1.40am.

Battery full. No unread message.

“You are a piece of work. No one wants to spend time worrying about a project like you.”

3.36am.

A hundred comedy skits won’t cancel out the length and hollowness of the night. True, Miracle owes Nina nothing, and Instablog9ja is as toxic as it is classless in its blogging…

“But in the end, everyone is putting a call across to their boo over dinner, and you are left to connect your phone to the sound system, playing melancholic songs over loudspeakers.”

It’s a good time for Hip Hop. Eminem is back, Machine Gun Kelly released a watery diss track calling out the rap god who breathes out a dictionary from his lungs, and on the home front, MI Abaga churned out a really commendable body of work…

“Where’s the book deal though? Final third of 2018 and all we see are sorry Facebook posts.”

And you’re tired, and you’re tired
Of being flawed, of the wiring, of navigating conflicting emotion
Dreams end up with clipped wings, summer leaves wither with autumn, you’re not sure if your goodwill account has anything left.

Tired. Of fickle friendship. Of lies. Of Instagram.

Even if Fame is a lot to ask, Peace shouldn’t be so expensive, at least.

***

4.07am.
A stubborn tear latching on to your left eyelid.
A Facebook memory reminding you of the people you no longer speak to.
An “I don’t feel same” to the “I miss you” which your right thumb and your left testicle conspired against your brain to type. It’s fine, your ghost long left the cemetery where her dead emotions are buried.

One retweet. ONE! (“But I thought the piece was deep and riveting enough!”).

Old playlists from the dying moments of four relationships ago (or five, you don’t care too much to remember).

Love?
That’s what they call nothing in the game of tennis…
Wimbledon, Roland Garros, not too different from what you do with people’s emotions, is it?
“I love your voice, its breathiness is everything” fades into “what’s going on? We don’t talk anymore.”
Beg your way into gardens, crawl your way out when the flowers begin to bore you.

You have never set out to make any of them cry over you at 9.52pm. It’s the wiring.

Should. Intensity. Be. An. Excuse. For. Psychopathy?

Too many bridges detonated, you’re going to swim in this ocean, cold, darker than how Jonah had it in the belly.

Why. Can’t. You. Just. Text. Back?

Car horns. City lights. Lagos.
All the inhabitants are rock stars.
Live fast, the gala seller’s sprint is reflective.
Nothing like cuss words and hours in traffic to make sure life expectancy is shortened.
Fluoxetine and armchairs are expensive, so we march to church instead.
Account numbers in your inbox, if only they’d see that credit alerts can’t buy deeper smiles.

But that doesn’t solve the quandary of whom to dial at 1.45am when Mephistopheles’ choir appears to host an orchestra in your head.
It doesn’t matter, you’ll be unable to process any sort of conversation when the ones you (reluctantly) ring up return the call the next morning.
Everyone has learnt to leave you alone.

“When last did you feel anything for anyone?”

This is not sadness. It’s not self-deprecation.

It’s…it’s…oh well, you can’t trace the first alphabet, let alone the name.
The tear finally takes a plunge from eyelid to pillow.

The jump has finally happened.

Water is capable of leaps too, never mind that it chooses to move in droplets, never mind where it comes from, never mind the undefinable feeling that pushes it off the cliff of your soul.