Poetry

THE VISIT By Sola Fatoba

Written by Editor

Now in a medium-sized room painted in plum purple and some kinda urban magenta purple at about 16:20 GMT-4 in Washington, DC, USA, feeling surprised at how peaceful I felt in the usual heat that was supposed to make me sweat like a squeezed wet foam. Part of me strongly felt familiar with the heat. I sat at the edge of my bed which I would call a master bed if I was asked what type of bed I was sitting on. Just the same way I felt that I did yesterday and every previous day sitting at the edge of my bed, I was looking through the window as if I was paying attention to every thing I could see through the window. Anyone who looked through the window would have wondered if I was expecting them to look because my gaze was seemingly focused, but I was deeply lost in thought. People were scantily passing by. Majority of the few people passing were carrying their umbrellas due to the temperature that the sun has today like other days. Cars that passed had their glasses wound up. I could tell that the reason passers-by were not many was because of the scorching sun and the cars had their glasses wound up because their owners had their air conditioners on.

Despite not paying attention to what I could see through my window, I could make a rewind in my head and do a thorough headcount of how many people I have seen passed through the street while I was looking frowningly at the space. This further suggests the scantiness of the passers-by. I could hear the sound of a needle if it dropped in this room. This tranquility seems peaceful. It is really hot but I love this peace. I love this silence.

While I was still wondering why I feel so relaxed in such scalding heat, the silence in the room was broken by the cracky sound made by the door to my room at Odò Òròbò Street, off Akin Àkéjù street, Òkè-Ìlá, Adó Èkìtì. I had been sleeping on my regular bed place on my patchy carpet. I had profusely sweated so much that I left a shadow of my whole body on the bed such that anyone could tell how I slept even without witnessing when I slept.

Bra’egun is back, he had opened the door and met the bulbs off. I heard him ask from almost a thousand miles away ‘why to fi pa’na na, won ti mu’na de o’ (why did you put off the light, they’ve restored the light), after which he put on the light. This was when I opened my eyes that I was not closing initially and I realised I had been dreaming. The loyal Nigerian in me wanted to shout ‘Up NEPA’, but the US citizen in me who had just visited the States in my dream shut the noise up in my head.

I had mixed things up in my dream. Nice environment, comfortable room, a tranquil afternoon, atmosphere conducive for thinking and many more. All of which are contrary situations of what we have in Nigeria. I had mixed them with a frowning face, a scorching sun and a scalding heat; a typical 2019 Nigerian situation.

I loved what I was feeling. I loved the bed I was sitting on, the window I was looking through, the silence I had access to, and the beautiful sight I could see from my lovely window in the dreamland. I loved that heat I felt in the dream, but not this one I feel here. I like the dreamland. But they are all not real. They are in the dreamland and might remain there. They are things I had created with my imagination. I enjoy life, but I enjoyed the dreamland more. Regardless, I will chase the dream I have fallen in love with. I will bring the dreamland into reality. I will make it accessible to myself any time I want to visit my dreamland.

About the author

Editor

Bada Yusuf Amoo holds B.A in Literature in English from Obafemi Awolowo University, he is the publisher of thespeakingheart.com. He started the website in 2015, he has published both his works and other budding writers and poets on the website. He is a public commentators and his articles are on different websites.