‘you know I talk in my sleep sometimes’ I said, in between mouthfuls of amala, ewedu and gbegiri that we were having for lunch at the Amala joint by Fagba junction,
‘eh heh?’ he grunted and took his next mouthful, scooping expertly the brownish liquid from the bowl.
‘you know lots of people think I’m weird’ I said, opening my second wrap.
He stops eating and looks at me ‘what’s weird about that?’
‘everything. Like I have actual conversations and say things I don’t remember the next morning’
He’s laughing now, the kind of laugh that sounds fake but he swears is genuine.
I start shaking my head, ‘anyway, you haven’t heard half of it. I talk to myself a lot, and dance when no music is playing, I find things funny that no one else does’
I resume eating, one morsel after the other quickly.
We’ve been here a hundred times before, the food tastes the same — hot, bitter sweet, with the palm oil stew slightly burning my tongue.
I can feel that he is staring at me, but I refuse to look up, focusing instead on the once white plastic tables covered in tarpaulin.
‘you know it doesn’t matter, right? These things you’re telling me’
‘it doesn’t change anything’
His eyes are fully fixed on me now, those tiny eyes I’ve teased him about a thousand times before.
He reaches out to touch me with his left hand
‘babe, it doesn’t matter’