Sometimes I’m not sure why I’m doing something. Like this working out thing. I quit my job last Sunday, and joining a gym seemed like a very logical next step, never mind that I weigh 45kg/99lbs and have an amazing (read as “good”) body. I don’t know what my therapist will say about this — quitting my job, that is. I don’t care. Life does stuff to you. Sometimes you endure enough of a person or situation and when you can no longer do so, you weigh your options and pick the best… or the second best — murder is still a crime. You’re young, you should do what makes you happy. Right? No? Fuck all that anyway.
I’m in Ibadan and it’s raining. Earlier, as the cab driver drove through Moniya, I was hit by a painful knowing, a painful longing. I saw a house. I thought it was THE house; the little inlet was right where memory said it had been and the storey building next door was as it had been. The shop where the old albino woman had sold polybags was still across the road Sis couldn’t cross because she was afraid of cars. I called Ma immediately and asked her if Ita Baale Olugbode was in Moniya. She said no. I told her about the house. I said it was THE house, Baba’s house. She said, “No, it couldn’t have been. Baba’s house is in Oranyan.” THE house is one of my earliest memories. I feel like I have buried things in those early years — things I need to find. Sometimes, I think that if I could walk along my roots, I’d be fixed. That’s why I put THE house in my story, Re-Memory. Now, I find that there are corridors of memory that the rains of time erode and shape-shift.