Ada

When I was five, my mama told me spirits visit the markets. She said if you bent and looked in between your legs, you would see them. They were never in complete forms of humans, as they came in poor imitations. Some would have three legs, four eyes, eight fingers, and they all walked upside down; their goods in that manner too. She pulled at my earlobe and warned me sternly never to look in between my legs, no matter the situation, because spirits steal children and take them to the land of the spirits. That knowledge lived with me till I grew up; then it faded into a silly joke I shared with my friends over bottles of beer whenever our conversations veered to our childhood. The spirits listened to my tales on one of those nostalgic nights at the beer parlor and decided to show me, a butterfly who thought itself a bird, their face because what else could have made them visit me with misery?

It all started one evening when I craved my mother's porridge, the type she cooked with Ugwu and fish when we had big events and decided to give it a trial. I took a quick bath, wore a blue shirt and my baggo pants, and rushed off to Sabo, the main market in Ore town. The fish market was crowded as usual, and you could see people glitter with dried sweat as they went from one stall to another trying to reach a favorable bargain. Under colorful umbrellas that doubled as a cover for their shed, traders displayed their wares in raffia baskets on wooden tables, where flies buzzed, perching and flying off endlessly in that loop, their hum adding to the thousand voices haggling. After searching for the fish I wanted for minutes under the scorching sun, I bought it and went in search of yam in the vegetable section of the market; it was silent if the noise were to be compared to the buzzing of the fish section. The stalls had a faint smell of decaying plants that hit you from the entrance, making your stomach churn. I brought my left hand to protect my nose from the smell when my five hundred naira note fell to the ground. My mother's words echoed in my head: "Don't pick anything from the ground oo, if it is big money, kick it to your front and pick it. Sho gbo?" I ignored the voice; now a strange excitement surged through me, the kind that sneaked upon you when you realized that you had all the chance in the world to break a law you loathed. I bent down and picked the note, then slowly I looked backward, my gaze going through the “V” my legs formed. The air remained the same; the sun was still shining; the faint smell of decaying plants was still there. I didn't see beings with absurd body shapes, but one thing didn't remain the way it was moments before I bent down; it was my head. A strong, skull-splitting pain started from the back of my neck, It felt as though something climbed into my head and was trying to find a place to dwell . That was the beginning of the end for me. Literally.
*
I met Ada at an art exhibition.
It was an exhibition my friend, Emeka, organized at an event center in the outskirts of the town. He gave me a free spot where I hung my latest painting, an abstract that I called "Willow." it did not receive attention, just a few glances from the people. They would come close, stare at it, and walk away, as though the canvas said: "Fuck you," never sparing a second to admire it or at least pretend to. It was the least I expected of them, but I was angry instead of being worried. I was at a corner judging them and reminding myself that they were not authentic art lovers, the few who care about them could not afford it and the rest where at the exhibition to take Instagram photos. The exhibition was closing for the day in the evening when I saw her looking at my work. She was so engrossed in the painting that she was oblivious to my presence when I came close to her.

“Good evening, Hi, my name is Adeola…do ..do you like it?” I asked, pointing at the painting and trying my best not to show my excitement.

“Hmm, yes, I love the color and the style. Did you paint it?”

“ye..yes, it's about how we, you know, humans , allow grief to dwell in us for so long that we become it,” I replied.

“Hmm, I get. That's a great idea. How do I pay?”

Wow? Did she? Anyways, that didn't matter , I was about to sell my painting.

“ Let me fetch the pamphlet, where did I keep this thing… give me a moment please”

I fetched the pamphlet my barcode was printed on and was about to hand her the paper when Emeka shouted from the other end of the hall, asking if I planned to sleep in the it. I turned and eyed him, then gave Ada the pamphlet. While she was scanning, I turned to see Emeka still standing where he was moments ago. He was staring at me, his eyes wild like that of a man who found his son doing a weird dance in his room.

“I sent it,” Ada said and showed me the debit message on her screen.

“Oh ok, let me fetch the wraps.”

After I had wrapped the painting, I asked for her name, and we exchanged contacts, but the gods of the earth were not done; they were just starting. We started spending time together days after the exhibition ended. She would come to my studio and discuss art and music. Luckily, she was a fan of the Sacred Souls band, so we spent most of our time discussing their lyrics and how they were bringing the '90s back to the 21st century. I did most of the talking, and she would listen silently, occasionally punctuating the discussion with, "Yes, that's true! I get it."

We didn't discuss our families; whenever I tried to ask about her family, she would veer the conversation from it. I guessed she wasn't ready to discuss such details of her life, so I stopped bothering her about it and stuck to art and music. We had long walks too. We would walk through the streets of Ore hand in hand, laughing at our jokes while stares from people we met on the road followed us. This continued for three months, then we moved from long walks into studio sessions.

She sat for hours while I painted her portrait. I would spend time detailing her almond-shaped eyes, her perfect lips, and her olive skin. We did this many times until I had many canvases with her face everywhere in the studio. One evening, while we were rocking to "Can I Call You Rose" by the Sacred Soul band, I asked her playfully if I could sell one of her portraits. She recoiled as though stung by a scorpion.

“I don't get, have we…have we been doing this because you wanted to sell them?” She asked and waved at one of her portraits. “You want a portrait of me on somebody's wall. Are you for real?”

My eyes answered. I was overwhelmed with shame, and for the rest of the evening, silence became our companion. She left late in the evening. I tried to apologize in her DM on WhatsApp, but she left my messages on read. The four days that she was absent from the studio were hell; I couldn't concentrate on my work. On the third day, I lost the taste of food and hated all the music we once listened to. Before I slept that night, I burnt all my Sacred Soul vinyls and cried myself to sleep.

On the fourth day, I decided to update my Instagram page, so I took a picture of me in the studio, edited it, and went to sleep. Emeka's call woke me. I picked it, and a cracked voice spoke from the other end.

“Guy, I have been calling you na. Where you know Grace?”

“Grace? Who is Grace?” I asked.

“Na me you dey ask? She is the girl in the portrait of the girl in that pic you posted na!” Emeka shouted.

Picture? Then it dawned on me. “Hold up, let me check.” I logged into my Instagram handle and checked my latest post. In the picture, I faced the camera and had my back turned to a painting of Ada. It was her favorite, and she told me to add a newspaper image, cowries, an owl and a moon to it . It seemed weird but she insisted that It was what she wanted so I left it that way . We titled the painting: "Viral."

“Why did you call her Grace na, her name is Ada, we were dating, but she no dey reply again. I guess when broke up and…”

“Date? Chineke! That girl has been dead for three months now. People have been texting me, asking me how you got her portrait. Why did you tag my gallery in the pic na…”

I wasn't listening. My body quivered, and tears welled in my eyes. Now, I understood why people gawped at us, at me, on the streets. I realized why Emeka stared at me when Ada and I met at the gallery. I was the only one seeing her. The spirits didn't take me to their land , like my mother warned; they dwelled in my head instead. I had been mad for months.

Thanks for reading! Here is a poem on love, based on Yoruba Griot Performance.

The Griot

(I)

There were three gourds when the creator molded earth,
One was magic; adorned the brightest of onyx, it shone brighter than the sun,
The second was misery; adorned with pieces of mirror, a mosaic of enchantment,
The third was Laughter, adorned with silver rattles.

The creator gave the spirits, emi, magic, so they came to the land of men and became Ogun, Sango, Obatala on the face of the earth,
When they returned from their sojourn, they became gods.
He gave the Obinrin, the first woman misery; sons of men in their futile efforts to understand her, the songs and dirges she was made of
would remain in her palm, forever in her shade.
Out of pity, he gave the sons of men Laughter; for what companion is greater than laughter in the face of mystery?

(II)

The love of a woman is like an elixir,
It cures the deepest of wounds,
It's a mouth that swallows completely, burying the man who comes into it in enchantment,
When men worship endlessly at the shrines of the gods, they bestow upon them the gifts of money, some they give long life, others they give faithful wives,
When you see a man with the brightest of spirits, and a robe beautiful like the vibrant colors of Odidere, believe me, he has the gift of a wife.

(III)

The love between a man and a woman is a fire,
If the gods smile on it, it burns till they grow old and their hair becomes white like cowries,
The tale of lovers is as old as the earth we walk,
Of what song do birds sing when they see two beings consumed in their fire,
Of what story do the winds tell when they carry the whispers of lovers through the night?
The heart of a woman is a paradise you must find, my child, daily you must seek it,
If you want to live long,
If you want to be rich,
If you want to have peace of mind,
beg the gods for the gift of a wife.

Consult ebook in this drive for Interpretations to some Yoruba words used in this write up and a brief guide on how to understand African cultures and beliefs :
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1czfbukk2qHGM6PfT5uEn96_hebVoWf9H