I have the attention span of a fly; fleeting, perchy, flighty and light on its feet. I am reading a book on how to prevent Fraud in Workplaces, and typing a story whose plot I have yet to conceive, on my laptop. Ariana Grande is singing ‘99 problems‘ in my head—well, because I am too lazy to connect my headphones to my phone and type her name and song title in my Ntertane search box. Nonetheless, I feel rather positive and purposeful today, because I have just set a goal to read for at least one hour every day. I feel like an achiever. I feel like I can fly. Well, literally. Didn’t you know that?!
Soon, a line from Haruki’s book floats in my head. I cannot remember the exact words, but it goes something like: “life is a metaphor.” I smile and muse over it. But isn’t it? I mean, isn’t life really a metaphor? Wait a second! What is a metaphor? I mean, I know the meaning—or at least, an idea of what it means, but I need something more defining, something that conceptualizes. I hurry to my browser button to type in Metaphor. Cambridge says “an expression, often found in literature, that describes a person or object by referring to something that is considered to have similar characteristics to that person or object“. So yes, life is a metaphor.
I remember when I had missed the train to London something about three months ago, because I had had a severe running stomach and stooling problem that morning, because I had eaten too much junk the night before, because I had had a night out with some girls from school, because it had been Anif’s birthday. Because, because, because… and I remember that I had been furious, and worried, and tried to call in at the office I was supposed to have the appointment to reschedule for a later time, but I had been refused such gesture, because I had had to cancel that same appointment two times before, because I had had to meet my Professor who (almost-never-always) traveled all the way from Australia un-announced. And I had only, later that day, then found out that the whole point of my missing that train and not being able to meet up with that appointment that day was that there had been a fire outbreak at the firm, and a number of people had sustained severe injuries. Life is a metaphor.
Deola attends the wedding, on a last-minute change of mind. Francis will be there, so why not? She cancels dinner plans with Goke and asks if he would love to accompany her to a wedding instead. It is a last minute change of plan, and a wedding? Got to be some big deal! But he gets to spend some time with her anyway, so why not?!… and as a plus, he would get to take a lot of random selfies with her, and flaunt them on his Instagram page– #slayingwithDeeDiva #OAPonPoint #whatever-else… anything really, about how dreams come true because he had finally got a chance to hang out with the luscious OAP whom he was so madly in love with, and whom he had been writing about in all of his recent stories. But Deola had other plans for him.
I toss the plot around in my head. Sounds lit! I love Francis’ character, and I know he loves Deola with fervor, and I know it will hurt him to think she has found someone to replace him so quickly. He might ignore her… or, no, he would walk up to her and introduce himself as her ex-boyfriend with the silliest grin ever known, and Deola would blush, and Goke would flush, because—he is just a man, a fan of a great somebody, a struggling writer somewhere in the maze that is Lagos, and he has never been out of Lagos talk more of travelling out of Nigeria, and well, he is just Goke! And there is Francis, the ex, a well-travelled, multinational award-winning music producer, a well renowned philanthropist, and… bottom line! Deola would realize she could have picked a better date to intimidate Francis. Francis will be over the moon because he will see the look in Deola’s eyes and know he has won and that she is still madly in love with him. And Goke, well—Goke will know #IDontBelongHere.
I quickly shake my laptop back to life (because well, it is on screensaver mode, because well, I have been absorbed in my thoughts—staring into space for the past-something minutes). The book on Fraud resumes to view, and I remember how I thought, only some minutes ago, that it was a very interesting book and I would certainly make it through my one-hour goal. I will try again tomorrow! I minimize the page, and set to typing the new plot, furiously, on my Microsoft Word app. I plan to continue on my story for some thirty minutes. I am enjoying the tap-tap sound of the keyboard. They make music to my ears. And then the craving for music sets in. I finally scour for the energy to connect my earphones to my phone. The first song I encounter is Reekado Bankz’ ‘Ladies & Gentlemen’. That’s five minutes into typing. I soon start dancing with my head, then my shoulders, then my hands in the air, then I am up on both feet, moving and twirling—doing like those cute ladies I saw in the video I watched some days ago.
I put the music on repeat. And dance the dance over and over.
My laptop stares, sullen and forgotten, the cursor blinking; the characters begging that I dictate their fate. But I am dancing… and doing some exercise routines that I gleaned off my sister in the process. I plan to exercise for thirty minutes.
Soon, my stomach rumbles. I am hungry. I pick my car keys and plan to head out to Domino’s. Don’t worry, the drive is quite quick, so I should make it through whatever I buy from there before my attention flies off to somewhere or something or someone else again.
But I feel quite tired. Maybe I will just catch some winks and deal with food later.
© The Short Black Girl, 2017.