The Ash City

I’m not a travel freak but when I think of traveling, I often think kindly of London. I love that city.

I’ve never been there but I have a vaguely vivid dream of what it might look like, or more correctly; what I want it to look like- I hope London turns out every bit like this when I visit.

I see sprawls of pink petals on streets, Victorian houses, tiny bookstores with nice petite librarians- petite because it’s fitting, how else would they fit through the tiny doors? And nice because, a cold city deserves some warmth tinged with the smell of books, new, old, worn, “thread-can’t-hold-together-anymore” books; I see mini small tea shops and cafes shimmering all over with soft jazz, soothing; and of course yellow street lamps at dusk.

An aunt lives in London, but we never talk about the city, what it feels like when it rains, does it even ever get hot there?, all those kind of things. We mostly talked about the campuses- comparing the campuses in Northampton to those in Enugu-(my aunt confesses, they remind her too much of Enugu), diners, winter jackets, and chess; a few here and there things, occasionally the men; but never the city. That cold elegant city.

My new dreams now include sharing a few mugs of beer with strangers until past midnight and falling asleep under a blooming bougainvillea. My dreams never tell me how I hope to survive the night. I have weird dreams.

P.S This piece is fictional but not purely so. The part about London being my magical city is purely nonfiction 😂. See you in London.