Sentiments and Schizophrenia: Where Happiness Comes to Die.

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.