OUT OF IMAGINATION

I couldn't say what came over me, and I suddenly packed my bags and left the comfort of my home. Weeks later, I'm grateful I did it. Life had been boring, repetitive, same old. I wasn't wasting myself with hard drugs, or anything intoxicating or addictive. It was just the kind of wasting where I was existing for no special reason. I felt under-alive and too alive, too dead to actually care. I wanted real things. Real life. Real love. Real everything. Relationships were never my thing. I wasn't part of the "I hate men" campaign. I love men, completely and absolutely. Oh, what beautifully chaotic creatures. I've had attractions, promises, infatuations. The shy testing-the-lines kisses. The late-night calls. The hand-holding. And I went so deep into the persona. I always ended it with, "I don't really feel it." I just knew they weren't my person, my people. Don't get it wrong — I only ever found myself drawn to the good-looking guys, the smart ones, the well-spoken, the ones who seemed mature. We always had good chemistry. I did the imagination thing. I always do the imagination thing… us married, kisses, kids, the connection, families, all the things I didn't have in real life with them, or didn't look like we ever would. But I always broke it off. Worth mentioning: these weren't standard relationships. Just "I like you" and what people call now the 'talking stage.' I always let them fizzle out. No graceful ending. No explanations. It just happened. I love my room and me. I wasn't a hermit, and I didn't feel too perfect to be bothered. I also had my insecurities, or maybe I never felt enough, or worth it. No one was making me feel all of this. This was just me being me to me. Those throws of self-doubt you throw yourself into for no apparent reason, when you're actually great and smart — not brilliant, but intelligent — and you have the right amount of beauty to you. Not the kind of beauty that turns every head, alive with fantasy. You're my master thing, and I'm handing you all my wealth. But enough to be acknowledged and appreciated on a good day, when I don't look like a potion sludge made by an evil witch who eats kidneys and cackles in an alien color. I actually know why I look like a potion sludge: I don't take my appearance as seriously as I should. I've always been like this. I never dressed up except for special occasions, or under coercion and gunpoint standards. Dad was always the vigilante, trying to iron my clothes through my clear reluctance. He'd make sure I wore socks to school, and check under my hijab to see if my top matched my trousers or skirt. He'd make sure I wasn't wearing an Ankara skirt with a different top. Does the hijab go with the cloth I chose? Are any parts torn? Do they need ironing before I leave the house? Many times I escaped him. More times I failed, and got changed twice or more until I looked manageable. Presentable. This was me during my IT period, trying to at least look like a good representative of my family. Hopefully I didn't dip the family face in the mud too roughly. I was really a changed girl — lady, or woman, whichever fits you best. I say this because I wore hijabs throughout my ND program. And hijabs aren't bad to wear. It was just the wearer here who didn't represent the image well. Barely ironed hijabs. Squeezed hijabs. Bare minimum look. Mostly no makeup. But I did love a well-shiny lip. I'm sure most of my mates recognized me by my lips before my CGPA ever brought me out. ... It was a chilly morning. One circumstance or another had led me to teaching as an equivalent IT program for the duration. A duration I spent the better part of a month at home, sleeping and adding face fat as much as my cheeks felt necessary. I had decided to at least look presentable that day. A beautiful gown. Minimal and form-fitting. I hated attention-grabber dresses or looks that had everybody noticing me. I miss my steps if I feel eyes on me. I was going to be late for work that day, I thought, since I had no change and I commuted to work every day. All the tricycles had said "ba cha ji." I'm in Kano, and I was basically an alien, since languages don't seem to like me enough to stick to my brain. While lamenting how late I was going to be, a car stopped by me. I moved out of the way, thinking it was going to park. But it stopped right before me…