A DAY IN THE LIFE

It was a mighty struggle. Permutations and combinations had taken place and an idea was beginning to form. I could still make it, just a few minutes wouldn’t matter, would it? But then, with a gigantic effort, I wake up. It had not been a dream, I was merely struggling to wake up. The wardrobe beckons. What? I ironed this stupid piece of coloured fabric yesterday, yes? Thankfully, there was still light. The PHCN guy at the controls must be lenient or just a lumbering, slumbering oaf. Well, not being grateful for life’s little miracles wasn’t how I got this far. I iron the shirt. The pants still look pretty good, no show there. It must be disappointed but I’m past caring.

I must go...oh God!, I sigh. There’s still the car to take care of. It might not be much of a chore if it wasn’t a bumbling jeep – and given gravity’s love for me, I had to use a stool to reach the middle of the top of the thing. I reminisce about the days I would sleep till 10am, not a care in the world to bother about. Well, eating and then sleep-reading and...are not exactly cares now, ba? Now I’m saying ba? This chique must be messing with my head. My thoughts go to D.O Fagunwa’s famous words: egbe ni fun omokunrin to ba ji, to gboro obinrin saya. I push the girly thoughts away as quickly as they had come. They keep wanting to stage a comeback and alas, they succeed. I had been thinking about girls first thing in mornings and see how I turned out. Not bad. Let stuffy quotes stay where they belong – stuffy, long-empty graves.

I take my bath.  I admire my hair in the standing mirror. I try to think of sitting mirrors. Ah, the English language. I always admire my additive-free hair like this. God loves me a lot. I don’t have to spend the annual budget of Nauru to make it look good. I have a feeling all these exotic chemicals will make their users go bald at long last. Not much time today though, much less trivial things await. I don’t want to use a body cream but I get a lot of stick these days for becoming the human version of toast bread. Neglecting my skin is pushing me towards looking like a Ghanian...well, not quite. I’m still light years lighter than those coaly lot. I rush downstairs. I swipe some of my brother’s Jergens body cream. Who calls a cream Jergens? Apparently, they sell and I wonder how. It sounds like a name my grandmother would give a product and she probably hasn’t even stepped past the gates of a school, EVER! I seem to recall my father told me about her harassing a teacher of his then. That must count as one.

I dress up. Now, to see how I look in a mirror. A little tuck here, a little stretch there and uhn, almost looking good. I’ve never understood man’s propensity for discomfort. Why all the hubbub, when I can simply throw on a T-shirt and jeans? Rome and Romans, I guess I must adapt and whip my carefree nature into shape. Speaking of which, I can’t possibly get to Ekiti and behave like a Lagosian. Whoever came up with that saying-cum-adage-cum-proverb must have been on premium Afghan heroine, if it was around then. That has to be the only substance I can readily think of that can induce the numbness of mind required for such adages. Perhaps he was just trying to narrow his options but couldn’t he have used somewhere else...like Lagos? “When thou art at Lagos, do as they do in Lagos.” I decide I can’t look better and I leave the mirror. What a boring life it lives, staring at nothingness for much of its lifespan, except if it belongs to Lagos girls, or girls in most parts of Nigeria for that matter.

...To be continued