Three months have gone by so fast I didn't see it coming. Wasn't it December, or January, when I hadn't yet decided to attend film school...? Many weeks of contemplating if the journey would be worth it? Wow.
Look at my life. What's changed since then, except for two strands of silver hair and darker skin? I'll tell you what. Something fundamental.
When I began writing this prose I almost forgot what it means to 'sit before the blank page with utter humility and respect for it.' I told myself, "You're a screenwriter now, Michael. No one can tell you nothing." But I was wrong. For many hours the white page stared at me, blankly. It said, "Watchu gonna do, 'Writer'?'" I am finally at the feet of mercy, ready to lay all my burdens down.
Lagos opened me. Like a fresh rose it unfurled the tension I'd been hoarding for quite some time. It taught me to scream when I am upset; to look into the eyes of my aggressor and, with a robust whisper, firmly say: "I don't like what you have done to me."
Just yesterday, a friend and I where having an argument.
"You will miss Lagos," he said. "I know you will."
"Me? Miss Lagos?" I laughed. "It's like you don't know me. Lagos that there are mosquitoes, bad water, harsh sunlight - nothing wey I never suffer for this city - and you say I will miss it."
Seated in the comfort of my home in Abuja few hours later, the lights out(as usual - PHCN), and, pampanana! I MISS LAGOS. Lagos was a boat cruise for me. I learnt to feel the ripples of the ocean with my fingers. To stare into someone's eyes, with tears in my mine, and not feel ashamed. Lagos taught me that I can be evil, too - a bad person, unkind, but an angel nevertheless. Lagos taught me compassion. It taught me that to stare courageously at the sun you need sunglasses.
I miss Maggie, my on and off girlfriend. She and I would argue, yell at the top of our lungs, and when the moon was out, and everyone had retired to their beds from pulling us apart, we would find ourselves sulking in each other's cradle, letting our watery eyes do the sorry. I miss her stew and okro soup.
I miss Gardea. I miss him so much. The best room-mate I have ever had. He taught me to never look down on myself. To see myself as valuable. I miss his wide laughter. His shiny teeth. The twinkle in his eyes when he found something funny, or amusing. I miss how he always wanted everyone to iron his clothes for him. I miss his acheke - Liberian garri porridge, more or less. And I also miss how he sang his pregnant wife to sleep every night.
"She is almost due," he would say, smiling warmly. "I'm trying to calm her down. She is afraid. But I've told her nothing would happen. She will give birth, safely."
I miss Rejae. Her dramatic poise, the tenderness within that people rarely see. She taught me to be outspoken. To see life as fleeting - today you're here, to-morrow you're gone. She taught me to say the things I mean, and mean the things I say. I miss her saying, "Oh, my days" , "Oshe" , and "I'm so dead."
I miss Pere. The maturity of his heart and mind. His generous spirit. His lightheartedness. He taught me to see age as nothing but a number. Taught me to strife to be ahead in compassion, empathy, and open-mindedness. He taught me these things by his actions.
I miss Obinna. The trips we took to the beach. Running towards and away from the ocean. Our dance routines. Because of him, I will never forget Runtown. Obinna taught me a man is supposed to be kind to all, and not a few. He taught me the night can be just as fun as the day. He taught me to dance under the disco light.
Washing my father's car this morning, a friend telephoned me.
"So what's next?" he said. "What next for you?"
"Well, at the moment I'm washing my father's car," was my reply.
"So it's back to the same old routine?" he said.
I taught about what he'd said for a bit, stared up at my father's window, wondering if he was looking down at me. Then I said to my friend:
"No. It's not back to the same, old routine. I will go back to Lagos. I just need the next two weeks to write a new script for sale. Prove to myself, if I'm able to sell it, that the dream is worth it."
Three days before yesterday, I visited a brothel in Surulere. I was with my friends, Tony and Tofunmi. I just wanted to see what went on there . We went in, and it was a hallway filled with pretty girls.
"I love your lips," said one to Tony.
"I love your height," said one to me.
"You are my speck," said one to Tofunmi.
We sat there, in a large room filled with men and women watching football, caressing and twirling against each other's greasy bodies. It was an amazing experience. The girls gave us lap dances. Tony said writers need to experience life in its entirety, that they cannot afford to be boxed. "Because how can you write what you haven't experienced?" he said.
Today I watched a movie: 500 Days of Summer. Summer was a girl who led Tom on. Tom was the fairytale type of guy, the kind who believed in true love. But Summer? She was plain, old aloof, never really seemed connected with Tom, but Tom didn't know that - he was in love.
In the end, Summer found the man of her dreams while reading a novel. He'd walked up to her and asked her if that was the book he thought she was reading, she probably laughed, I don't know, but she told Tom that was the moment she knew she'd found 'the one'.
To cut the long story short, Tom, heartbroken, quit his job at the card company, and decided to chase his dreams of being an architect. While at an interview for an architectural job, what do you know? - He ran into a pretty girl, who said she'd seen him before, at a park. Tom said he couldn't remember seeing her. And she said - "Maybe you just weren't looking... Hi, my name is Autumn." Her name turned out to be FREAKING Autumn. Believe that!
It had to take Tom loosing Summer to find Autumn. It took loosing Summer to finally quit a job he hated so much to chase his dreams of being an architect. It's the same for most of us. A lot of times, we have this big dream we wish to pursue. Every night we sketch in the dark - high-risings, people, places, flowers, children playing by the stream, dimples. We harbour so much light within us and yet we're in the dark. And until Summer passes, until she finally finds someone new, we remain clutched to her, chewing gums stuck to the soles of her feet.
I remember telling you at the beginning of this that something fundamental has changed in me. I will tell you what that fundamental thing is. Wait for it... COURAGE. It's something I always wished I had. And now, I wouldn't say I've finally got it, but I would say I know what it looks like, feels like, tastes like, for at numerous times during my stay in Lagos I have had to be courageous, and my o my must I say that for the few times I tried believing in myself things actually turned out great.
Isn't it funny?-- to think that the Nigerian Soap Opera that has left an indelible impression on me - Hope Bay - was written by Kenny Joseph - the person who turned out to be my screen-writing teacher. I am so lucky. Royal Art Academy Film School was an adventure. It reminded me of what it means to, truly, be human again. I am ready to define my life. Until a movie of mine appears on your screens, call me A-Work-In-Progress, The-Man-Who-Finally-Found-The-Courage-To-Be-Somebody.