I must tell you, Juliana, that I finally left. I used to be terrified by the possibility that I would never see the world. I asked my eleda if it would be smoke, sweat and dust all my life. They said no; that my eyes were made for some expanse, experience, exquisiteness.
It is not the world. Not yet. It is only London. Grey, grim London. It is still new to me, I am still processing. I am self-conscious, shy. I try to hide my awkwardness and hesitance. At the stations, before the street lights, in the conversations. I perform my movements as if others are watching me. But I know they are not. Nobody stares or cares. Like programmed mainframe computers, everyone is onto their business. They do not see the crust at my lips, or the tears in my eyes before the cold dries them. They have no idea who I am or where I come from.
Even I wonder where I belong now. I abandoned my country, it stopped being my future for a while. It imploded, in multidimensional ways. It is in a free fall, Juliana, I cannot save it. Somebody said that my idea of home is dead, that I must now accept this place, pledge allegiance to it. Meanwhile, I sometimes wonder if I am in some simulation. Surely, I am not one of these many, strange people.
I do like the living we share though. It is valuable and efficient. It works. It is what I thought it would be.
My new problems are sophisticated. Less about electricity, transport or internet connectivity. More about language, identity, acceptance. I would like to be accepted, integrated, eventually. I too should master the small talk, the understatements, the self deprecating humour. Learning to pronounce differently would be a good start.
Or I could find my people. I long for a familiar face, touch. So I have done foolish things. I feel a new, hollow kind of aloneness. I turn in my bed, clutch my sides and sigh. But I say to myself what my people will say to me — that I made it out, I cannot complain. My few empathizers advise me about community — church, parties and dating apps. I sigh louder. I used to have friends (here). Where are my friends?
I know that my children will answer these questions differently. They will be English, born and bred. I fear that I will only have tales for them — to explain their names, ethnicity. Tales that will seem exaggerated, that will bring no memories or context to their heads. Like memories of you, Juliana.
I do not know why I write this, why I do so today. I do not know if it is less or more pretentious to do so. Who do I write to? What does this advertisement of loss mean to anyone? It does not make sense, it is pointless. But this is probably because human life itself is ultimately pointless. This is one truth that grief reveals.
I am sorry that I cannot make it to the funeral. I will not wear the trad, do the dance, or spray the cash. I do not know why these things are done either. They are certainly not for the benefit of the dead.
For my benefit, please join the eleda and stretch my hands. So I never fall or fail. So I find favour, friends. I am still Akindolire.
Perhaps I ask too soon.
Okay, I write to say I am sorry, Juliana. Believe me, I beg. I truly, terribly am. For abandoning you all those years. It is the worst, most unforgivable thing. The excuses elude me now, just like everything I give my time to, everything I did instead of sitting with you. And I realize that what I have been feeling — it is not grief, it is guilt enduring. Somebody said those are the same thing.
