Rayo
Start writing hereEvery strand of hair on my body stands at attention as the gentle ocean breeze whispers to the core of my being. I have been looking forward to this very moment. Last night, our friends made jest of our pre-marital vow for the zillionth time. Keeping that promise has been a struggle, but here we are.
Craning my neck from my bouquet of rare Juliet rose flowers, our eyes lock and I smile. His honey brown eyes reciprocate the joy in my soul, as if sharing the memory from the night before. The dimples on his cheek becomes emphasized, not wanting to feel left out.
I can’t believe this is happening; Femi and I jumping the broom, it’s overwhelming.
“Do you Oluwafemi Tokunbo, take Motunrayo Jose to be your wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?” the priest asks.
I stand rooted to the spot.
My heart has relocated to my ears, I can hear it beating louder than ever. Would he remember the times I told him I was done with us? Or when I said I was not sure we were doing the right thing.
“I do,” Femi says.
Inhaling deeply, I feel my heart return to its position. My ears pick up the rustling palm leaves waving, happy at our union.
The priest turns to me, “Do you, Motunrayo Jose, take Oluwafemi Tokunbo to be your husband, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
Beaming, eyes fixated on my husband to be, I reply softly, “I do”.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest declares.
Femi grins at me, happy to obey the priest’s command. Our guest cheers us on. Everyone would be watching us kiss? I turn my head to the side.
“You go girl!” Mabel screams. I withhold myself from grimacing, taking a mental note to have a one on one discussion with her on how important it is for a chief bridesmaid to keep her cool, always. Tricia as usual is composed.
Femi touches me and I sigh closing my eyes. He wraps his left arm around me, while his right works magic on my nape as his lips finds mine.
Our lips meet and glory!
The wait was worth it. Snickers, my favorite chocolate bar, cannot compare with the taste of his lips.
We savor each other’s lips amidst shouts and applause from our less than a hundred guests.
“Please . . .” The priest’s voice cuts through the haze, “you can continue later. We need to conclude this service.”
It’s our wedding! He has fulfilled his duty; bind us, not tell us what to do.
“Hmm . . .” Femi’s tongue is unrelenting in the slow and sensuous pursuit of mine. Our tongues go in fruitful pursuit of what is hidden in every nook and cranny of our mouth.
How could I stop? Even if I wanted to, he is now my head and I am submitting to him. If only our guests would leave already.
This moment is pure bliss, keeping the vow was worth it. We have waited for this for far too long.
Lost in passion - we both are – I feel his hand on my waist starts gliding down to cup my derrière. The deafening sound of our guests bellowing causes me to furrow my brows. Don’t they want us to have a happy ending?
The harsh and disruptive sound of my alarm clock jerks my eyes open.
“Shit.”
Wincing, I stretch through the empty space beside me.
Click.
The unwelcomed noise stops. I struggle to keep my eyelids open but the lower lid keeps calling the upper lid.
“Common, common,” I encourage myself, “let’s get started.”
Opening my eyes slowly, a sigh of disappointment escapes my lips as I look around my highly disorganized room, the worst ending to a perfect dream. One would think little people came to raid my closet and found nothing to borrow. It is overflowing with clothes, some of which I should take to a home for the less privileged, but I keep procrastinating.
10:04 a.m., the wall clock reads. Why did I set the alarm for ten?
Oh yes! It’s lazy Saturday. The renowned miss business-holic is taking a day off. No to-dos, social media, make that business page social media and most of all, no plans! If I had to schedule sleeping in today, then it must be worth it.
I love the concept of sleep, but my body doesn’t seem to get the idea. After going for events related to business, especially nights before the weekend, barely making it home before three in the morning, my body would betray me by waking up four hours later.
Kicking a red gown that had most likely gotten tangled in my sleeping frenzy, a spill-over from my wardrobe, I wriggle my pre-planned lazy ass and make it to the bathroom.
“This is not cool.” I mumble. My back feels like it has been run over by a truck.
“Yuck . . .” my mouth tastes like saw dust. I spit into the bathroom sink.
“Why can’t you stay in bed?” My reflection stares at me in the mirror. “Who sets an alarm to wake up on a lazy day?”
It takes the rumbling of my tummy for me to give up this battle. Rolling my eyes, I pick up my toothbrush. I honestly don’t want to reflect on my dream. Every detail is vivid; from the screams, to Femi’s touch. Femi . . . another lost cause. I don’t know why my dream state still acknowledges him.
After brushing, I carefully inspect my face in the mirror to be sure wrinkles that come with being a single workaholic in your late twenties haven’t set in.
“Who’s feeling good now?” I say with a grin and a clap. “Now to get breakfast . . . we can do this . . . be a normal person today. Whatever normal is, just relax . . .”
I head straight to the kitchen and come face to face with my worst nightmare.
“This is so . . . not happening right now.” I grimace.
My dishes stare at me, pleading for attention. I take a step back, but the rumbling sound from my abdomen decides who wins. I believe house chores are for maids. Someone’s source of income, why should I rob them? Because you don’t want to afford that luxury.
Cooking is a gruesome nightmare too. No thanks to my dear mother for almost scarring me for life.
“Rayo,” Mummy said, “did you know that most local eateries use blood for palm oil and body hair for thyme?”
My big brother Michael added, “It’s true Rayo, I saw a movie like that. The crazy things people do for money.”
Leaning against the kitchen cabinet, I stare at the mess this lady made because of money. Anticipating when I can personally afford year-round room service, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year.
Femi’s silhouette taunts me. He is serving me breakfast in bed.
Hmm . . .
There should be something wrong with daydreaming about your ex. I mean, dreaming about the good characteristics of the ex. The law of attraction says you attract your thoughts and I am doing everything in my power to use only positive energies.
“Focus, focus . . .” I sigh. “More action, less imagination.”
I pull out a pack of cereal, find a clean dish somewhere in the clutter, and pour myself some. I sit on one of the four kitchen stools that surround a circular table and treat myself to a peaceful and quiet breakfast. Picking up my phone, which I usually leave charging in the kitchen to avoid working at night, I visit twitter. A message notification pops.
You’re still coming to check my store today? I know the wedding is next week, please come through.
Oops.
Multiple notification pops from my instagram business page, but I swipe away, filing them under to-do later. Today I am not chasing money, clout or attention. Neither am I leaving my three-bedroom apartment. I keep paying my rent but spend less time in this space.
It has been a perfect day so far save for having clothes strewn here and there, and maybe some dishes in dire need of scrubbing.
“Loving you na scam oh!” the intruding voice of an artist spills into my apartment.
“What the – “
“It’s Major Bangz!”
I swear that sound is coming from my neighbor’s apartment. That space should be unoccupied . . . Should I dive under my duvet? Are the Georges back? But they never listened to music like this.
The Georges used to be my next-door neighbor. They finally moved out of our building to their own house about five months ago. They have been married for over thirty years and are still counting their years together as their love waxes stronger by the day. Both in their sixties, they know what it takes to keep their fire burning and here I am, barely able to keep a relationship even if my life depends on it. On weekends like this, I would go over to their apartment, to hear the same old story. Sometimes different versions, of how they met.
He proposed to her within four months of them meeting and falling in love, whereas I once dated a guy for three years, three full years! And I couldn’t get him to buy me a promise ring, talk less of an engagement ring. Mrs. George would encourage me, telling me not to be in haste and that the right man will find me at the right time. As much as I want to believe in her words, it can be quite challenging, no thanks to the fact that all the guys I’ve had encounters with so far have been nothing but scumbags, and the good ones are always already taken. The Georges moved out over five months ago. They were good people.
I’ve never believed in ghosts, but could it be . . .
“See baby if you want to leave . . .” the artist croons on.
I jerk out of my reverie and this time; I am certain it is coming from next door. Today of all days when I have planned on having a peaceful and quiet weekend, someone is taking it upon himself or herself to ruin everything. Whoever it is, I am about to find out.
My chair screeches as I charge towards my kitchen door, past my living room – the most organized place in my apartment – to open my front door. I stare at the door that leads to the apartment that shouldn’t be occupied.
“What do I do now?”
Stay with me, okay? In case things get rough for the person next door, not me.…
