it’s hard to hear above the din.
it’s strange to admit that a book can tell your story without really telling your story. that a nigerian living in the states can pluck at your bitterness and desperation.
and true to form, i can only speak of it as i could speak of relationships because truly, i am only fluent in that language.
it began with late at night before turning in, the lamp and only the cold, and you fall head long in. and you savor, leaving for real life because you know you’ve hidden sweetness somewhere and that it is there. until it turns to something else, and you are surprised how it tastes and feels like home, and memory, and love, even if really the images are not yours, the pain is not yours, the longing even is not yours. until it reveals everything that isn’t about you and therefore is about you. and you are left raw and exposed and vulnerable. and free.
it is discovering that getting what we truly want means annihilation of something else within us.
all this, and i know i’m not talking from my heart. like i’m playing at being the emotional and sensitive person i used to be.