MindWash

 

          “It’s nothing actually, I’m just washing my eyes.”

          This sounded funny, even in my own hearing, but I just had to find a way of discharging Natasha this time.

          Natasha was a good girl, no doubt about that. She was my closest roommate in the hostel. One of those miserable hostels in a Nigerian university. That was my own view though. Natasha was the only one I could comfortably share stuffs with. But recently, I had begun to withdraw, even from her. I guess she had already started noticing it. From my countenance, it was obvious that it was not only my eyes that I was “washing”, my mind also needed some cleansing.

          “I know you are not feeling well, what exactly is the problem? You know you can confide in me.” She said, trying to get a good sitting position on the foot of my bed, with her flat smallish buttocks… I sure knew that I can possibly tell her everything, but I just needed to leave this one to myself.

          I was actually crying, silently of course. I just laid on my back, thinking about virtually everything thinkable. I didn’t seem to place most things on my mind. I didn’t even remember my Christian fellowship meeting which was meant to begin at 6pm. Who cared anyways? For some time now, I hadn’t been to fellowship and I was practically waiting for any concerned member to show some brotherly or sisterly love to me by calling to know what has been wrong with me. Alas! None called. Now I knew how much they claim to love their members. Anyways… back to the story.

          Natasha, still looking intensely at me started feeling uneasy. I could tell from the way she prompted me to speak, with her ever searching eyes. I didn’t want to make her feel sad. I just had to let it out.

          I had been “washing my eyes” for the past week, curiously thinking of my history, present and future. It started last week Friday when I had a call from my dad. I didn’t want to pick up, in fact, I needn’t. I had made a mistake or probably, taken a bold cowardly step to contact him at the beginning of the year. Now, he’s got my number and could call at any time. I missed him, I must confess. I really wanted to be with him once again, but the circumstances surrounding me had kept me tied. Was it really a problem? I can’t even tell

          My parents had been separated for the past three years and all I could figure out was that the cause was definitely, ME. Having been born as an “out of wedlock baby,” the man I called my father denied me out rightly, probably, because he had no resource to take care of a family then or maybe he was just being irresponsible. I didn’t care less. He finally came back, getting married to my mum and taking me along.

          Family seemed good at first with the prospect of starting anew on a fresh page of life. Even as I envisaged good tidings, it became a situational irony; at least, my literature teacher did a good work. Father became a womaniser, yes, he was. Drinking and keeping late nights became his new lifestyle. I guess my mum couldn’t bear it any longer when he brought in another woman and HIS child into their matrimonial home, or was it, “commotional home?” I can’t tell.

          August 2^nd, 2013, I had to leave the garden city of Port Harcourt and move to the happening city, where else if not Lagos, “Lasgidi.” I went along with my mum of course. It was on the guise of a holiday trip. Months passed and my dad became worried. What had happened to his wife and child? Did he really care? I got to know that tradition did not permit my staying with my dad due to some archaic traditional rites and I guess, rituals that were yet to be performed on my behalf. What a story? Story for the gods right? That was what I thought until reality downed on me. I had my sim card broken and sternly warned not to communicate with anyone from the Ideoba’s, father’s family.

          My mum suffered all these heartaches ‘cos of me. It really hurt. She couldn’t go back, neither could I. Father never made an effort to come look for me. Certainly, that hurt me more. Now, I got a call from him, giving flimsy excuses. All I could tell him was to do what he had to do legally or should I say, customarily, fulfil that absurd tradition, and come get me outta here. I never liked this place. Taking trips of holiday to mum’s sibling’s, I felt dejected. Of course I knew I didn’t belong. Having to see my several cousins, those lucky chaps comfy in their own homes, it got me thinking, why I couldn’t have mine. Now, that hurt me most.

          Definitely, Natasha was still expectant to get a reply from me. I didn’t even remember she still sat patiently, with those tinny legs and her tiny self on my bed. I was preoccupied with these thoughts. I couldn’t do anything else, but to tell her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, just as those law courts clerks would force you to do, only that I wasn’t coerced: I just had to.

          “My dear, it’s ok.” She started out. I even felt pity on myself

          “You don’t understand, these things have been traumatising me recently. I don’t just know what to do.” I said, wiping the almost dried up tears that clung to my cheeks like very young chicks to their mother hen.

          “Look, Benita” she said, now I knew she was serious. That serious side of her ever “jouncing” self. That was how we referred to a playful fellow on campus.

          “… I don’t see any reason why you should be killing yourself over issues like this. Your parents have made their mistakes, it is left for you to learn from it so that you wouldn’t follow their path. For the present issue, I suggest you let your father know that you want him to do the right thing. If he truly wants you, he just has to. If he doesn’t, my dear, you have a whole lot of good talents in you which you need to develop, your academics inclusive. Work on yourself and be the best you can be for yourself…”

          This was a long, long sermon. I knew where she was going. I had dreams and aspirations but it seemed as though I was stagnant. My mum would tell me to face my books, but most times, I get tired of facing those academic books. I wanted to try something new, learn skills, develop my writing ability, get into music and let the whole world hear my voice. I guess, this was another chapter of my thoughts that no one seemed to understand or help me with.

          At a time, I wanted to buy into my dad’s idea of schooling abroad, I really needed a break from here, everything and everyone seemed against me. Nothing I did ever seemed right. I needed my family, I needed love…