Thursday, February 25, 2016
The Methodist
Part 2
This is not a love story. Well, not the kind you’re used to anyway (every story is a love story). but this is not a conventional love story. No, this is not about Chaney and our heroine. He won’t leave his wife to come back to her in the end, and they won’t meet sometime in the future to have a sordid affair.
Our heroine will fall in love again though. And though not in the way you expect, it will be the way that matters most, with the one who she should have fallen in love with a long time ago. The one whom, if she treats right, will never leave her.
Our heroine falls into fitful sleep at 4 a.m. after tossing and turning for hours. She’s lying on a students mattress she brought along with her from her mother’s home. After only 30 minutes, she is awoken again by a sound she cannot identify. She feels the sleep slipping from her grasp and she shuts her eyes tighter in a futile fight to hold on to it but she fails and ends up opening her eyes slowly to appraise the ceiling.
The empty room is dark except for the light on her ceiling cast by the streetlight outside. It’s thrown a shadow of some rustling branches from the tree near it. She watches them dance slowly in the early morning breeze and sighs.
This will not do, she thinks to herself. I cannot curl up and die. I paid good money for this place. I cannot let it go to waste. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left and it definitely won’t be the last, she thinks bitterly. What are you going to do, break down every time? Very soon there’ll be nothing left to break.
There’s got to be an easier way to deal with this, there just has to be.
It is getting light outside and the early birds have begun to chirp. She gets up off the floor and heads to her bathroom. She turns on the light and she stands at the mirror and looks at herself intently for minutes. she’s read in books about characters who cut themselves with sharp objects just so they can feel something, because they feel dead inside. I want the very opposite; not to feel. feeling is the bases of all human suffering.
She feels a split second of self-admiration at her epiphany, but even though it was severely brief, she was able to also feel a tiny relief from her deep sorrow. Too minuscule to warrant notice but she did; it was there. she closed her eyes shut, tried to regain the moment of suspended grief.
Although she couldn’t, her answer came to her. That’s how to beat this; make her life an outer body experience. If her heart causes her pain, she’ll remove herself from it. In order not to feel, she’ll have to dissociate herself from her pain; make it a separate entity something-she can face squarely.
But how exactly? She voices out to her reflection in the mirror and waits, like she really is talking to another person.
Back in secondary school, her friends always called her weird; she would literally get lost in her thoughts right in the middle of conversation, sometimes even while she was speaking. She’d say one word that would trigger another thought and just like that, she’d be off.
Her thoughts were mostly about what could have been; how differently her life would have turned out if her father was a responsible man. What will be; She’d be made by 30, have her own house, get her children and treat them better than any parent ever has.
She rarely dwells on her present circumstances, only looking behind or straight ahead; far ahead. Perhaps that’s my answer, she breathes. She leaves the bathroom and goes back to lie on her student’s mattress on the floor. My answer is to be in the present.
But wouldn’t that mean dealing with the pain? No, more present than that. like paying attention only to whatever is in front of me within any given second. people usually say to others in pain; “take it one day at a time.” What if I take it one second at a time?
She gets up again, turns on the bedroom light and goes to her box containing her belongings from the office. She digs through and finds an A4 sheet , a black marker which she used for their brainstorming sessions back at the office. technically, it is company property but what the hell. She also takes a roll of sticky tape.
In her work life, she has always felt the need to plan every little detail. She wrote almost every thought down and ended up with a step-by-step approach to solving her problems. It was her carefully crafted way to not show how panicky she was inside when she faced a new challenge. sometimes, what she wrote made no sense at all but she would keep writing and soon, she’d have something to go on.
Her subordinates called her the Methodist because they only ever saw the order she presented to them and not the chaos that would be her thought patterns. Nothing happens in a vacuum, she’d tell them. Everything leads to something which leads to another which leads to your end result. This line of reasoning, strangely had never crossed paths with her personal life. She had always just let things happen when it came to her romantic involvements. for some reason, she always considered herself powerless in that regard.
She spreads out the 8 sheets of A4 on the floor and writes boldly in her best calligraphy hand, DO EVERY LITTLE THING LIKE IT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO YOU.
THERE IS NO YESTERDAY, NO TOMORROW, ONLY THIS MOMENT
She sticks them together to create two separate banners and pastes them up on her wall. Then show looks around at the emptiness and decides that she has to make it a live-able space.
She finds her phone and checks her bank account balance with her bank’s mobile application. Whatever she has should be enough to cover utilities for the month and get a bed and kitchen stuff at least while she looks for another job. Her phone vibrates; the app is showing her bank balance; she has only GHC1,200 in her account. IN this economy? Oh dear!
Monday, February 15, 2016
The Methodist
Part One
When it rains, it pours and it would be perfect (a cliché but perfect nonetheless) if this scene could be set at night in the pouring rain; except, in Ghana, the rains are not prone to just show up (or down) unannounced and more so because this scene happened one dusty afternoon, smack dab in the middle of the dry, disheartening Harmattan.
There might be no rain drops to mix in with our heroine's tears and wet her hair so she looks like a dejected soaked rat (that wouldn’t work anyway since her afro would defy gravity and evade the look altogether). But the lack of easily recognizable visuals does not take away from the gravity of the pain she feels in this moment.
In this moment, she is standing outside her workplace and not lying in a disconsolate heap on the ground only because her brain retains only enough function to keep her on her feet. She works (used to work) at a big name advertising firm that is recently losing ground and customers to newer, smaller, quicker and invariably cheaper advertising firms. She works in Campaign Strategy, which is a department she almost single-handedly built for the firm when she joined 3 years ago.
It was a department solely meant to research the best strategy for a product and test it on a small scale before presenting it to the client. She headed it with three subordinates and together they researched, interviewed, planned and executed. The problem was that most companies came in on the spur of the moment and always wanted things “done yesterday”, failing to understand that the best results take time.
There had been rumours going around the office about the downsizing due to the low client turnout and general downward slump of the economy. She shouldn’t have been so hard hit by the news of her forced indefinite leave. It would seem that she feels it all the more because of the heart-breaking events of the previous night.
She dares not process that news for fear of losing brain function altogether. There is only one thought making the rounds in her head; “how do i live now?”
She had just paid the last of the felonious two year rent advance on a two bedroom apartment and the next two month’s salary was supposed to go into kitchen essentials, furniture and other necessities. But the next two month’s pay is now just an idea.; the company could only manage half a month’s severance pay and promised the other half by the end of the next month.
Our heroine is a woman of tears (they show up at anytime for any number of reasons; she could be doing laundry and encounter an especially stubborn stain which would bring tears to her eyes or she could see a random person helping a school child to cross a busy road and well up with tears) but very few people have seen her cry. The certain square of her shoulders and the almost non-challant line of her back belie the tumult of emotions that constantly rage just beneath the surface.
People prefer the nonchalance. They find it easier to deal with because it is in tandem with her lean, poised physique. She learned to keep it in the fore when she discovered in secondary school that nobody knew how to handle the sobbing, lonely mess that she is inside.
The woman she has become will not allow her to show her panic so she quietly hails a cab to take her to her new, empty home which is quite close to her office because she wanted to be able to get to work earlier without losing sleep. The best laid plans...
In her apartment, she stands in the middle of the emptiness that would be the living room holding a box of her belongings from work; probably the only things she now owns. Going back to her mother’s home is out of the question. She wouldn’t even if they begged her; her mother and her step-father. He always made her skin crawl and she couldn’t have left the house fast enough when her mother finally married him a year ago after two children and over a decade of courtship..
She understood that her mother needed a companion (why this particular companion remained a mystery to her).
Her birth father is not dead but she doesn’t know where he is and she doesn’t really want to know. She has always felt alone, being the only child from her mother and father’s union and living with her mother and step-father’s children who were almost a decade younger than her.
Loneliness is a comfortable space for her; she had, in fact, reached a point where she craved it. Well, that point no longer exists. Not after she met Chaney, who is the first part of this rainstorm.
Chaney with his understanding eyes and his gentle heart. Chaney who seemed to be the manifestation of her every wet dream and her every requirement. Chaney who is at the moment about to get married to his childhood friend because in a moment of passion, he got her pregnant. Chaney; a part of her life for a split, glorious second, and a near miss to reminisce about for the rest of her life.
The thought of Chaney with another woman while she stands alone in an empty 2 bedroom apartment is her unraveling. Finally, her strong mind buckles under the weight of her sorrow and she falls into a heaving, sobbing mess on her bare, would-be living room floor.
No family, no money and no companion. How is she going to live now?
When it rains, it pours and it would be perfect (a cliché but perfect nonetheless) if this scene could be set at night in the pouring rain; except, in Ghana, the rains are not prone to just show up (or down) unannounced and more so because this scene happened one dusty afternoon, smack dab in the middle of the dry, disheartening Harmattan.
There might be no rain drops to mix in with our heroine's tears and wet her hair so she looks like a dejected soaked rat (that wouldn’t work anyway since her afro would defy gravity and evade the look altogether). But the lack of easily recognizable visuals does not take away from the gravity of the pain she feels in this moment.
In this moment, she is standing outside her workplace and not lying in a disconsolate heap on the ground only because her brain retains only enough function to keep her on her feet. She works (used to work) at a big name advertising firm that is recently losing ground and customers to newer, smaller, quicker and invariably cheaper advertising firms. She works in Campaign Strategy, which is a department she almost single-handedly built for the firm when she joined 3 years ago.
It was a department solely meant to research the best strategy for a product and test it on a small scale before presenting it to the client. She headed it with three subordinates and together they researched, interviewed, planned and executed. The problem was that most companies came in on the spur of the moment and always wanted things “done yesterday”, failing to understand that the best results take time.
There had been rumours going around the office about the downsizing due to the low client turnout and general downward slump of the economy. She shouldn’t have been so hard hit by the news of her forced indefinite leave. It would seem that she feels it all the more because of the heart-breaking events of the previous night.
She dares not process that news for fear of losing brain function altogether. There is only one thought making the rounds in her head; “how do i live now?”
She had just paid the last of the felonious two year rent advance on a two bedroom apartment and the next two month’s salary was supposed to go into kitchen essentials, furniture and other necessities. But the next two month’s pay is now just an idea.; the company could only manage half a month’s severance pay and promised the other half by the end of the next month.
Our heroine is a woman of tears (they show up at anytime for any number of reasons; she could be doing laundry and encounter an especially stubborn stain which would bring tears to her eyes or she could see a random person helping a school child to cross a busy road and well up with tears) but very few people have seen her cry. The certain square of her shoulders and the almost non-challant line of her back belie the tumult of emotions that constantly rage just beneath the surface.
People prefer the nonchalance. They find it easier to deal with because it is in tandem with her lean, poised physique. She learned to keep it in the fore when she discovered in secondary school that nobody knew how to handle the sobbing, lonely mess that she is inside.
The woman she has become will not allow her to show her panic so she quietly hails a cab to take her to her new, empty home which is quite close to her office because she wanted to be able to get to work earlier without losing sleep. The best laid plans...
In her apartment, she stands in the middle of the emptiness that would be the living room holding a box of her belongings from work; probably the only things she now owns. Going back to her mother’s home is out of the question. She wouldn’t even if they begged her; her mother and her step-father. He always made her skin crawl and she couldn’t have left the house fast enough when her mother finally married him a year ago after two children and over a decade of courtship..
She understood that her mother needed a companion (why this particular companion remained a mystery to her).
Her birth father is not dead but she doesn’t know where he is and she doesn’t really want to know. She has always felt alone, being the only child from her mother and father’s union and living with her mother and step-father’s children who were almost a decade younger than her.
Loneliness is a comfortable space for her; she had, in fact, reached a point where she craved it. Well, that point no longer exists. Not after she met Chaney, who is the first part of this rainstorm.
Chaney with his understanding eyes and his gentle heart. Chaney who seemed to be the manifestation of her every wet dream and her every requirement. Chaney who is at the moment about to get married to his childhood friend because in a moment of passion, he got her pregnant. Chaney; a part of her life for a split, glorious second, and a near miss to reminisce about for the rest of her life.
The thought of Chaney with another woman while she stands alone in an empty 2 bedroom apartment is her unraveling. Finally, her strong mind buckles under the weight of her sorrow and she falls into a heaving, sobbing mess on her bare, would-be living room floor.
No family, no money and no companion. How is she going to live now?
Sunday, March 22, 2015
A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – RANDOM WHO-CARES FACTS
The character of Ayitey was loosely based on my long-time friend and confidant Ob Abenser.
Strangely enough, when I started posting up the story I made a friend called Gerard Nartey who is exactly like Ayitey.
I didn’t start out the story to be biographical but none of my friends believe for a second that it’s not. I guess it is true that writers write what they know.
I had no idea where the story was going when I started still didn’t know until the last episode.
The story officially ended on episode twelve but I technically ended it in episode eleven making Episode Twelve something of an epilogue.
Strangely enough, when I started posting up the story I made a friend called Gerard Nartey who is exactly like Ayitey.
I didn’t start out the story to be biographical but none of my friends believe for a second that it’s not. I guess it is true that writers write what they know.
I had no idea where the story was going when I started still didn’t know until the last episode.
The story officially ended on episode twelve but I technically ended it in episode eleven making Episode Twelve something of an epilogue.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 12
The Secret And The Big Joke
I drop the phone on my bed as it starts to vibrate again and Nunya’s face stares up at me from it. I never changed his personalised ringtone and every time it rings I am thrown back a couple of years. He’s been calling three times a day for 3 days now and my heart has been in a state of flux all the while. I feel light headed because of the over time it’s putting in.
For some reason, I can’t bring myself to take his calls. I don’t know what to say or what he’s going to say and the fear of not knowing has me paralyzed. Picking up the phone and getting to know will, of course, get rid of this paralysis but I suppose there’s a break in transmission between my brain and my limbs.
It stops ringing and I stare at it till the display goes dark. He has been trying for days, he must know I see his calls but he hasn’t tried any other means of communication; no texts, no social media messages. Why?
And why at this time? He has almost become a distant memory I’m starting to accept that being alone is something I should do. These enemies of progress; always pulling a good person back.
The phone begins to vibrate again. This time I answer it and my throat is so dry, my “hello” is almost inaudible.
“So it turns out the world will go on after all,” he says simply. No hello, no explanation. That was how we used to do it when we were together. But that’s when we were together. He gave up the right to start a conversation from a random place.
“I’m at our place; you want to come meet me here?” He continues and it strikes me that there’s no remorse in his voice. This despicable man is actually going to act like almost two years hasn’t passed since he left wordlessly.
I hang up. I’m too surprised at his glibness to muster a response. I let the phone slip out of my hand unto the bed and I stare at it unbelievably as if it was Nunya himself. Life certainly has a dark sense of humour and today, the joke’s on me.
***
I meet up with Ayitey two days later for lunch at The Republic. Nunya tried calling every day since I hung up on him but I don’t answer. I need a sounding board; someone to bounce my thoughts off in the hopes that they may make sense.
“He asked you to meet him? Maybe he was planning to explain when you got there,” Ayitey reasons.
“So you think I should go and see him?”
“I didn’t say that, and you know I never tell you what to do, but today I’m telling you point blank, do not go and see him.”
I’m taken aback by Ayitey’s assertiveness. I recover enough to ask why.
“I’m going to tell you something, I need you to be calm, and just know that what I did, I did out of love.”
If my interest wasn’t piqued by his unusual firmness it certainly is now.
Ayitey takes a deep breath and begins,
“When you two were still going out I ran into him on one of my wedding shoots. He was the groom’s best man and that in itself was a point of contention for me because I thought, if you two were together, why wasn’t he there with you? Then the groom, during his speech, mentioned that he met his wife when Nunya and his long-time girlfriend introduced them at a party. He also said Nunya and his girlfriend’s relationship was the blueprint that they were going to build their marriage on; that any couple who have lasted as long as them were a beacon. Nunya’s girlfriend was one of the bridesmaids and they kissed right after that speech. The bride even handed the bouquet to his girlfriend saying that by all means, it was their wedding she would be attending next.
“Nunya saw me, of course, and throughout the event he was uneasy. During the dance, he came up to me and begged me not to tell you. I agreed only on the condition that he leave and never contact you again. I had no idea you were so into him and his leaving was going to affect you so much. You were always so detached from your relationships; I thought this was the same. When I saw what it was doing to you, I wanted to tell you but I didn’t know whether it would help or make things worse.”
My mouth is slightly open, I’m staring blankly at Ayitey and my heart is beating loudly in my ears. All those tears, wasted on a lying, cheating douchebag like Nunya. Then I begin to laugh. I thought the universe was playing a trick on me before with Nunya showing back up in my life just when I decided that I was going to remain single but this… this is the punch line I it was missing. This is the reason why instead of laughing at the joke, I was worried about it.
All along, he being out of my life was the best thing to have happened to me and I was mourning it. I’m laughing so hard I almost fall off my chair and Ayitey is embarrassed. I’m laughing so hard I almost choke and Ayitey has to get me some water from the bar.
The joke’s on me but it’s a bloody hilarious one. Kudos, life; this is your show stopper. When I run out of mirth, I take a deep breath, still clutching my belly which hurts a little from all the laughing. Ayitey seems relieved that I’m not mad at him.
“You poor thing, you kept this secret all this while. What it must have been doing to you.” I sympathise with him.
No single event can bring one lasting peace but I think this one paves the way for the chain of events that might. I am feeling quite good. I send Nunya a message and tell him to stop calling because he is no longer a part of my life. The phone calls cease and my disposition lightens. I thought for a long time that it is only my getting Nunya back or finding someone else like him that would make me happy. But I was wrong. All I needed was closure; the loose end that I needed to tie up and this is a neat knot if I ever saw one.
THE END
I drop the phone on my bed as it starts to vibrate again and Nunya’s face stares up at me from it. I never changed his personalised ringtone and every time it rings I am thrown back a couple of years. He’s been calling three times a day for 3 days now and my heart has been in a state of flux all the while. I feel light headed because of the over time it’s putting in.
For some reason, I can’t bring myself to take his calls. I don’t know what to say or what he’s going to say and the fear of not knowing has me paralyzed. Picking up the phone and getting to know will, of course, get rid of this paralysis but I suppose there’s a break in transmission between my brain and my limbs.
It stops ringing and I stare at it till the display goes dark. He has been trying for days, he must know I see his calls but he hasn’t tried any other means of communication; no texts, no social media messages. Why?
And why at this time? He has almost become a distant memory I’m starting to accept that being alone is something I should do. These enemies of progress; always pulling a good person back.
The phone begins to vibrate again. This time I answer it and my throat is so dry, my “hello” is almost inaudible.
“So it turns out the world will go on after all,” he says simply. No hello, no explanation. That was how we used to do it when we were together. But that’s when we were together. He gave up the right to start a conversation from a random place.
“I’m at our place; you want to come meet me here?” He continues and it strikes me that there’s no remorse in his voice. This despicable man is actually going to act like almost two years hasn’t passed since he left wordlessly.
I hang up. I’m too surprised at his glibness to muster a response. I let the phone slip out of my hand unto the bed and I stare at it unbelievably as if it was Nunya himself. Life certainly has a dark sense of humour and today, the joke’s on me.
***
I meet up with Ayitey two days later for lunch at The Republic. Nunya tried calling every day since I hung up on him but I don’t answer. I need a sounding board; someone to bounce my thoughts off in the hopes that they may make sense.
“He asked you to meet him? Maybe he was planning to explain when you got there,” Ayitey reasons.
“So you think I should go and see him?”
“I didn’t say that, and you know I never tell you what to do, but today I’m telling you point blank, do not go and see him.”
I’m taken aback by Ayitey’s assertiveness. I recover enough to ask why.
“I’m going to tell you something, I need you to be calm, and just know that what I did, I did out of love.”
If my interest wasn’t piqued by his unusual firmness it certainly is now.
Ayitey takes a deep breath and begins,
“When you two were still going out I ran into him on one of my wedding shoots. He was the groom’s best man and that in itself was a point of contention for me because I thought, if you two were together, why wasn’t he there with you? Then the groom, during his speech, mentioned that he met his wife when Nunya and his long-time girlfriend introduced them at a party. He also said Nunya and his girlfriend’s relationship was the blueprint that they were going to build their marriage on; that any couple who have lasted as long as them were a beacon. Nunya’s girlfriend was one of the bridesmaids and they kissed right after that speech. The bride even handed the bouquet to his girlfriend saying that by all means, it was their wedding she would be attending next.
“Nunya saw me, of course, and throughout the event he was uneasy. During the dance, he came up to me and begged me not to tell you. I agreed only on the condition that he leave and never contact you again. I had no idea you were so into him and his leaving was going to affect you so much. You were always so detached from your relationships; I thought this was the same. When I saw what it was doing to you, I wanted to tell you but I didn’t know whether it would help or make things worse.”
My mouth is slightly open, I’m staring blankly at Ayitey and my heart is beating loudly in my ears. All those tears, wasted on a lying, cheating douchebag like Nunya. Then I begin to laugh. I thought the universe was playing a trick on me before with Nunya showing back up in my life just when I decided that I was going to remain single but this… this is the punch line I it was missing. This is the reason why instead of laughing at the joke, I was worried about it.
All along, he being out of my life was the best thing to have happened to me and I was mourning it. I’m laughing so hard I almost fall off my chair and Ayitey is embarrassed. I’m laughing so hard I almost choke and Ayitey has to get me some water from the bar.
The joke’s on me but it’s a bloody hilarious one. Kudos, life; this is your show stopper. When I run out of mirth, I take a deep breath, still clutching my belly which hurts a little from all the laughing. Ayitey seems relieved that I’m not mad at him.
“You poor thing, you kept this secret all this while. What it must have been doing to you.” I sympathise with him.
No single event can bring one lasting peace but I think this one paves the way for the chain of events that might. I am feeling quite good. I send Nunya a message and tell him to stop calling because he is no longer a part of my life. The phone calls cease and my disposition lightens. I thought for a long time that it is only my getting Nunya back or finding someone else like him that would make me happy. But I was wrong. All I needed was closure; the loose end that I needed to tie up and this is a neat knot if I ever saw one.
THE END
Monday, February 23, 2015
A CYNIC’s GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 11
Happy Endings...
The sun comes up, teasing my eyes open. In the first few seconds of wakefulness I forget where I am and what’ going on in my life. A wave crashes on the rocky shore and reminds me.
“Oh,” I murmur, my throught dry from the lack of water. “Hello world.”
And just like that; just the way I up and left my apartment four days ago, I up and leave the beach and head back ot my apartment.
When I get there, I take a long shower and brush my teeth. As I brush, I go to stand naked infront of the full-length mirror I had installed in my bathroom. I eye her skinny frame (my four days of involuntary fasting did a number on my weight) I’m not too worried about it.
I’m jolted out of my mind by a frantic knock on my door. I roll my eyes. Wonderful! back to intrusive people.
I open the door 5 minutes later to find Ayitey and Mansah standing at my doorstep. Mansah immediately falls into a rhetoric about people disappearing with no thought for their friends as she pushes past me. Ayitey stays on the landing staring worriedly at my emaciated frame. He doesn’t say anything just stares. I stare back at him. Somehow, I know that he knows I’ve had a rough few days. And I know him well enough to know that he knows better than to ask me about it. I’m grateful for that.
Then he finally says, “Don’t let her talk your ear off, I’ll be back.” and leaves.
Ayitey comes back 15 minutes later holding several white plastic bags. The scent of fast food wafts through my small apartment and suddenly, I feel like eating. As I hungrily chomp down the food I look over at Ayitey and thank goodness for small mercies.
After spending the whole day there, avoiding the topic of my four day disappearance due to Ayitey’s side eyes every time she tries to bring it up, Mansah takes her leave. She has to get back to her husband.
Ayitey stays. Wordlessly, he cleans up and tucks me into bed. He makes himself comfortable on my couch but I’m sure can’t fall asleep for worry. I listen to him restlessly moving about as I close my eyes. Knowing he’s just a call away comforts me and I immediately fall asleep.
The next morning, he waits till I get out of bed at 7:20 am.
“Are you ok?” he asks. I nod and he gathers me in a long hug.
“I have to go to work. I’ll check on you throughout the day.” With that, he leaves.
I stare at the closed door long after he’s gone. Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with him? Maybe I’m one of those women who stays single all their lives. Perhaps this is how I should live. I certainly won’t be the first person to live like that. Maybe what the universe is telling me is simply this; “stop trying, it’s not for you”.
Five weeks later, I'm standing on the beautiful lawn at the Little House on The Hill, a hip destination wedding hotel. I look around at the dozens of white and red hibiscus bouquets decorating the scenic venue and I feel the slightest tingle of happiness.
It’s a big day and even though I vowed vowed never again to be in a wedding, this one I have no choice but to join.
The guests are almost all seated and the piano guy is tickling out a melodious ode to love. I turn to my left To look at Ayitey standing beside me. He smiles at me. I smile back and reach out to straighten his neck tie after which he reaches out to straighten my bowtie. We are dressed identically excpet for the ties.
“I have never seen a best man look so good in a suit.” He reiterates for the umpteenth time.
I laugh just before the piano man starts to play the Wedding March. The bride is ready to walk down the isle. I take a step back to stand behind Ayitey as he turns to face his bride who is being led down the petal strewn red carpet on the grass by her father.
Ayitey grins from ear to ear, I would too if I were him, Joy is a vision in her sheer, pearl, mermaid wedding dress.
The ceremony is short and sweet and the reception starts off with a bang. They play old favourites and there is food aplenty. Everyone is joyous.
I smile occasionally but I don't join in the festivities even though I am unquestionably happy for Ayitey for tying the knot and I watch the couple as they dance. I don't know Joy that well and therefore don't know of any uneven spots in her past but I fervently hope, for the sake of Ayitey’s happiness, that she is clean.
My mind wanders to Deladem’s wedding which is taking place at this very instant across town. He asked that I come but I was spared the ordeal by being best man at Ayitey’s wedding.
So how does a cynic get hitched? They don’t. They can’t get past their distrust long enough to let anyone else have the satisfaction of winning them over. Anyone else, of course, but the person who proves to them beyond all doubt that men cannot be trusted. Sure, there are men people scattered all over, but none of them will make it into a cynic’s life to stay because they won’t let them; they drag their feet and second guess and let them slip away. But then again, if they leave, then they weren’t meant to stay in the first place, or were they?
Cynics don't believe in happy endings because there are no endings until you are dead. And until you die, even death itself is one of the shitty surprises waiting for you at the turn of every corner.
I feel my phone vibrate in my jacket pocket. I take it out to check the caller ID and almost pass out. I stare at the phone, unable to answer it so it rings until it cuts and the picture of Nunya stops flashing.
The sun comes up, teasing my eyes open. In the first few seconds of wakefulness I forget where I am and what’ going on in my life. A wave crashes on the rocky shore and reminds me.
“Oh,” I murmur, my throught dry from the lack of water. “Hello world.”
And just like that; just the way I up and left my apartment four days ago, I up and leave the beach and head back ot my apartment.
When I get there, I take a long shower and brush my teeth. As I brush, I go to stand naked infront of the full-length mirror I had installed in my bathroom. I eye her skinny frame (my four days of involuntary fasting did a number on my weight) I’m not too worried about it.
I’m jolted out of my mind by a frantic knock on my door. I roll my eyes. Wonderful! back to intrusive people.
I open the door 5 minutes later to find Ayitey and Mansah standing at my doorstep. Mansah immediately falls into a rhetoric about people disappearing with no thought for their friends as she pushes past me. Ayitey stays on the landing staring worriedly at my emaciated frame. He doesn’t say anything just stares. I stare back at him. Somehow, I know that he knows I’ve had a rough few days. And I know him well enough to know that he knows better than to ask me about it. I’m grateful for that.
Then he finally says, “Don’t let her talk your ear off, I’ll be back.” and leaves.
Ayitey comes back 15 minutes later holding several white plastic bags. The scent of fast food wafts through my small apartment and suddenly, I feel like eating. As I hungrily chomp down the food I look over at Ayitey and thank goodness for small mercies.
After spending the whole day there, avoiding the topic of my four day disappearance due to Ayitey’s side eyes every time she tries to bring it up, Mansah takes her leave. She has to get back to her husband.
Ayitey stays. Wordlessly, he cleans up and tucks me into bed. He makes himself comfortable on my couch but I’m sure can’t fall asleep for worry. I listen to him restlessly moving about as I close my eyes. Knowing he’s just a call away comforts me and I immediately fall asleep.
The next morning, he waits till I get out of bed at 7:20 am.
“Are you ok?” he asks. I nod and he gathers me in a long hug.
“I have to go to work. I’ll check on you throughout the day.” With that, he leaves.
I stare at the closed door long after he’s gone. Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with him? Maybe I’m one of those women who stays single all their lives. Perhaps this is how I should live. I certainly won’t be the first person to live like that. Maybe what the universe is telling me is simply this; “stop trying, it’s not for you”.
Five weeks later, I'm standing on the beautiful lawn at the Little House on The Hill, a hip destination wedding hotel. I look around at the dozens of white and red hibiscus bouquets decorating the scenic venue and I feel the slightest tingle of happiness.
It’s a big day and even though I vowed vowed never again to be in a wedding, this one I have no choice but to join.
The guests are almost all seated and the piano guy is tickling out a melodious ode to love. I turn to my left To look at Ayitey standing beside me. He smiles at me. I smile back and reach out to straighten his neck tie after which he reaches out to straighten my bowtie. We are dressed identically excpet for the ties.
“I have never seen a best man look so good in a suit.” He reiterates for the umpteenth time.
I laugh just before the piano man starts to play the Wedding March. The bride is ready to walk down the isle. I take a step back to stand behind Ayitey as he turns to face his bride who is being led down the petal strewn red carpet on the grass by her father.
Ayitey grins from ear to ear, I would too if I were him, Joy is a vision in her sheer, pearl, mermaid wedding dress.
The ceremony is short and sweet and the reception starts off with a bang. They play old favourites and there is food aplenty. Everyone is joyous.
I smile occasionally but I don't join in the festivities even though I am unquestionably happy for Ayitey for tying the knot and I watch the couple as they dance. I don't know Joy that well and therefore don't know of any uneven spots in her past but I fervently hope, for the sake of Ayitey’s happiness, that she is clean.
My mind wanders to Deladem’s wedding which is taking place at this very instant across town. He asked that I come but I was spared the ordeal by being best man at Ayitey’s wedding.
So how does a cynic get hitched? They don’t. They can’t get past their distrust long enough to let anyone else have the satisfaction of winning them over. Anyone else, of course, but the person who proves to them beyond all doubt that men cannot be trusted. Sure, there are men people scattered all over, but none of them will make it into a cynic’s life to stay because they won’t let them; they drag their feet and second guess and let them slip away. But then again, if they leave, then they weren’t meant to stay in the first place, or were they?
Cynics don't believe in happy endings because there are no endings until you are dead. And until you die, even death itself is one of the shitty surprises waiting for you at the turn of every corner.
I feel my phone vibrate in my jacket pocket. I take it out to check the caller ID and almost pass out. I stare at the phone, unable to answer it so it rings until it cuts and the picture of Nunya stops flashing.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
A CYNIC'S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 10
Crashing Realisations
I step closer to the ebbing sea. It’s just a little past midday and the sun is merciless. The tide is way out and I need to feel something other than the searing pain in my chest even if it’s just the coolness of the sea. I stand still; wait for the waves to flow toward me again. When they do, they barely reach my toes.
It ebbs and flows again, this time it tickles my feet and pulls back again. The cool, salty water feels nice. In a few similar movements the sea, almost as if teasing me, finally reaches my ankles and pulls back. I start to feel calm as the water draws in closer each time it comes up to me.
“Come and play,” it seems to be saying. “You’ll be happy here. You came from water; this is home. Come and play.”
I look out over the horizon; water all around for miles and miles, looking more inviting than I remember it ever being. The water is much closer now, edging its way above my ankles. It occurs to me that the sea might feel my presence; that there’s some force in me that pulls it towards me. Maybe it remembers me; reads in my DNA that I used to be a part of it. All life begun in the ocean, I reason, and it is only natural I should be comfortable here.
I start to wonder, if I lay in the water without fighting against it; if I just let the force of the ocean carry my weight would it carry me out to sea or push me back to shore? I suddenly have a strong urge to find out. At this point, what have I got to lose?
I close my eyes, ready to begin my experiment when I feel a strong hand grab my arm.
“Are you ok?”
I stand there, blinking at an older man who is looking worriedly at me. For a split second I can’t remember where I am until I spy the sand somewhere behind him but it’s so far away. Then I come to, suddenly aware of my surroundings again. I am standing in the sea, the water up to my knees and I have no recollection of the time between the water at my ankles and now.
“What are you doing?” The man asks me. “Come back to shore, do you know how to swim?”
It feels like I’m already under water because I can see his lips move, can even hear his voice but I can’t understand him. Back on the shore the man, who seems to have picked up on my intentions asks me,
“What happened to you?”
All the thoughts I was holding at bay with my contemplation of the secrets of the ocean come rushing towards me as the waves crash on the rocky shore.
* * *
THREE DAYS BEFORE
Deladem fights against his being and stops kissing me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, surprised. His shirt is off and my buttons are undone.
“We can’t do this, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Deladem protests.
“What? Why?” I’m panting; all strung up with the promise of what looked like it might be a good night.
“I didn’t come here for this, I came here to tell you something.”
“What?”
Deladem takes my hands in his and holds them to his bare chest.
“I came here to… there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What, Deladem? You’re scaring me”
“I’m getting married.”
It feels like someone pushed me from a high storey building and I crash on the hard ground below, Splat!
My bones are broken, my insides are spilling out of my nose and yet I can feel nothing but the broken rib bone that’s jabbing my heart; causing blood to spill into me, stopping my breathing and slowing my heart beat. Soon I feel nothing; see nothing; hear nothing. Silence.
I am floating on the surface of consciousness; I can hear a voice in the distance calling to me. Then I feel a sweaty palm on my cheek and I am roused awake. Deladem is looking down at me, a concerned look on his face. I fainted.
He picks me up and puts me on my bed. “You scared me,” he says and fetches me a glass of water. I drink and find my voice.
“Please leave, Dela. Please. Go.”
Deladem leaves without protest; he knows he caused harm and his presence will only worsen it.
I roll over in bed and will the tears to flow but they don’t. Tears conduct pain out of the body. For every drop, there is a modicum of pain that recedes, so the more crying is done, the better the chances of recovery. When the tears refuse to flow, then you know you’re fucked because the pain will well up in your body and fester and soon you’ll implode.
I stay awake throughout the night not even trying to sleep; what would be the point? What is the point of anything, really? Everything leads to one thing which leads to something else and then another and finally leads to death. It’ll all end so what’s the fucking point?!
I hear the birds announcing the break of dawn outside my window, chirping without a care in the world. I am wide awake when the sun rises higher and higher in the sky and heats up the earth. I’m not thinking, not feeling, just awake. The last time I heard this symphony, it gave me hope. This morning, though, it’s almost like a cruel taunting; I’m happy, you’re not.
How much pain can one take? How much rejection should one have to suffer?
What’s wrong with me? All these men who choose someone else over me can’t be wrong, there has to be something wrong with me. What is it?
Suddenly the walls start to close in and I can’t breathe. I jump out of bed with a conviction I didn’t anticipate and pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and leave my apartment, not knowing where I am headed I just walk and before I know it, I am at the beach.
* * *
The older man asks me again what is wrong. The sea breeze is getting stronger and keeps carrying away his words. He gives up and gets up to leave, earnestly admonishing me to stay out of the water.
I don’t need the water anyway, what he doesn’t know is I’ve been sleeping at the beach for three days now and every day at the same time I walk out into the ocean like I just did and always come back to shore. I haven’t had food or water. I don’t even feel hungry. I’ll just go to sleep again when the sun goes down and with any luck, I won’t see the sun rise.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 9
False Alarms and Open Territories
A cynic is someone who believes that people are only motivated by personal interests. It is difficult for a cynic to trust the intentions of anyone, so even when something absolutely amazing is staring one right in the face, a cynic will stare it down and try to find what is wrong with it. Most often than not, we do find what is wrong with our gifts; we look our horses in the mouth and are immediately put off by the decay.
This is a defence mechanism; a coping mechanism – if we expect the bad then we won’t be too affected when it happens. But this mechanism also weeds out small chances at happiness that comes our way. Naturally, cynics aren’t born cynics; they become cynics because from early on in life they encounter people who are motivated by their own gain and they think everyone else must be.
But we’re always hoping for someone to prove us wrong. Someone to show us that there is at least one person in the world who doesn't ulterior motives and genuinely cares for us. With Nunya, I didn’t have the chance to find his dark area until it was too late and I had fallen hard. It angers me to think about it sometimes and I promise myself everyday not to let it happen again.
It’s been a year and four months since he disappeared. I am in a two month non-committed relationship with Kwabena which he seems to think is the best he’s ever had, maybe he’s just being nice, or maybe he’s biding his time until I sleep with him or maybe he met me only after my break up with Nunya and he thinks my lethargy is an inborn trait and he’s accepted it. Or maybe he’s just biding his time till I sleep with him. I’ve been thinking of breaking up with him. And after the events of tonight I just might.
As I stand in shock at the tall, dark figure that rises before me on my threshold, a million words rush through my mind and I am only able to snatch a very small number to form coherent thoughts. Each of these thoughts creates a different, short-lived, nonetheless, powerful reaction in my chest.
‘Nunya is back!’ – Heart races.
‘Oh my god!’ – Heart speeds up.
‘What am I going to do?’ – Heart skips a beat.
‘It’s not Nunya’ – heart drops.
‘It’s Deladem!’ – heart jumps up again; granted, not as high as the first time but I’m happy to see him. It’s been so long since I have but when I rush into his arms, I feel like I’m coming home. I’m suddenly glad the compound is dimly lit – he missed the look of disappointment that passed with the realisation that he isn’t Nunya. My evening is looking really good.
Deladem and I have always had a special relationship. Even after I turned down his proposal of marriage, he remained loyal to me, keeping in touch and telling me how much he still loves me. He’s always been good at proving his love. I notice the suitcase on the landing and realise he’s straight from the airport. I had tried for years to find his selfish motivation and failed so I chose to accept that he is probably the one exception to the rule.
* * *
When I first slept with him, I had just met him and I had broken up with my first boyfriend. It was a bad relationship and I was feeling especially vulnerable. He had invited me out to be my shoulder to cry on. Talking progressed to kissing and before I knew it, we were back at his hostel and having sex. I kept waiting for him to disappear seeing as he had got what I thought he wanted without even trying. I thought perhaps he was waiting around to get it again so call it self-sabotage or research, I slept with him again and again. Third time’s the charm, right?
He stayed. So I asked him point blank, one day as we waited for our lunch orders to arrive at the cafeteria, “What are you still doing with me? We’ve had sex, surely, you’ve 'conquered', so …”
“Conquered?” he chuckled. “You think this is a conquest?” he chuckled again.
“It’s not?”
“Sweetheart, if anything, I should be asking for your forgiveness. You were vulnerable when I met you and I took advantage of you but it wasn’t intentional. Some men don’t know a precious thing when they encounter one, other men know these exist and look out for them. When they find one, they hold on tight and don’t let go. ”
He leaned forward and took my hands in his. Looking me dead in the eyes he asked, “Which category do you think I belong to?”
I didn’t think I could believe the answer then, people will say anything to make themselves look good in someone else’s eyes. But I found out so many times later; when he made a promise not to sleep with me again and didn’t for years until I seduced him in a moment of need. I found out again when he got the chance to do his masters in Denmark and asked me to marry him. And if that wasn’t enough, I would certainly know now.
* * *
He kisses me on the cheek and smells my hair before letting me go.
“You could have told me you were coming I could have come to get you.”
“And miss this sensational hug?”
“I would have hugged you at the airport,” I throw over my shoulder as I unlock the front door and let him in.
“It would have been a simple, I’ve-been-looking-forward-to-seeing-you hug, not this I’m-surprised-and-elated-to-see-you hug.” He hauls his suitcase in and I lock the door behind us. I turn around and see him standing there watching me.
For a minute we just stand and stare. Then a smile spreads across his lips which teases a smile out of mine.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says to me.
“Neither have you.”
In that moment it is just him filling my hallway, my mind, and temporarily filling the void I have been trying to fill for months. It suddenly seems like nothing has changed since he left. The one hope in humanity I had been searching for was him all along. I always knew it, but I never realised it.
I moved towards him, he doesn’t move, he know what I am coming for but he lets me go all the way, like he is saying to me, ‘this is your territory, you make the rules.’
When I get to him and plant a kiss on his lips, he sighs deeply, like he had been holding his breath; waiting for this to happen. Apparently that was prompt he needed to get comfortable in my space. His hand goes up to cup my head just above the nape of my neck, and his other arm snakes around my waist as he delves into my mouth. The evening is looking even better.
A cynic is someone who believes that people are only motivated by personal interests. It is difficult for a cynic to trust the intentions of anyone, so even when something absolutely amazing is staring one right in the face, a cynic will stare it down and try to find what is wrong with it. Most often than not, we do find what is wrong with our gifts; we look our horses in the mouth and are immediately put off by the decay.
This is a defence mechanism; a coping mechanism – if we expect the bad then we won’t be too affected when it happens. But this mechanism also weeds out small chances at happiness that comes our way. Naturally, cynics aren’t born cynics; they become cynics because from early on in life they encounter people who are motivated by their own gain and they think everyone else must be.
But we’re always hoping for someone to prove us wrong. Someone to show us that there is at least one person in the world who doesn't ulterior motives and genuinely cares for us. With Nunya, I didn’t have the chance to find his dark area until it was too late and I had fallen hard. It angers me to think about it sometimes and I promise myself everyday not to let it happen again.
It’s been a year and four months since he disappeared. I am in a two month non-committed relationship with Kwabena which he seems to think is the best he’s ever had, maybe he’s just being nice, or maybe he’s biding his time until I sleep with him or maybe he met me only after my break up with Nunya and he thinks my lethargy is an inborn trait and he’s accepted it. Or maybe he’s just biding his time till I sleep with him. I’ve been thinking of breaking up with him. And after the events of tonight I just might.
As I stand in shock at the tall, dark figure that rises before me on my threshold, a million words rush through my mind and I am only able to snatch a very small number to form coherent thoughts. Each of these thoughts creates a different, short-lived, nonetheless, powerful reaction in my chest.
‘Nunya is back!’ – Heart races.
‘Oh my god!’ – Heart speeds up.
‘What am I going to do?’ – Heart skips a beat.
‘It’s not Nunya’ – heart drops.
‘It’s Deladem!’ – heart jumps up again; granted, not as high as the first time but I’m happy to see him. It’s been so long since I have but when I rush into his arms, I feel like I’m coming home. I’m suddenly glad the compound is dimly lit – he missed the look of disappointment that passed with the realisation that he isn’t Nunya. My evening is looking really good.
Deladem and I have always had a special relationship. Even after I turned down his proposal of marriage, he remained loyal to me, keeping in touch and telling me how much he still loves me. He’s always been good at proving his love. I notice the suitcase on the landing and realise he’s straight from the airport. I had tried for years to find his selfish motivation and failed so I chose to accept that he is probably the one exception to the rule.
* * *
When I first slept with him, I had just met him and I had broken up with my first boyfriend. It was a bad relationship and I was feeling especially vulnerable. He had invited me out to be my shoulder to cry on. Talking progressed to kissing and before I knew it, we were back at his hostel and having sex. I kept waiting for him to disappear seeing as he had got what I thought he wanted without even trying. I thought perhaps he was waiting around to get it again so call it self-sabotage or research, I slept with him again and again. Third time’s the charm, right?
He stayed. So I asked him point blank, one day as we waited for our lunch orders to arrive at the cafeteria, “What are you still doing with me? We’ve had sex, surely, you’ve 'conquered', so …”
“Conquered?” he chuckled. “You think this is a conquest?” he chuckled again.
“It’s not?”
“Sweetheart, if anything, I should be asking for your forgiveness. You were vulnerable when I met you and I took advantage of you but it wasn’t intentional. Some men don’t know a precious thing when they encounter one, other men know these exist and look out for them. When they find one, they hold on tight and don’t let go. ”
He leaned forward and took my hands in his. Looking me dead in the eyes he asked, “Which category do you think I belong to?”
I didn’t think I could believe the answer then, people will say anything to make themselves look good in someone else’s eyes. But I found out so many times later; when he made a promise not to sleep with me again and didn’t for years until I seduced him in a moment of need. I found out again when he got the chance to do his masters in Denmark and asked me to marry him. And if that wasn’t enough, I would certainly know now.
* * *
He kisses me on the cheek and smells my hair before letting me go.
“You could have told me you were coming I could have come to get you.”
“And miss this sensational hug?”
“I would have hugged you at the airport,” I throw over my shoulder as I unlock the front door and let him in.
“It would have been a simple, I’ve-been-looking-forward-to-seeing-you hug, not this I’m-surprised-and-elated-to-see-you hug.” He hauls his suitcase in and I lock the door behind us. I turn around and see him standing there watching me.
For a minute we just stand and stare. Then a smile spreads across his lips which teases a smile out of mine.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says to me.
“Neither have you.”
In that moment it is just him filling my hallway, my mind, and temporarily filling the void I have been trying to fill for months. It suddenly seems like nothing has changed since he left. The one hope in humanity I had been searching for was him all along. I always knew it, but I never realised it.
I moved towards him, he doesn’t move, he know what I am coming for but he lets me go all the way, like he is saying to me, ‘this is your territory, you make the rules.’
When I get to him and plant a kiss on his lips, he sighs deeply, like he had been holding his breath; waiting for this to happen. Apparently that was prompt he needed to get comfortable in my space. His hand goes up to cup my head just above the nape of my neck, and his other arm snakes around my waist as he delves into my mouth. The evening is looking even better.
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