I have this recurring premonition of how I will die. I will be hit by a car. Sometimes it changes from a car to a bus, but mostly it is a car. I will lie there, with blood pouring out of my nose. My breathing will be incredibly laboured but I will be alive, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Speaking of teeth, I imagined some of these would be knocked out and crushed to a white powdery form by other cars who don’t want to stop to see the mess my body would have become. As life slowly dissipates from my body, I will hear the few people who stop to enquire ask the offending driver whether he was drunk. As their voices fade, I will wonder what he will say in response to their question about his inability to see the very tall girl who was crossing the road in luminous running gear.
The driver changes from male to female ever so often, but one thing that remains constant is the fact that the last conscious thing I hear before I depart this earthly vale is a voice that says with intense sadness.
“Would you look at those legs? What a shame… such a beauty!”
How odd is it that the one thing I spent my life trying to deny is the recurring factor in my death premonitions? I don’t know if the things I see are in a dream or in a vision, but I have become familiar with them. I am right there, like a prop on the stage: the constant element of these visions, with the actors and scenery varying with every episode.
From once every other month, they have become monthly episodes. I felt my skin rise at thought, and considered ringing my mother to talk about it. Ah! That would be a complete mistake. I could already hear it: “I am going to ask my pastor to pray about it. God will drive the spirit of death away from me and mine. My God is faithful, you will not die young”
I stopped believing in God a long time ago, but I’d never tell my mother that. Not because I am trying to preserve her from any self-harm. On the contrary, it works better for my sanity if we all leave the issue of the existence of God and my belief or otherwise.
The doorbell broke me out of my reverie. Time to go running. I heard my flat mate mosey around in the hallway and thought about holding still for a few minutes so I wouldn’t have to make small talk. Deciding against it, I downed the now warm dark and creamy drink, grabbed my parker and iPod then headed out.
He came towards me with a package in his hand and a big bright smile.
“Hey,Tara! I haven’t seen you in a while. Loving Swansea and its special weather yet?
If I had a new hair follicle for every time someone asked this question, I wouldn’t have to invest so much money in Organics Temple Balm.
“The weather’s great. Thank goodness the rains have let up now”.
Oyinbo people like talking about the weather. It was a whole issue that needed dissecting and analyzing all the time. For someone who was thinking of a response to quickly help her get rid of Marc, I surely picked the wrong one.
Every time someone asked me how I was enjoying the city, I had a default response. Did I find it markedly different from Lagos? Well, I did but I wasn’t about to launch into an expose on the divergence between the two cities… so I kept it simple.
How was I finding Swansea?
Swansea was great like everywhere I had lived in the UK, There were some things I found intriguing; like the kissing – in public. Everywhere you turned someone was shoving a tongue down another person’s throat. In the cafe, theatre, on the queue at Costa… I mean everywhere. Lips were constantly locked, with a lot of fondling. Nobody cared who was looking.
I tried not to stare all the time but it was hard. It was amazing – truly amazing to see such freedom to exhibit all that wantonness. All the thick wavy hair that was pushed aside to provide access for that super sensitive spot… right there behind her earlobe.
“So do you have any family here?”
My distant yet polite smile had done nothing to shake Marc off. I’m guessing my running clothes were not a proper indication that I was going out and not merely out in the hallway to provide Saturday morning entertainment.
Marc was quite the hottie and for that reason, I figured my running could wait a few minutes. He was a little above 6ft tall because his head of black hair was slightly beneath my line of sight. I’d never asked but his skin tone and accent gave a hint of a mixed heritage -like an espresso with just the right amount of cream for someone who doesn’t like lattes. He had a firm jaw with a nose that stuck out of his face like an angry beak.
“When you say ‘here’ do you mean Swansea?”
“Well, I meant here in the UK. You mentioned that you are from Nigeria”
Oh, damn! He did have incredible set of teeth. I smiled again; this time it was warm and genuine.
“Yes, I am originally from Nigeria. My mother and I moved here when I was 17. Here, being London and later, Manchester.”
“Oh. I was trying to figure out the accent.”
“What accent?” This laughter that escaped from throat… whose was it? soft, gentle and true
He laughed too, giving his pale green eyes the sheen of a twinkle.
“Tell me about yourself.” He leaned against the radiator, propping his right hand on the coats hook above him. “Do you realize this is the first time we’re actually chatting?”
I like him. He’s bold and doesn’t think I’m aloof. But now is NOT the time to socialize with your housemate, Marco.
“Can we do this some other time? I really need to go for my run now.”
He looked crushed; or maybe I imagined it.
“Catch you later then.”
I walked towards the door, stopping to pick my key from the table by the door. I looked at the mirror – my landlord’s attempt at giving the space a bigger outlook. This girl staring back at me did not look beautiful.
What I saw in the mirror was broken, not beautiful.
It’s the wrong B word
To be continued...