OBIAJULU.

Obiajulu.

There are days you will never forget.

Those days are not always the grand adventures that bring rivers of adrenaline and a pounding in your ears, echoing your rapidly beating heart. Sometimes it’s a quiet day, a peaceful morning with your belly full of food.


It’s a morning that finds you in a white robe with nothing beneath, your skin white because you didn’t have Vaseline or cocoa-butter cream in your bag when you left your house the previous day, you didn’t know you would see sunrise outside your bed. But you are happy with your white skin, it is a reminder of the glories of the previous twenty-three hours. No regrets, you think.

You are downloading a book, well eight books. The book hoarding disorder that plagues you, refuses to let you rest. If you spent the rest of your life only reading books, you wouldn’t exhaust the books you already have by your fiftieth birthday. Your laptop on the cushion of the balcony ledge with the keyboard between your legs and the monitor partly shielding the path to the garden of Eden and of blissful secrets and sin.

You smile when he joins you, putting your headphones down so you can hear him, the music continues regardless, a tiny electronic whisper that isn’t unpleasant. You both sit in silence, he’s reading a newspaper and you are checking on the progress of your downloads, the brown water of the lagoon ripples and dances at the corner of your left eye.

The song from your music player changes to Hot Stuff by Donna Summer and you bury your head deeper into your laptop and swallow your smile. You can feel his eyes on your face, just waiting for your eyes to catch his. You look at your laptop a little more firmly, you are determined not to look up.

But somehow you fail, you look up to see his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. You burst into laughter, his eyes are your weakness, the twinkle in them even when he looks serious and stern. They transform his face when they are lit and squeeze your heart like a determined boy squeezes a wet towel, because you know they do not twinkle for just anyone.

“Do you want some hot stuff?” He asks

You giggle and blush. If you got anymore hot stuff, you would turn red like ata wewe, the tiny pepper that burns the entire mouth.

At the time you sent the song to him a few days ago when you rediscovered it after many years, you knew he would understand why you sent it. That you wouldn’t have to write him a thesis or draw him a map for him to know exactly what you meant and how you meant it.

Now that you think of it, you realise that it is probably the most amazing thing about being with him, you do not seem nearly as complicated as you usually do. With him, peace and light and laughter are easy, they wait in the wings all the time.

You smile at him again and begin to plot when you would get some more hot stuff, even if you are consumed by the flames. The brown water of the lagoon continues to ripple as you thin;, speedboats marring the smooth indentation of the waves as they soar through and you feel nearly as buoyant as them. Happiness as light as helium surging through you.
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Your heart is full.

Obiajulu

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