TO THE OTHER MAN

Image from here

Dear Other Man,

You will know it when she starts to tire of you. The light you now see in her eyes will grow dim. The intensity will drain from your conversations. She will seek you out less often. She will not stare into your soul as much. She won’t shake her head and do her little inner chuckle. You, you will be left feeling like a man slowly dying of thirst. And she will be the water tower, exalted far above your reach. I should know.

I have become background noise; the one-time hit now fading into nothingness. I’m that wallpaper you barely even notice. And you, you’re her Mona Lisa hanging in the spotlight. The mystery of your almost-smile has captured her. I can’t see your face but I know you’re there, enjoying every minute; because I’ve been where you are. 

Now, she hangs on to every word you say. You can see this, but that won’t stop her from telling you anyway. She will tell you how much she values your insight, how many times she read your last text message, how her heart races when she hears your voice on the phone. You will see the pleasure in her eyes every time she sees you; she won’t even try to hide it. She will hold your hand each time you cross a street together, letting your body shield hers, and you will know how it feels to be God. In the periods of measured silence between you, you will find yourself aching for her. You will call her. You will revel in her delight.

But as with all things that were once new, you will get old. Your stories will start to sag and fold in all the places that were once firm and tight; and you will be helpless, trying to prop them up, to plug the holes now appearing like those ‘Whack-a-Mole’ moles. She will come to know the end of every adventure story before you tell it. She will know of better ones and she will tell them, her eyes challenging you to top them, to do something to make her look. And with all your strength you will want to. You’d give your next breath to be able to. 

But you will see yourself losing her. That, dear current Shiny New Thing, will suck the air from your lungs. When you begin to fade from her sight, you will know how I feel. You will see it coming, and you will be unable to redeem yourself. And that, my friend, will kill you. I should know.

Sincerely,

Wallpaper

SALFORD QUAYS

Here are pictures from Salford, Manchester, home of Media City, The Lowry, The Imperial War Museum North, Trafford Centre, Old Trafford Stadium and so on. Salford Quays is a great place to be on a warm, sunny day, and it has not seen the last of me yet! 

The Imperial War Museum, one of the places to see in Salford/Manchester

This white tank, it played war... I think...

Outside the museum

Not sure what these things are, but there are faces on them. Some kind of memorial maybe.

BBC buildings

View from high up in the museum

Lovely view of footbridge

See the reflection in the water?

Black and white solves everything.

Sometimes signs will look artsy in photos. Not sure this was one of those times though.

Old Trafford Stadium 

Cos we loves our feets

Back photo courtesy of Miss Pemi

2013 FARAFINA TRUST CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP

It's that time again, writing people! The 2013 Farafina Trust Creative Writing workshop is now open to applicants. The workshop is taught by Orange and Commonwealth Prize winning author, Chimamanda Adichie, Caine Prize winning author, Binyavanga Wainaina, and others.

To apply, send a sample of your writing (fiction or non-fiction) to udonandu2013@gmail.com with the email subject 'Workshop Application'. The body of your email should contain:

1. Your name

2. Your address

3. A few sentences about yourself

4. A writing sample of 200 to 800 words

Note: Do not send your writing sample as an attachment. Any applications with attachments will be automatically disqualified. 

Need convincing? I participated in the 2011 workshop, and here are nine reasons you might want to give it a go. 

Need more info? Visit Farafina's blog.

Chimamanda and Binyavanga

AMERICANAH IN LAGOS

Chimamanda will be in Lagos promoting her latest novel, Americanah, so stop by if you can. The e-flyer below shows dates and locations. Americanah is published in Nigeria by Farafina. 

TALKING PHOTOS #3: Verity

Verily Verity

He went up the stone walkway to number five and rang the bell. Standing on the doorstep, he raised the collar of his jacket with his free hand and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A cold wind was blowing and he wished someone would come quickly to the door. When the door swung half open, there was nobody there. He looked down, and smiled. 

“Hello.”

She blinked up at him, a stuffed sheep under her right armpit, the little finger of her left hand tucked between pink lips. He wrinkled his nose and looked at the clipboard in his hand.

“Little lady, are you… Mrs. Hodge?”

“That’s my mommy.” Her finger muffled her words.

“Oh. Well, will you go get her for me then? Please.”

“Uh-huh.”

She stood there still, her head cocked, examining his face. And in spite of the cold and the dark gathering clouds, in spite of the packages he still had to deliver all around the city, in spite of this house and how it was, painfully, nothing like his, he reached into his pocket and took out a coin. He smiled. He tossed it into the air, watching the girl’s head bob up and down with each throw, waved it around in front of her eyes until… wait, where did it go?

“Oh no,” he said, with a frown. “Where’d it… where…?”

The girl was biting the finger now, twisting one big toe into the wooden floor of the hall.

“Oh, hey, li’l miss,” he said, reaching behind her ear. “If you don’t mind…”

When he presented his hand before her eyes again the coin was there. “And voilà!”

“Ah!” Her eyes went wide, her little finger hanging onto her lower teeth. He chuckled.

“Verity… Verity. How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not to answer the door.” The voice, with the hurried footsteps of its owner, was coming from down the hall. A young woman appeared at the door wearing an apron, a dishtowel in one hand.

“Hi.” She glanced from his face to the girl’s.

“Hello. Delivery for Mrs. Hodge.”

“That’s me,” she said. Her pink face wore a layer of sweat, and he could smell the kitchen on her. He gave her the clipboard, with a pen, to sign. When she returned it, he handed her the dozen red roses and the box of Godiva chocolates. Her smile was genuine, albeit unsurprised, when she took them. She read the note attached to the flowers.

“It’s from daddy.” She said to the girl. She looked back at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Have a lovely Valentine’s Day.”

“You too.”

He turned and walked back to the road, feeling the weight of each step. It was starting to rain. When he opened the door of his car, he turned to glance at the house again and their eyes met. She was standing at the window, the finger still in her open mouth, the sheep now in the crook of her elbow. Her free palm was open, splayed against the window. With the index finger of her other hand, she had raised the hem of her shirt – absently, it seemed to him. He sighed. There had been many days like this, when his daughter would push her face into the living room windows, her tongue out, and contort it into funny shapes as she watched him leave for work. And he would wave and she would wave. And he would wave back. But that was a long time ago, before she’d grown up and out of his life.

He turned fully to look at her. Then he took off his cap, and with a flourish, he made a bow. When he looked up again she was laughing, her finger out of her mouth, and clapping her little hands with delight, careful not to let go of her sheep. He got into his car and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. But his smile stayed on the whole day.

GOOD FOR LAUGHS

If you think Twilight: Breaking Dawn is the Best Thing Ever (!), you probably shouldn't watch this... He-he-he.

TALKING PHOTOS #2: Record

What see you?

Record 
by Pemi

He was alone, like he always was these days. With nothing to do, time stretched before him like an empty notebook, no pen to fill its stark pages. 

She was his work. His job, his hobby, his occupation. Now she was gone, there was only nothingness left to sit by his side in the late hours of the evening; stilling his fidgeting fingers and squeezing his aching heart. On this night, his mind, as it was prone to, wandered to the hour she finally lost the fight.

“C’mon babe, we’ve been to the brink and back, we can get pass this. Breathe, Sarah. C’moon!”

Her wheezing was the only reply to his words. His hands fluttered and soothed, rubbed and caressed; doing what they always did – this was their dance, she ailed, he nursed. But even he had known, although he’d never admit it to himself, that her end was near. Her smile had grown dimmer, her eyes drifted away more often than ever before. She was slipping from him, sand through fingers.

She shook her head, stilling his hands. Her heated chest rising and falling slower than his heart. A butterfly tug had his hand clasped in hers; his cheek flush against her burning one.

“Babe…” she whispered. “...love...”

He didn’t bother protesting, tears hotter than her skin escaped his eyes. His shoulders hunched forward. “I love you, Sara. Don’t go.”

Her soft breath escaped her mouth in frail gasps, the meds he had consistently forced down her throat now hanging like a vapour over their heads.

“…ash… record...”

And these were the last words she spoke; most of them undecipherable, lost in the abyss between life and death. When they had come to gently wrench him from around her cold body, first time at that temperature in a long long time; he coiled up into himself, rocking to their favourite concerto.

Now, his mind went back to her words. Ash. Record. Ash record. They had tons of records and he had gone through each one but none came in an ash casing. He needed to understand what she meant. What her last words meant. Frustrated, he reached for the record that had helped them through many a painful night, and him after she… left.

Spreading his fingers over its purple casing, he started to pull it out then froze. A memory fluttered to him, not unlike the trickle of breeze that ruffled the hair above his neck. In that moment, he felt her presence.

“So sad we live in a state with no beaches, I want to die in the ocean!”

“Please, no death talk tonight.”

“For real though, imagine my soul dancing with the waves. It would be perfect. The agility… zest that I lacked in life, I’d gain in death. Tumbing and rolling and...”

“Okay. Enough now.”

“Grumpy gramps!” She’d said before sticking out her pale tongue.

His hands traced the waves on the record cover. Yes, her ashes belonged in the ocean.

Talking Photos #1