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.

I'M NOT CHEATING ON YOU

She told me about Chimamanda's book, Americanah that she was reading. The part where the lad traveled to school and left his girl in the care of his friend. We both laughed over skype, knowing fully well what transpired next, even though I had not read the book. In truth, she was talking to me, but I was too dumb to realize the logic. For she was already long gone in to the arms of another man. It was in March. It still froze. My judgment was beclouded with love - that ghost - to realize that the cold would send her into the bed of another. Lucky chap. Maybe a lonely Briton. Perhaps a lout.

Things were still rosy, even though I had raised eyebrows at the Facebook chat she had screengrabed and shared with me. The 'unknown' admirer. And then there was the birthday gift. Little did I know that the gifts were given in December, barely a few months after she had left for Wales. These two were tell-tale signs that Deola had left me. But I was still being stupid. We talked alot about the thickness of her winter jacket, the shop where she could get groceries from Nigeria, her coursework and the laptop I was saving up to get her. I hated for her to go to her friend's place first before we could skype. The privacy was non-existent.

I, Dimka Bernard was still love struck, and tied to the 'faithfulness' stake while she rode day and night by his side to school, then to the opera, the beach and even his bed. We argued over the email I had received from an anonymous person about spotting her and the Briton kissing on Bangor's streets. She chided me that it was a moment for my trust for her to be tested, "I am not cheating on you. People who know you online, see me interact with friends and course mates, and they freak out". I agreed. Though I was going through a rough patch, I was focused on her. She had just one year to spend in Wales and hopefully I will grow up to be that man who was right for her. I had swore, she'll be my last bus stop, so I invested every emotional resource I could muster. I was such a fool for love. A big one indeed.

I have now ended up in a pool of my own tears, with rage, anger, regrets, hate and grief as mates. For Deola riled me up to quarrel with her over my‪#‎WomanCrushWednesday‬ post on instagram of Bolanle Olukanni. Though Bolanle and I were good friends on snapchat, it was only on twitter that we grew our friendship. She was engaged to the father of her two year old son. I was secretly - which Deola hated with everything - in a relationship. And while in angst, she said she was walking away from what we shared.

Such silly jokes I thought. "How can you even break up with me on whatsapp? So I set about lending a car to drive to MMIA2 to pick her up in August when she was returning with her Masters. But she walked out of the "Arrivals" door, arm locked with a lad who had a moustache and an air about him that reeked of moral decline. She saw me and paused in shock. I gathered my now wobbly legs and dashed out into the milling crowd, half lost, half in rage as my chest to the left began to ache

EDEGBO AGAIN

I have not seen your voice 

The canary of dawn's worship 

Crackling chuckles for the anger-lion's cow 

The slithering hiss from a stung heart 

My axe is raised, the heaven-lies stirred 

You will ride echo's cart 

The lull of my plea to bring you home 

My yearn, waiting to be doused

TO BE YOUR LAST FIRST KISS

After bouts of shredding barks
When in sorrow's shackles tears flow
And in darkness' height depression looms
I want to be your last first kiss

When sad tales flourish untold
How they all came and left
Each with a splinter to the shatter
I want to be your last first kiss

In the days of depression
When the next day is a miracle
And strength to live through lacks
I want to be your last first kiss

Though they blow up my chance
And fear of another breakup overthrows
Making persistence hard to believe
I want to be your last first kiss

Though naivety and sobriety be lost
Countless times a chance afresh
Yet a familiar victim of heartbreaks
I want to be your last first kiss