The next morning following the blackout, each person in our street had recalled a different version of the previous night.
As soon as I left the house, I knew something was amiss.
The sun was even warm over our street in Ibadan. Women were sweeping their courtyard. A man was pedaling a bike past a gate when he rang a bell. All things were as they should be, only the faces were different. Groups of people were gathered and shaking their heads, speaking loudly.
“What are you talking about when you saw fireworks?” asked my neighbour, Mama Bose.
Another woman responded, "There were red lights everywhere. Children were dancing on the road."
Mama Bose frowned. "You must be kidding yourself, we all stayed home due to the rain."
I stopped walking.
"Rain?"
"No rain had been recorded."
"At least, not in my recollection."
I greeted them. "Good morning."
“Good morning Tunde,” Mama Bose replied. “How come you didn't go outside in the celebration?”
"What celebration?"
Both gals were looking at me.
They agreed, "The one after the rain."
I laughed because I felt they were joking.
"Well, I am serious," I said.
"So are we," said Mama bose quietly.
Walking to the junction, where I had to go to get bread, I saw more odd conversations.
The man selling roasted corn said the electricity would be restored before midnight.The man selling roasted corn stated the electricity was restored before midnight.
The tailor reported that there had been none at all of power.
At a musical concert that took place in the middle of the road, two school boys quarreled with each other.
An aged man vowed he'd spent last night helping people to carry water from flooded houses.
All the stories were unique.
There was only one match.
The time of the blackout had been fixed at 8:17 p.m. by everybody.
From there on, no one could remember that night.
So I arrived at the bakery where my friend Chika waved at me.
"Tunde!" he called. "You went so quickly yesterday."
"I didn't see you yesterday."
He laughed.
You were by my side, we even got into an argument about who makes the best jollof rice.
It's been a whole evening at home.
His smile slowly disappeared.
"No," he said. "You were wearing your Arsenal jersey."
I wouldn't have a single one myself.
We didn't speak for a few seconds.
The shop girl broke in.
"Next customer, please."
We purchased the loaves in silence.
"Finally, Chika spoke when we were going back."
“My sister claims that I spent the night teaching kids how to fly paper planes.”
"What so much does the word "Remember" mean to you?"
I recall that I used to go to sleep before 9pm.
So is what I recall.
We gazed at one another.
But how is it that everyone else remembers something different?
He had no answer.
The entire neighbourhood was abuzz by noon.
Individuals looked through cell phones for photographs and videos.
There were none.
The pharmacist's security camera on site did not capture anything after 8:17 pm. All the screen did was get dark until the sun rose.
Even the security guard there scratched his head.
“Oh, I recall playing football,” he qualified.
"But what does the recording say, I was sleeping."
Later that evening it was the community chairman's turn to invite everyone to the open field.
The area was filled with plastic chairs.
As adults compared stories, children played.
One woman reported that she met her deceased grandmother while they were in blackout.
A taxi driver, who has been charged with assaulting a passenger, allegedly took people to Lagos and back again before midnight.
A little boy said he talked to a talking goat.
Laughter came, and laughter was silenced as no one could be wrong.
The Chairman rose.
But, he added, "no matter if we remember the truth or not, the blackout is over."
An older teacher held up his hand.
"What if all of them are true memories?"
Silence fell over the field.
The teacher softly went on.
"If we all lived different nights at the same time..."
Nobody answered him.
The meeting ran to sunset.
On my way home, I saw something in the vicinity of the gate of our compound.
It was a little piece of paper.It was a small paper airplane.
I picked it up.
On the inside, in blue ink, there were three words.
Nice meeting you.
There was no name.
No date.
Nothing else.
I brought it to my room and put on my table.
I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't help but speculate who'd penned these words.
I walked the next morning to Chika's house.
He opened the door without me knocking.
Then, without uttering a single word, he raised another plane.
Mine was blue.
His was green.
There was a message in his:
Thanks for listening.
We held each other for a long while.
“So…,” he whispered.
“Have you already found one?”
I nodded.
We both did not smile.
We didn't say a word to each other.
Over on the other side of the street, folks were just starting another morning. Some remembered fireworks. Others remembered rain. A few remembered nothing at all.
It was a strange thing, when life went on and there were still paper airplanes.
The blackout left different stories to tell in our neighbourhood for years.
Some felt that it was just chaos.
Some say it was a peculiar power surge.
Some people can't talk about that night.
But I still have my paper airplane in a little wooden box in my room.
The blue ink is a little faded but the words are still discernible.
Nice meeting you.
From time to time I wonder who I met that night.
I wonder sometimes if they remember me.
Sometimes when the lights suddenly go out, when the whole street goes quiet, I listen for a little, I wait to hear the start of another story.
