I haven’t been able to write for a while now, and it’s honestly scaring the breath out of me. Almost every day, or if i’ll be honest with you, every second, I sit– phone in hands, eyes on screen, fingers on keypads– waiting for the magic to come. For the echoes in my head to turn to music, or even noise– just something, you know? And I start with a name; like Sally Tin, or Jerome Ice… yes, it seems these days my thoughts have gone international. No “Tope Balogun”, or “Ishola Akande”, no– and maybe that’s the problem. My mind is accustomed to the richness of the Nigerian folks. The richness that enraptures you from the ring of their name in your ears, to the make of their beings.
Anyways, from the names, I move on to something like how Tom Ford’s and Louboutins make their click-click sound on the ground; men in suits, women in LV’s and Guccis– but then again, maybe this is the second problem. My mind is quite accustomed to the suave sexiness of what lies beneath those awe-crazy expensive studs, wears, and shoes. It’s more about the “in” of “inside”, the core, the being. No! Don’t get ideas. Not the body. What is “the body”? My mind is about the soul. The rawness. The crudeness.
Yet… wait for it, this is the real problem. Okay, let’s reshuffle the problems– put this as the first, and let the other two come next. My mind wants to write about the sexiness of the soul in a character, how it makes love to another, without trying. The connection, the chemistry– of minds, not skins; but Marvin, Marvin is all about the appearance now. The poise. The make. But mind thinks, “the dress does not make the man, the man makes the dress”. And who is the man? He is his soul! I wish Marvin would listen. I wish he’ll just not try to tow the lines of patriachy and pose to me that I appear to be towing the lines of feminism. I mean, that’s wrong! He thinks I am mushy. In fact, he thinks all women are! But I say, we cannot take passion out of things. There is passion in everything, e.v.e.r.t.h.i.n.g. In how we breathe, how we live, how we be– at work, at home, between the sheets, entwined on the floor. Everywhere. It stains everything. It is the colour of everything! How can he not see it? How?!
“Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping… waiting… and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir… open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us… guides us. Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love… the clarity of hatred… the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d be truly dead.”
I am a little furious now. Okay, scratch that. I am very mad! Marvin has changed. He has. And he won’t speak up, he won’t say what’s wrong. Maybe i’ll give him some space. Darn! I think I will. I can do without him. Or can I? No, I can’t. That is exactly why I am scared. Remember? Remember the first line of this note?– “I have not been able to write for a while now, and it’s honestly scaring the breath out of me”… yes, I feel like if he goes– like, if he just goes, you know? Like we go our separate ways, and give each other some space; and ‘m here, seated with my phone in my hands, my eyes on the screen, and fingers on the keypad, and nothing– not music, or noise, or word, or sound– comes, I feel that maybe that will be the end of me.
I. Just. Can’t.
And. It’s. Killing. Me.
Killing me softly– Lauryn Hill
© The Short Black Girl, 2016.