On some days, I can wipe my glasses with an lens wipe, wear high heels and pretend that I am a real, functioning adult.
On those days, I read the newspaper on my way to work and drink green tea with pineapple and lotus flower even though it tastes bitter and makes my tongue curl away from it in horror. I wear skirts because it seems like the grown-up thing to do and I am quieter, more pensive.
I sit with bills and make phonecalls, paying them off one-by one. I call handymen and plasterers and ask for quotes from contractors. I answer emails and eat my pre-packed lunch from tupperware and squirt hand sanitizer into my hand multiple times a day. I wear solid slabs of muted colour: grey, black, beige.
All through primary and secondary school, I played sports.
It was something I fell into as naturally as writing came to me. One day, I was the gangly black kid with the braids and the oversized glasses and the next day, I was inducted into the netball team and the hockey team and the athletics squad.
I ran and I threw javelin and shot put. I bolted around the track with a baton in my hand, eagerly stretching it out for the next girl to take. I spent evenings after school running laps around a stuffy sports’ hall with fifteen other girls; girls who were my friends and my confidantes. We threw balls around, I practiced my defending. I perched on the edge of my seat in Monday morning school-wide assemblies and waited the announcement of the sports results. Sometimes I won player of the match. Sometimes I got injured. Always, I glowed.
Slowly walking the strip-lit trail of a giant blue and yellow furniture store with my sister, whose laughter and enthusiasm is unrivalled, intoxicating and utterly infectious.
Stroking pillows and forming attachments that border on inappropriate to bedframes and bookshelves and swivel chairs.
Clamping hands on an indignant trolley to try and steer it through the aisles of flat-packed furniture, searching for the TV bench that I circled on my list. We giggle and curse and stand around scratching our heads and wondering whether or not that chair in the bargain will fit into the Mazda along with the other purchases (it won’t but that’s okay.)
You know I thought about not posting this. About just writing it and hoping that would be enough to alleviate some of the near-constant pressure behind my eyes that makes my head feel like it’s about to explode. And it did help. But then I thought that not posting this wasn’t really an option and that the fact that I have a blog means that there will be posts that aren’t prettily packaged and presented. Sometimes things just are what they are.
There are roses on my windowsill.
And my toenails are the rich but disturbing colour of dried blood.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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