Lagos is a city that is alive 24/7. The ceaseless hum of engines, the noises of cars horns, the sharp cries of hawkers, and the distant wails of sirens blend into an unbroken symphony. There are times I asked myself if the city is breathing or reacting in a fashion that dragged me in no matter how hard I tried to avoid the pull. I’m Tayo and, as far back as I can recall, I have been a victim of its ebb and tide.
From the day one I realized early that life wasn’t about fairness but survival. My father, Baba Tayo, would say, “Omo, life doesn’t wait for you to catch up. This a true saying that went, “You must run faster than the world spins.” I believed him. I struggled through school, forced myself to apply for jobs and over time actually denied my feelings.
Then came Adesuwa.
We first crossed path at a wedding ceremony of a mutual friend, my friend’s wedding at Eko Hotel. She wasn’t like the others her laughter had a way of hushing the entire room like final bell. In essence her laughter was unique. She carried herself with a confidence that wasn’t loud but undeniable . Her beauty isn’t in the big almond shaped eyes or the perfectly shaped face, the brown smooth skin; her beauty is the way she embraced life and Joy which I failed to comprehend.
“Why do you look so serious?”she asked me after the ceremony, with her head slightly bent down and her eyes looking into my eyes curiously.
I replied “Maybe because I think that I may have seen too much of life to find anything funny.”
She laughed, sweet and gently. “Or maybe, you have simply forgotten how to find the beauty in all of this.”
That was the starting point of us.
Adesuwa was a person unique from any I had ever met in my life. She drew colors to my world that I have never seen before. She’ll often say “Tayo don’t let Lagos change you” There is only one thing to say about this city and that is that it tends to transform people into mere shadows of who they are.
I did not fully understand what she meant until her light started to fade.
It started slowly she would refuse to go out and do something she promised she would do or would take so long to answer my calls. When I confronted her regarding this, she dismissed it. “Just tired, Tayo. Nothing to worry about.” But the look in her eye said otherwise.
One evening, while I was sitting with her on the balcony of her apartment located in Yaba area of Lagos, looking at the city lights in the far distance she said it.
“It is my heart,” she muttered softly. “I’ve been battling with it from a very young age. It was specified to be manageable by doctors, but in recent times…….”She stopped speaking, her eyes staring out towards the distant view of the sea.
I didn’t know what to say. It was as if those words are too small, I was short of words and was finding it difficult to say anything. I extended my hand to her and she grasped it, holding it with a firm grip that can only mean she is trying to get some strength from the absence of words.
Over the next few weeks, Adesuwa’s illness became a third person in our relationship without ever physically joining us. I went through weeks when she would laugh just like before and weeks when talking was a real effort for her. On some occasions, I’d do my best to be there for her but there were equally some nights I would park my car and cry alone outside her house.
Adesuwa once told me one evening to move with her to Badagry. ‘‘If I could only show you something,’’ she said to me.
We set out early in the morning in order to escape Lagos morning traffic. She took me to an isolated place in the beach where the horizon met the sea touching by smooth lines of motion.
“This is my favorite place,” she said while sitting cross-legged at the sand . “Every time I get anxious, I sit in a place like this to tell myself that life always trumps fear.”
She looked at me with gentle, yet penetrating gaze.
Looking straight into my eyes she said softly but meaning every word said, “Yawning, do you know why I love broken things?”
I shook my head.
“Because they’re real. They are not camouflaging behind some sort of ideal image. They point at the places they’ve been, the things they’ve endured. Perhaps, there is a certain kind of beauty in that.”
I cannot but recall her words even to this date.
Several months later, Adesuwa’s condition began to deteriorate. She fought, she struggled with the strength that I’ve never seen in a person before, but her body had other plans. She died one rainy Tuesday morning, and the quietness had never been so deafening.
I can remember for weeks I couldn’t perform my day to day activities. For the next few months, I purposely steered clear of using any of the locations we two visited; some of the items I associated with her I stored away; I threw myself back into work so I could at least get her off my head but it was impossible to get the memory of her away.
One day, I had the opportunity of visiting the beach in Badagry again. I stood at the water edge while the waves gently touched my feet; I remembered her words. Broken things are real
Adesuwa had instilled it in me that even supermodels have flaws, and these are what make life interesting. She had taught me, not to hide behind a mask for being whole, but to embrace my brokenness, that it is the beauty of life.
As I watched the sunset, looking at the beautiful lighting up the sky I allowed myself to grieve, to feel love and to hope again. For the first time, I grasp the meaning of that.
There is always hope even when one is at his lowest. Something worth living for.
