FAZES: COZA AND VICTORIA
COZA & Victoria
Today, I feel restless. It's like birds are in my stomach, flying around, perching all at once and then flying again.
I do not want to go out; these kinds of days I stayed in my room in university. I would have covered myself with my purple blanket and then cried, eaten, urinated and cried again.
Then, this feeling of wasting away was usually attached to something tangible, like the feeling that my life had no purpose or of not having money at all and anyone to call. But this morning, there is no reason.
I go out anyway, to work.
Work is almost sad, the same routine. Everyone does the same things like everyday, says the same things, "Victoria, good morning, howdy?" "Do you think Fatoyinbo actually did that?" Falls mundanely on my mind, like Martha's daily heavily made-up face.
I am grateful for the few customers booking rooms today and that it's almost 1pm.
Then I see Gideon, strolling towards my desk as I pack up, armed with his broad smile. I construct grave disinterest on my face as my eyes meet his, he does not turn back or stop, "Vicky, this one your face dey like this, you're good?" I say, "I'm fine." When will you stop trying? I ask silently.
He throws some words in his usual way; Gideon doesn't speak with people, he speaks at people, his voice rebounding off the hotel lobby.
I don't like him and his perfume.
"I need to go now." I tell him, coldly. He stalks off after a few moments of staring at me, carrying his choking smell with him. I wonder how many employees he has slept with.
I think I still work here because his mother, the manager likes me; I find it hard to believe she is his mother.
My phone alarm vibrates. And my eyes keep following Gideon as he moves to the kitchen area, maybe to ease into another waitresses' life.
"V, just go home." I mutter.
On my way home, the taxi I get into cuts my skirt as I stand to leave. It is nearly dead: the annoyance I feel. What is a torn skirt in the presence of the heavy lead in my stomach.
In my house, there is no 'light', I turn on one of my emergency LED lights, the type everybody I know calls recheargable. I don't want to raise my curtains.
On my bed, naked and trying to cry, I diagnose my problem, it is the visiting one, comes once in a while.
Reaching out to my writing pad, I push myself to channel everything into writing, I end up with a jumpy story, full of half baked cliches. I need to cry, my chest aches, heavy with old pain and my feet are cold.
I jump off, barefoot and check my phone, it's 5pm. I had dozed off.
My eyes fall on the furniture in this cramped space, I allow myself hate it, blame it for the tightness I feel in my chest.
My skipping rope falls out of the wadrobe when I open it to get out clothes, the sun should be going down now but I go outside.
I skip fast, my head pounding, chest hurting and the cold air ballooning my loose top.
I want relief, I want to be exhausted so maybe I can break down and cry but I somehow learnt to hold it in.
"You're not the only one it has happened to, OK?" My guidance counselor in secondary school had told me, I had not said anything about it to anyone after her.
My arms are numb.
"NEPA!!!" The children in my compound shout.
I go inside and switch off lights, then find myself kneeling, head on my bed. I hear a whisper from myself, "How dare you?" And with this, the tears come.
I get up, have a bath and start eating cheese balls.
This is now my WAR.
On social media, I scout for comments.
Someone named, Jemimiah said, "We should be focusing on RUGA, not a 17 year old rape allegation, Nigerians wisen up." I reply her comment, "Really?" I ask, "You're only someone who heard about this issue, you have no business passing judgement because you have no facts. It's very obvious you are a Christian and that you don't believe her. I thought Christians are meant to seek justice or does it become unimportant when it jeopardizes your faith ? STOP DISTRACTING. Oh...and 17 yrs is nothing."
A Pastor posted on his Facebook feed, "We should not bring disgarce to the house of God like this, this matter could have been settled inside church, now unbelievers protest on our issues. Shame." I say to him as I type, I say it loud to my empty room, "You guys are just embarrassing me, (correct your 'disgarce'), I'm Christian. I did not know this is the Christian way to settle an issue, the wrong doer standing also as the judge. Shame on you too, you talk like you don't know who will win."
I see newer comments, "They have settled her lah, she no dey talk again. E come be like say nah the money she been they find." I really don't want to insult this guy, I type "Go to hell."
But again, Why did Busola ask for money? I ask myself. She wasn't the one that brought up the issue on social media; to my knowledge it started with some COZA people dragging her on social media because her husband, Timi Dakilolo, taunted the COZA lead pastor, Fatoyinbo; this was when she decided to come out with her own side of the story, so I can't say it was all about the money from the beginning. This will be something to think about, can money ever compensate for assault? Why did she ask for it?
I think about this as I eat my cheese balls, and play JCole's 'Friends'. Thank you Victor for 'Friends', it's a different kind of rap, it's soothing.
I think: maybe one day, I'll actually get to talk with both Busola and Fatoyinbo with a lie detector, and I laugh. It's funny to me, in the way sad things are funny.
Then, this feeling of wasting away was usually attached to something tangible, like the feeling that my life had no purpose or of not having money at all and anyone to call. But this morning, there is no reason.
I go out anyway, to work.
Work is almost sad, the same routine. Everyone does the same things like everyday, says the same things, "Victoria, good morning, howdy?" "Do you think Fatoyinbo actually did that?" Falls mundanely on my mind, like Martha's daily heavily made-up face.
I am grateful for the few customers booking rooms today and that it's almost 1pm.
Then I see Gideon, strolling towards my desk as I pack up, armed with his broad smile. I construct grave disinterest on my face as my eyes meet his, he does not turn back or stop, "Vicky, this one your face dey like this, you're good?" I say, "I'm fine." When will you stop trying? I ask silently.
He throws some words in his usual way; Gideon doesn't speak with people, he speaks at people, his voice rebounding off the hotel lobby.
I don't like him and his perfume.
"I need to go now." I tell him, coldly. He stalks off after a few moments of staring at me, carrying his choking smell with him. I wonder how many employees he has slept with.
I think I still work here because his mother, the manager likes me; I find it hard to believe she is his mother.
My phone alarm vibrates. And my eyes keep following Gideon as he moves to the kitchen area, maybe to ease into another waitresses' life.
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| From: pixbay.com |
"V, just go home." I mutter.
On my way home, the taxi I get into cuts my skirt as I stand to leave. It is nearly dead: the annoyance I feel. What is a torn skirt in the presence of the heavy lead in my stomach.
In my house, there is no 'light', I turn on one of my emergency LED lights, the type everybody I know calls recheargable. I don't want to raise my curtains.
On my bed, naked and trying to cry, I diagnose my problem, it is the visiting one, comes once in a while.
Reaching out to my writing pad, I push myself to channel everything into writing, I end up with a jumpy story, full of half baked cliches. I need to cry, my chest aches, heavy with old pain and my feet are cold.
I jump off, barefoot and check my phone, it's 5pm. I had dozed off.
My eyes fall on the furniture in this cramped space, I allow myself hate it, blame it for the tightness I feel in my chest.
My skipping rope falls out of the wadrobe when I open it to get out clothes, the sun should be going down now but I go outside.
I skip fast, my head pounding, chest hurting and the cold air ballooning my loose top.
 |
| From: shutterstock.com |
I want relief, I want to be exhausted so maybe I can break down and cry but I somehow learnt to hold it in.
"You're not the only one it has happened to, OK?" My guidance counselor in secondary school had told me, I had not said anything about it to anyone after her.
My arms are numb.
"NEPA!!!" The children in my compound shout.
I go inside and switch off lights, then find myself kneeling, head on my bed. I hear a whisper from myself, "How dare you?" And with this, the tears come.
I get up, have a bath and start eating cheese balls.
This is now my WAR.
On social media, I scout for comments.
Someone named, Jemimiah said, "We should be focusing on RUGA, not a 17 year old rape allegation, Nigerians wisen up." I reply her comment, "Really?" I ask, "You're only someone who heard about this issue, you have no business passing judgement because you have no facts. It's very obvious you are a Christian and that you don't believe her. I thought Christians are meant to seek justice or does it become unimportant when it jeopardizes your faith ? STOP DISTRACTING. Oh...and 17 yrs is nothing."
A Pastor posted on his Facebook feed, "We should not bring disgarce to the house of God like this, this matter could have been settled inside church, now unbelievers protest on our issues. Shame." I say to him as I type, I say it loud to my empty room, "You guys are just embarrassing me, (correct your 'disgarce'), I'm Christian. I did not know this is the Christian way to settle an issue, the wrong doer standing also as the judge. Shame on you too, you talk like you don't know who will win."
I see newer comments, "They have settled her lah, she no dey talk again. E come be like say nah the money she been they find." I really don't want to insult this guy, I type "Go to hell."
But again, Why did Busola ask for money? I ask myself. She wasn't the one that brought up the issue on social media; to my knowledge it started with some COZA people dragging her on social media because her husband, Timi Dakilolo, taunted the COZA lead pastor, Fatoyinbo; this was when she decided to come out with her own side of the story, so I can't say it was all about the money from the beginning. This will be something to think about, can money ever compensate for assault? Why did she ask for it?
I think about this as I eat my cheese balls, and play JCole's 'Friends'. Thank you Victor for 'Friends', it's a different kind of rap, it's soothing.
I think: maybe one day, I'll actually get to talk with both Busola and Fatoyinbo with a lie detector, and I laugh. It's funny to me, in the way sad things are funny.
I feel better.
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