In Exchange for Fortitude

Writing blindly through tears, I might as well have been playing tap-dance on my keyboard with my fingers. For the first time in my life I wished I didn’t know my way around QWERTY by heart. I wished my fingers needed to search and find one key at a time. I wished I could snail this one away.

For the first time in my life I understood. For the first time in my life I bled inwardly. I tore at my soul in all the anguish and pain. For the first time in my life I listened and I heard. For the first time in my life I mourned.

I pulled at my hair. I wrung my fingers. I worried my hair. I clasped my head. I left my mouth open. I began to spasm. My thoughts contorted. My thinking dissipated. My mind. I knew if I didn’t hold back briefly I’d lose it. And end up mad.

This was it. This was the journey. This was how it happened in the movies. And I’d always been convinced that my own strength would carry me through, that I would have the fortitude to bear the loss. Where was this much talked-about fortitude? I wanted it, and I wanted it now.

I wanted it, not because i needed its aid to bear the loss. I wanted it because I was boiling raging mad. I wanted it to answer to me. How dare fortitude? How dare it? Who told you, fortitude, that I wanted or needed you? I did not want to bear any loss. With or without fortitude. I. DID. NOT.

I always imagined how cool, calm, collected I’d be. If it ever happened to me. I always imagined how I’d be the one to comfort others on behalf of all our losses. I imagined wrong. I didn’t want to be cool and calm. I didn’t want to be collected. I didn’t want to be comforted. I didn’t want to be anyone’s comfort.

I didn’t want to sit in a church, squeezing someone’s hand. I didn’t want to hold a wet hanky in the other. I didn’t want to have bloodshot eyes. I didn’t want to wear Bvlgaris to cover them. I certainly didn’t want to be dressed in black Prada 12/13 for the occasion. I definitely didn’t want these black Louis Vuittons.

I didn’t want anything that meant I had to accept. I didn’t want my brain to process and store the knowledge. I wanted to wake up from a very terrible nightmare, drenched in sweat, grateful that it was just that – a nightmare.

I didn’t want to recollect. I didn’t want to hoard memories, precious few memories. I didn’t want to see the smile I’d ever see again. I didn’t want to hear the voice I’d never hear again. I didn’t want to laugh at the last joke I’d never find funny again. I didn’t want to wish for another trade by ‘banter’ that would never come. I didn’t want to lock up my favourite slippers and never wear them again.

I didn’t want to imagine our stroll down the beach. I didn’t want to imagine our getting two shots short of drunk in the bar. I didn’t want to imagine us staring out at the horizon, lunching in grand fashion. I didn’t want to wonder whether you’d prefer the blue dress to the red one. I didn’t want to imagine the first thing you’d say to me when you woke up the next morning.

I didn’t want to think of getting a new bridesmaid for my wedding. I didn’t want to imagine who would have been so valiant as to finally capture your heart, body and soul. I didn’t want to think about what your kids would have looked like. If they’d have had your nose or your eyes. If they’d have borrowed from your pages of mischief, daring, wit and kind heart. I didn’t want to think how great it would have been to be their godmother.

I didn’t want to dream of you in faraway places, with bright lights and streets made of gold. I didn’t want to dream of you smiling down on me. I didn’t want to dream of you looking like that halo was made just for you. I didn’t want to dream of you being happy and safe and warm.

I didn’t want to shed a tear that wasn’t shed with you. I didn’t want to shed a tear that was shed for you. 

I don’t want to shed a tear that isn’t shed with you. I don’t want to shed a tear that is shed for you.

I just want you back.

Onu’a mourns . . .

ONU’A (acronymical drug) - O Narcissist, You Are

In the words of an infamous almost-woman once removed from the harsh realities of a world that speaks in a language so unreal even fantasy cannot comprehend, ‘Life is good . . .’

I dont know who did it. Who pulled the trigger. Who aimed so accurately, and fired the shot. I don’t know. If I did, this wouldn’t be in writing. But I do know how the story ended (past). Or ends (present). Pick a side. It will end (future, if you find the fence more relaxing) with me pausing for a second from brushing off the last remains of caffeine from the energy drink I had for dinner or pre-breakfast (pick a side), to form a Dwayne Johnson smile at my gooey-toothed reflection. And then sliding neatly under my big, fat duvet and saying good night or good pre-morning (pick a side) to the world. None of that matters, nothing but the smile on my not-so-sleepy face . . .

Waking up to a wonderful Saturday, I had nothing dramatic in mind. I had good plans, well laid-out plans, carefully thought-out plans. And all things were meant to work perfectly According To Plan. Even Plan B (which at the time was not in existence, was good). Wake up. Stretch. Get back in bed. Stretch again. Get out of bed. Drag big, fat duvet (it’s a lot cuter when I say with all those strings attached, innit?) all the way to not-less-than-three-metres in front of the television ( health and safety first, please) and spread myself, with nothing but the remote for company, my big, fat duvet (OK, I won’t say it again) surrounding me protectively and my lazy ass underneath me.

Halfway through my perfect routine and I heard the shot. It rang loud and clear. I didn’t hear it as much as I felt it. The pain. The cold air that rushed through the hole that had broken through me as the . . . OK, you finish that up. I don’t know, I still can’t figure out the exact point at which my Perfectly Planned Day disappeared - well, not technically. I realize now that it had begun to slide out from beneath me, rather politely I might add, and then slowly tiptoe away.

All I know is I looked up and it was gone, I searched everywhere ,frantically, desperately – and came up with nothing. Not a clue. Not a trail of bread crumbs to lead me to it. Nothing. Just . . . nothing.

Okay, You. Not Today. Not. Going. To. Happen. I thought back to all the events that had led up to that point. I slept. I woke up. I stretched. I mentally consulted my P.A. (if you dont have one, get one), we went through the day’s itinerary, and she’d been reliably on hand to remind me of all my appointments – with the bed, the duvet and the television. Retracing my steps wasn’t helping. I returned to the present.

(I will kill this moment by saying in a very calm, very unashamed voice that even a huge bowl of my special Ijebu garri couldn’t change it, (those who understand, understand) and that is saying a lot, I admit with complete shame).

The following quote can be repeated in writing or verbally, only upon the signed, sealed and stamped permission of the owner of said quote (Yours Truly). (So this is what it would feel like to win a Nobel for Most Legendary Quote): “I am my own anti-depressant.”

And in this world of false advertising and expensive consultation and quack doctors and fake drugs that only solve your problem halfway and then become the problem, (pause and inhale deeply for dramatic effect), that is saying a lot. Hence the need for my copyrighted permission and only for a period of once-in-a- lifetime to use above potential ‘Nobellated’ quote.

And with that life-changing thought I got up and went. Literally. To the bookstore, where I got myself a nice book, came back home, back turned against the television (I was isolating all possible suspects of my current demise – until the autopsy report was ready), and read my way to the pursuit of happiness. No. Of course not. Let the book worms bury the book worms. Nothing against books. Books have taught me everything they know, but not everything I know. Quote me anywhere. That one’s for free.

Actually, I threw off my duvet, turned off the damn television (sounds so much cuter when I say its full name) and walked out my house in my favourite nightie (the one with the huge pockets and the cute diva, that reads, “Queen of My Bed” – perhaps I am beginning to see the root causes of my problem, in retrospect - and strolled past the guard on duty who was desperately trying on a let’s-just-play-cool-and-not-try-to-look-like-we-don’t-see-girls-in-seven-inches-above-the-knees-nighties-in-this-part-of-the-world-everyday look, and flunking pathetically, and out into the open air. Just like that. After three deep breaths of fresh air, the sun came out, stuck its tongue out at me, and literally slobbered all over my rehab mode. Like a bad case of celebrity, I retreated – so much for spontaneity.

Again, no. That didn’t even happen in my head. I was much too under-the-weather (please forgive the pun) for such happy thoughts.

Here’s how it went, and I promise, true story, I decided to deal with it, this ‘situation’ (to call it a mood swing would be labelling pneumonia a common cold). If I was truly my own medicine, I was going to have to prescribe myself to myself in the right dose. Of course, I wouldn’t want to overdo me - too much of a good thing, my MEter does have a Red Line. So out the door it was – only this time in knee-length shorts, two tanks and a blazer, and an earring on my left ear only (OK, maybe I was over doing it, but nobody said ‘I’ was perfect) and after a bath.

At that point I had no idea where I was going (sometimes doctors are clueless when they prescribe drugs, and therefore no apologies for not being an exception) and offered a silent prayer of thanks for the taxi.

Then I lost it. ‘I’ really did. The idiot deserved what he got. He made me repeat my desired destination three times. So I sloshed the remains of my half-empty (oh, please, whatever) bottle of Diet Duke all over the backseat of his cab, screamed a cuss at him and got out. I didn’t even slam the door (that would have been an anti-climaxing overdose). Said driver was too stunned to even consider parking properly and storming out of his car to barter words or hit me, or do whatever it is anyone would have done in retaliation under such circumstances, or perhaps too scared even. I heard the door slam as I walked away (just in case) to a safer spot and waited for another possible prey of a taxi to arrive (side effects, then?).

OK, I’ll admit, maybe I am starting to react to me – or the other way round I did repeat my desired destination once, the only sloshing (if that’s what it’s called) being my incisors and molars working out to the back and forth of the double herbal Mentos rhythm in my head, as opposed to the half-empty Diet Duke.* I did slam the door, though. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, if you were three minutes for a doctor’s appointment? Unless it was a dentist you had to see . . . teeth hurt just thinking about it. All of the above, True Story. Or not . . .figure it out.

I accidentally walked into a thrift store on my quest for MEdom and bought the most fabulous dark shirt ever - a Skull & Cross Bones smiley pointing a gun at a Happy Face smiley. Just kidding ( I am not one of those ‘adverse effects’ kinds of drugs). On my way to good health, really. I was doing a nice job (why do I feel plastic all of a sudden?). That was just Me starting to kick.

Three hours, a bag of salted popcorn (do not take on an empty stomach, doctor said) and a bag of perfect shopping – well, just one What’s-So-Great-About-Today-? black-and-pink graffiti Tee with the answer: ‘Nothing’ written at the back ( it was certainly better than the Cross-Bones-At-War, no?). I couldn’t have said it better . . . except the ‘Nothing’ was crossed out and ‘Everything’ was swiped across it in bold yellow letters (I know, right? I can already hear it -the incessant ringing of the phone, calls for orders of I/ME) later.

So, Here, I am , I didn’t save the world, I didn’t donate to charity, I didn’t recycle my can of Diet Duke (just kidding), I didn’t adopt any kids, I didn’t even smile at anyone, but I managed someway, somehow, to get back to being Me. I can’t say for sure at what point I finally set in. I only knew that it was a jolly good day, and it was only going to get better. I couldn’t stop smiling. I just couldn’t. . . I did make sure to have a spare bottle of ME lying around somewhere (prevention is better than cure, after all).

And as at the time of this writing, I am still smiling – indulge my cynicism for a minute: I am not in love and I did not win the lottery. I don’t know how to stop smiling. I don’t even want to try. Call it what you will . . .

My name is Onu’a and I am my own anti-depressant!

* Diet Duke is not a real drink, please do not go to the grocery store to purchase. If found on the internet, remember this: for with Google, ‘nothing shall be impossible . . .’

Warning: Do not relate the contents of this blog to a certain time of the month or a premature menopausal disorder.

Here I am at what is now 2. 38 am and im smiling profusely, smiling like an idiot actually. I am all of a sudden delirious. Deliciously so.