Lonesome Dreams - Let Her Go

You know how it's a freaking sunny day in March and you miss the rainy season; or on a wet day in September, you wished the dry season was upon you? Passenger's "Let Her Go" hits me with that feeling all the time. And the flashbacks are nostalgic enough to leave me in tears, barring whether they are for joy or sadness.

I remember them days when my only companions were my laptop and my phone. The laptop which saved me from insanity. She which filled my every moment with work, letting me caress her with ten all the time. She was petite and light, that she could pass for a damsel with a lithe frame. Easy to carry, with a lasting battery. And then the phone which connected me with the all-time love of my life, my momma. There were days when waking up in Monrovia amounted to self-hate. Like, why couldn't I just wake up to the aroma of mummy's akara or puff puff? And indeed like Passenger said, I hated the roads -- whenever I had to up and travel to work through the crevices and arteries of some of West Africa's pristine and uncharted forests, because I missed home.

There were days also, when the rains would not stop falling and I would first bask in the warmth of my bed, sneak out to the varenda with the lads to crack old wily jokes, listen to BBC works service, talk about Liberia and our various futures which were punctuated here and there with near misses and triumphs. Days of orange sunsets by the sea, brought caresses from the sands that washed up recaptives who came to colonize a people, termed barbarians by distant cousins who had tasted the bile and guile of America.

And so, when Passenger says "...know you love her when you let her go", I giggle at the prospects of returning to Monrovia soon, to bask in the beauty that are her beaches and the shenanigans that glorify her slums, business districts and her living quarters of Congotown, Old Road and the Red Lights of Paynesville. Oh, and of the times when I planned and thought I would fall in love with you all over again on the beach. Because, yeah, I admit it that now and then, I think of when we were together. When for reasons I can't explain now, we had undiluted banter, chatter and laughter. You weren't all bad afterall. And I wasn't a saint either. But to treat me like a stranger surely feels so rough. No?

I thought I loved you so much, because what I thought you were, would not let me breathe. And I was cool with intoxicating me with you.

Ah, I told myself you were right for me, but you screwed me over and I can't even count how many times you did that with whomever you chose for the ritual. But being in love with my idea of you, was such an ache, and I still remember. Now, I am addicted to a certain kind of sadness, one which reeks of how I let myself down, how I could have stopped us both from hurting as much as we did, and how I have built a high hedge.

Like I have always done when love gets sour, I build friendships or acquaintances. But, you cut me off. I really wanted us to make out like it never happened and that we were nothing; because we got to that point where we didn't need each others' love no more. Alas, you were eager to move on and heal that pain, by running to the same things which had brought hurt in the first place. Now, you're just somebody that I used to know.

But, I know that in letting you go, I love you enough. Enough to let you find what brings you happyness. Sail on, I've gotta catch up with Monrovia now!

Lonesome Dreams - June Bugs

Port Blue's "June Bugs" makes for a great flashback trigger. The music itself, and the name are unkind reminders to a sorry past, seemingly waning from a love-lost story, though etched in memory. June was the beginning of the end. But it came lazily with a dummy.

It was the seventh month of my countdowns. And I was ecstatic at how good a boy, I have been in the last six months. No guilt of scandals from my end, except the worries of intermittent bouts of quarrels and fights over what I could never fathom were even the problem.

So, during those calculated fights, I saved money. I wasn't losing outrageous airtime and sms charges because of international call rates. And I wasn't reporting every locational shift like a company leader, who must recco with base, for orders on every tactical maneuver.

Then, I met Ene. She was beautiful. Light skinned, lithe in gait. She had this carriage of a newly wed, who was still basking in the glory her tiara bestowed. But Ene was a troubled young wife, who was already love-lost, broken and neck deep in depression. And her makeup, was a succinct decoy.

The flirt innate in me -- now world famously "irredeemable", jumped and took control from there. In minutes, we were warmly introduced and sharing a table at the reception. My friend Efe kept pinging on whatsapp, how fast I was going, and to slow down. Even though I told him to calm down, "I was in charge", I knew that my demons were in charge as usual.

We talked about everything but our love lives; as it seemed like the dead rat in the room, which no one was eager to touch with a pole. Something was common between Ene and I though. We were both starved of healthy conversations. Our eyes radiated it. And that word "chemistry" which my mother warned about as truly existent, was indeed in the air.

She wasn't spotting a ring on any of the fingers that mattered, so I knew I had all green to be free and open with her, before some brute would slap my ears from nowhere. This was how June begun, and it seemed like it would be an easy month of counting down.

But, isn't it so funny how life sets you up as grass in a fight of two elephants, and leaves you in the end with no one to nurse your sufferings because the egos of those elephants are larger than life? Especially, when you're just the grass, meant not to give undue advantage to either of them elephants which are bent on winning the turf war?

A stupid turf war, where it is apparent that both elephants could just agree on boundaries, and share grazing reserves?

The bugs came in June, and left me toxic until I was clinically diagnosed. Until sunset caused a bleak, cold air to blanket my heart. In June, she had decided on a final solution to the problem that was me. I remember those bugs clearly as ever, and I curse every time, why I didn't harken to the bouts of pain that ruled intermittently in the midst of forced laughter.

Eventually, I lost on both sides - a lover who was bent on eating her cake and having it, and a friend who would not accept that there was something I held more dearly than a platonic friendship. For, they both thought I had a thin line between, which allowed me roam freely. Alas!

Maybe it is totally my fault, and I totally deserve the illness June Bugs brought with them.

Lonesome Dreams - Rules

Drew knew her love language was "gifts", so he gifted her with the things she needed. Topmost, was quality time. She loved her man to give her unrivaled attention. No matter where he was, she loved that he was glued to her. His time was valuable to him, and he risked a lot to share it with her.

She talked with a flint in her eyes which conveyed deeper thoughts than her lips could say. Often he would be glued, fascinated by the glow in her eyes when she talked. He loved to listen to her. She would talk about everything and any thing. Sometimes, he felt she was wasting his time, but he'd give it up still, to lend a listening ear.

He shared his library with her. Helping another grow mentally was something he was gifted at. He never was the one who would walk in to anyone's life and not make an impact. He was a potter, who liked to smoothen curves and chisel the malleable.

But, she primed herself with the vanity of life. She'd curse under her breath, why he chose to get her Rich Templar's "Rules" series, instead of that Jimmy Choo pair of wedges she had subtly suggested to him in that magazine at the airport.

He loved to travel, and he liked to bring her along. Not because he liked to be escorted, but because every time he traveled, he learnt something new - cultures, cities, economics, politics, beliefs, etc. And, he thought he needed to share this with her. She liked to hear him call her up to pack for the trips.

She was never the one for packing, so he memorized her wardrobe. He would call her and pick her colors, from her gowns to her shoes, to her cosette. Every time she met up with him, he would take his time to pack her bag properly.

Soon, he learned that it gave him quality time to spend with her. She would talk and tease him, while he folded and packed. Then he would share a few things he had learnt from the minutes he'd spent packing her bag. She liked that he invested time in knowing what she liked to wear, and the colors that tickled her eyes.

But, she loved vanity. And, Peter made her vain. He wasn't one for the long run. He was the perfect profile of the "misfit your girl would cheat with". He spoke with an unclear accent which epitomized his "bad boy" profile. Unruly, brutish with a knack for the booze and his smoke, his nonchalance attracted her to him.

She loved this, everything about him; except Drew was the one who seemed like he wanted a family, to get married, build something for the future. So, she was caught between her needs and her wants.

And, she flung caution to the winds, and plunged headlong for her wants...

Lonesome Dreams - Night We Met

We had quarreled weeks preceding this eventful one. It had bothered on jealousy, flirtations, cheating, trust, lies, and all what not. In truth, I was already getting tired of the whole pettiness, and just kept mute most of the time, and let you do as you pleased. You were already at least ten months in to your blind relationship, which was meant to mirror ours, in the event that you returned and found out that I had someone else; as you had assumed; perhaps fueled by whomever it was that advised you.

You had screamed down my throat, calling me names including "man-whore", for traveling to get some from a cougar, even though it was an official trip for me, and the person you were suspecting, was at least four hours away by speed train. Gosh, I remember me trying to tell the truth, walking through airport hallways, drifting from one internet network to another.

Not even a frequent reporting of my location was enough. Only if I knew early enough that you suffered an esteem disorder, and an insecurity, I would have walked early on. But I was too blind to see. I was too stupid to read the handwriting on the wall. And this hurts so badly, to know that I didn't walk early enough, to save us both from what we live with today. At least, what I live with still.

We quarreled, when I settled in to my hotel room. We were miles away, but your bile was all over the place. I ignored you through out the trip from then, to be able to focus on my assignment, and grasp the best out of it. I made awesome friends, and networked for the good of what took me there. And on my way back, Air France played "Night We Met" by Lord Huron, and I fell in love with the song, and with the night we met, although there was a sour taste in my mouth. I itched to know the singer, and managed to scribble lines on my boarding pass.

A few days later, I found out it was Lord Huron, and I had occupied myself with "Lonesome Dreams". I should have known, but I was too foolish. Too foolish to realize that I was subconsciously preparing myself for the most hurtful of heartbreaks I would ever go through. At the time, it was love and nostalgia of times I thought we had spent in sheer, undiluted love. But the events that unfolded a few weeks later, would go on to prove that they were but a mere act, a front of the real you.

And so, after I forgave you the very night I found out there was more than meets the eye, I plunged deep in to a pit, clasping Lord Huron and Coldplay with me as the towels which managed the flood that ravaged. I was in love with my idea of you. My idea of a broken girl, who wanted to love again, and needed someone to let them love, and love freely. So, I stayed within arm's length, and let you blossom freely. And it hurt, to know that you wanted bad. You wanted to love a bad boy. And I was never a fit for that profile.

In return, you broke me, and asked to be forgiven in the cruelest form I have ever encountered. But, I already forgave, so you didn't need to push. Though, I lived with the hurt for weeks. And weeks turned in to months. Years have passed, and to say there are no residue of hurt, would be to lie. I would never forget the entire experience. Especially the fool's joyride you took me on.

You made it seem like my crime was to be honest in communication with you. You made it seem like being faithful and truthful was a crime that good boys commit. You were already drunk on bad boys. You badly wanted an abuser. For, you were already used to being abused, it seemed odd that you had no constraints, so you abused me. I found an aquifer of good in you, but there was already too much of bad around, that my efforts were not enough. Ofcourse, you were not all bad. And yeah, your focus on the petty things of life, were the thin lines which eventually did everything in.

If only there was a point where you ever trusted me...

Not when I came confessing my wrongs, for sure. Not when I told you them truths, for you wouldn't have called me "irredeemable". And when you pushed me from pillar to post, and helped me bottle the grief I yearned to let out. Not when I dashed out to eke a living, while you stayed hung on your lover, under my roof.

Sometimes, I doubt if my bouts of mood swings are not really depression. Once, I had this feeling throbbing in my head, to just walk on the expressway during rush hour, with my eyes closed. I arranged to meet a physician, and I backed out for fear. Maybe I really should go look me up. And, here I am; leashed to songs. Songs which are now place markers to a memory, to a place, to an event, to an argument, to a time we shared a smile, to a time when I thought of leaving or staying, to a time when all was lost, and I was hopeless on how to gather my shattered pieces. And even though it was said that men don't cry, boy, I knew how to cry myself sore, and cry myself empty. Maybe I really did empty everything that remained a fibre in that ailing heart of mine. Maybe I cried out every capacity to love, and love freely.

Today, I don't listen to those songs freely. For, I remain yoked to the burden they carry with my memory. But maybe one day, I'll be back again. Back to that place where I can love again freely. That place where I can give myself up and not be wary of falling.

My demons are here again, and maybe it's time I face them boldly. So, I am learning to walk again. To go past the fear, and walk the beaches of Mombasa again. Just like I have cooked your favorite meal over and over, it no longer have any undertone to it.

You know, we all heal differently. And I yearn, to be friends with you again. Friends, not because I want to get back with you again, but because I want the forgiveness to be complete. It wasn't enough that we met at the cinema, and said "hi" in a tensed manner. It's not enough that you liked my instagram pictures, and told your friend to "say me hi to him".

I also yearn, to move on completely!

HARK NOT, LARK

Hark not unto sorry tales, Lark
Amidst ashes, Spring yields tulips
If life doles goodwill in equal measures
Seize thy bidding while you can