Sentiments and Schizophrenia: Where Happiness Comes to Die.

I stare straight ahead through the cream colored veil as I walk down the aisle. I am not hanging on to anyone’s arm. My father left us long ago and I honestly can’t stand the rest of my other male relations. I am very happy but calm as I stare at my husband to be. Victor. You bring peace to my life. You radiate warmth, goodness, and an inner kindness that only your soul can possess. You were worth it Victor. Worth the expense, the time, the risk.  And you seem so proud of me. I wonder if you would still feel this way if you find out what I did. For you. For us. So we can be happy. But you will not find out. You must never find out.

Weeks after Oyin, Bibiana was closing a deal with a potential customer when someone tapped her on the back and signaled that her attention was needed elsewhere. She excused herself and sashayed over to a black SUV inside which Oyin waited nervously. She carefully composed her features and held out her hand to him. He smiled back shyly and took it. But this time, he led her up the stairs and into the familiar room where no words were exchanged but none were needed anyway, as their bodies, a modicum of privacy and the saggy mattress were the only requirements.

Oyin drove idly through the town with no destination in mind but to leave the source of his anger behind. He and Yewande had just quarreled again. Pulling up at a red light, he scrolled absently through his phone and wasn’t surprised that since he had left her over an hour ago, she hadn’t called to ask where he was, or even apologize for her part in the quarrel. She was probably taking another selfie that would be shared as a good night treat to the numerous social network followers who eagerly awaited Wendy’s regular and often risqué pictures. Then the ladies would go to bed with envy in their hearts and tears on their cheeks, while the guys would go (or not go) to bed with lust in their eyes and their right hand down their pants.

My house is not the kind of place where people drop in for a surprise visit. This is because it is tucked away on some street in Ajah that some people have never even heard of. You would probably lose your way if I didn’t direct you. Coupled with the wasted transport fare, time and effort, not meeting me at home would certainly leave you irate. When I describe my house to my friends, I tell them to look out for the plain, unfenced and unpainted bungalow with a blue tank and a couple of stairs leading up to it. There’s a well-trodden path with stubborn sand that clings to the soles and clothes of passersby. This same sand is carried all around and finally into our houses. This grainy sand is the signature of Gbadebo Street and that’s where I’ve lived for over seven years.

I have always wanted babies’ way before I got into secondary school. When mothers gathered around to regale each other with horror stories of their childbirth encounters, I would sit and listen with longing and anticipation in my eyes. I was amused with the way each woman tried to garner sympathy and respect. The way each woman tried to outdo and outshine the others with tales of how they bore up under the pressure and pain of labor.

Candace is what I'm called. It’s not the name I was christened with but I instinctively become alert when I hear it. I have a crush.  I'm sure you're wondering why that's news. But well, this crush is different. It might eventually crush me. You see, my crush is a celebrity and I'm just an ordinary citizen. He doesn't even know I exist.

Silas is dead. And it’s entirely my fault. I didn’t drown him in a tub of water or send hired guns after him but I killed him as surely as if I had held a knife to his throat and watched his warm blood gush out. I’ll tell you what happened, then maybe, just maybe, you would understand.

My steps are heavy as I drag my weary self up the stairs and into my flat. I hide my sniffles behind the appropriate greetings as I genuflect the Yoruba way. The way a properly brought-up Yoruba girl should. Sadly enough, I am not properly brought-up.

“You know why I’ve been single all these years, it’s not because guys were unavailable or uninterested. it’s majorly due to the t-factor. I find it hard to trust the guys around me nowadays. With their sweet words and smooth flow, a 'sisteh' can almost get carried away. I just need someone I can trust wholly and completely let my guard down with.”

Hi people! My name is Damilola Makanjuola. I'm a female in my late teens that loves to write. I used to have a WordPress blog that my friends loved but because of the number of blogs out there and the pressure of work in school, i began to cut down on my writing even less until i forgot my password and couldn't retrieve my WP blog so i'm starting afresh here. I'm really sorry about the challenges you might face while trying to post a comment but i can't help it. That's how annoying Blogspot can be. Please try to drop a line if you can and i'll definitely get back to you!