me I'm selfish!}.

Viola! Lacasera! To my opportunity, my family's Chritmas celebration took a different turn. It was to be celebrated at our hometown with my grandparents. My excuse was good and did the spin! I told my family I wouldn't join the train to the village because I had preparation to do to sit for my school's exam {I had to palm them off with that. Don't blame me…}. It was the excuse, and it worked well. Events afterwards, started the kind of Christmas I've always longed to have. A Christmas that gives you the total authority to go to the kitchen when you want to, do the laundry when your dump-basket for clothes is full, invite friends over if you are lonely or go under cover and disappear from everyone's radar when you want to connect with you inner being. I had the times jealously all to myself alone at home. However, those moments weren't without some hitches and downtimes that made me to think if that kind of Christmas was what I had really always pinned for.

These were my moments: I woke up almost late for the morning Christmas mass on the 25^th because I facebooked into the deep morning of Christmas the day before {the strength against that habit is what is going to come first on my New Year's Resolution List}, on the 24^th, wishing virtual friends a wonderful time with Christmas and chatting up some about how they would mark the Christmas. I got to the church and I was happy and grateful to God for that wonderful day He sent His Son, the saviour, to us. I rolled my waist during the praise section as if it was no man's business. The lead-singer led the praise on as if her last breath depended on it. The period the lead singer started over stressing the tunes of the songs longer than usual with her voice, just because she had to impress herself with her musical talent, was the very time my boredom started.

Knowing that there won't be chicken to tear up on my plates and bones to crush that morning when I got home, I settled for roasted small chops of dodo plantain as meat on my badly boiled watery and marshy rice. Na Niger we dey now Electricity was cut off as if the blackout was ordered against my street and I had to rely on my 3-hour battery to social network on the internet; I heard a warning beep thrice before my lappi's laptop screen went dark. I read some lines from an already read novel to while away the boredom a little time into the night when I would be on my bed thanking God for the memorable Christmas. That technique got me nowhere pass loneliness some meters. By this time, my eye-lashes were itchy and my pupils were almost closing my viewing gates….

 

 *****                

Tun… tun… tun… I beeped Bolanle up to come over. I told her I was the only one at home. Bola is our neighbour's daughter that newly moved in some months' ago. I had told her about my plan for Christmas. I assured her if my plan sailed through to stay at home all through the Christmas, I would have her invited over. Though, I later wavered on this plan when my pastor preached strongly about morality instead of the usual birth of Jesus kind of sermon. It happened that I came out for the altar call and my previous plan with Bola changed; now the rest became 'itan'. But with the boredom I had to endure at home all alone, the devil {not my lustful desire} was determined to get my heart again.

Clothes and pants were now on the floor. Some frenzy kicks upwards and downwards and few suppressed groans later on the 'three-seater' couch in our sitting room. Never actually knew what happened. Bola slammed the door angrily as she stormed out. On the 26^th, she called and told me I had tempted her to doing what she wouldn't have done if she were herself the day before {need I mention she gave me the electric tickle to initialise the real show when I sighted her almost-naked breasts through her to revealing cleavage?]. She said her mother had also got to know what happened that night when she sobbed into her flat with blood-stained skirt after she banged the door on me.

My family are coming back this Tuesday. I don't think I would be that proud son again. I have just turned a girl at the next flat of my neighbourhood to a real woman. My Christmas was a moment that would change everything in my life so suddenly. My mom's kind perception of Mama Bola might change when she receives a hot welcome from Bola's mom on Tuesday.

*****

 

Still snoring…

I woke up drained in bubbles of afternoon sweats moments later… That; a dream? What a Christmas it was… A dream contrary to what Christmas supposes to be. Shouldn't I be dreaming of me and Santa Claus in snowfalls on his way to Rome?

 

For all those who remembered to send texts, pokes and facebook wall/inbox messages; I love you! Thanks Myne, your text was heartily received. A great gift this is: I also got a call of almost thirteen minutes from a fellow blogger, Gretel. Thanks Gretel, you made my day with that call.