TELLING LIES

There are two kinds of lessons that go on behind closed doors. Like when daddy wags a finger in your face, ‘Do not lie!’ But tells you to tell the person on the phone that he’s not in. How do we live this life? In truth, we are genuinely afraid of sending children out with too simplistic a view of how the world REALLY works. Not how it works in Walt Disney cartoons. Sometimes, you have to lie.

But when? When you’re miles away and say you’re around the corner? Or you tell your daughter not to tell her father that you gave his new Murano to your younger brother to go quickly and buy fish, but he rammed into a light post, so now you need to panel-beat it before he comes home – just don’t tell daddy, ok? Having become one, I now know that parents are neither all-knowing nor perfect. And, sometimes, they lie because they’re afraid of the consequences of telling the truth. BUT! Not all the time.

If you always insist on evidence that will hold up in a court of Law, then I have to tell you that there’s no real guarantee that being good will save you from bad things. And you know what? You could work very hard and not get noticed, not just for a long time, but EVER. It’s true, to me, you are the best thing that’s happened since the invention of the Yam Pounder, but the rest of the world will not borrow my eyes to look at you. Another thing - you may never find True Love. (Does it even exist?) It’s very likely you would end up with a job you don’t like, and it won’t be ‘just a phase’. I should tell you this - you can’t trust anyone, not even me, to be there for you ALWAYS.

Hard ‘truths’. So, now I can walk with a swagger for being blunt? Honestly, there are days when these things MUST NOT be said. Like when a pimply-faced, self-conscious teenager wants to talk about the future; or if she looks in the mirror and, in that voice that pretends not to care what your answer is, asks if she’s fat; when middle age approaches and the dreams we told you we would achieve by 40 are still dreams; if that young boy, on his way to War, calls at night to ask if you think he’ll come back? What do you say? What you know (stiff finger tapping your temple)? Or what you believe (open palm over your heart)?

We didn’t lie. We just answered the REAL question, the one they didn’t ask; the one hidden within the ones they actually asked. That’s what we do when we hold our children close and whisper, I will always be here for you; speaking faith instead of logic; telling fairytales and winding stories, not always bothering with Pie Charts and PowerPoint Presentations. Because while it is true that a seed is small, it is also true that a seed is big. Life is strange like that, littered with paradoxes. But this, undoubtedly, is the one I find most enchanting – that people rarely become what they do not already believe they are. 

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LIVING WITH SECRETS

There are always things we dare not tell about the past, sometimes about the present, sometimes about the things we fear in the future. But they are there, at the backs of minds. And when Love is particularly intense, they even torment us, clawing their way up to the tips of our tongues. But would they still love us if they knew? Not as confident, not as strong, not as perfect as they think. No. I have secrets. And they are not cute - ugly welts across my back, broken in places, still oozing pus. How can you see me like this?

Sometimes, when I cry, you’re not the one that has hurt me. It is not what you just said. But there memories that are not memories at all, and they take advantage of any opportunity to manifest. Often, people over-react for reasons they do not themselves fully understand and, even if they did, they couldn’t explain it to you. We are all fragile in unexpected places; a casual word, an off-hand rebuke, a meaningless (to you) comment could push against an unhealed emotion. So, it helps if one of us is able to step back and see – This anger, this hurt, this pain, these expletives hurled out of curled lips, are NOT about me. And, instead of lashing back, take a deep breath and say – I’m on your side.

Because, there are days when Love means just that – to take sides even before you have ALL the facts – for no one ever knows the whole truth on day one, not even about themselves. When we think we’re over people we’re not actually over; we think we’ve seen the last of habits that we still have; we think we’ve forgotten things that we’ve only chosen not to remember; we think we’ve healed just because the wound has been replaced by a scab. But being together puts pressure on everything, and whatever is not truly strong is relentlessly revealed. You cannot hide in plain sight. And your inner demons will follow you, even into Paradise.

So, let me make it easy for you. They are your secrets. Tell me if you want. Keep them if you want. If you want, I will wait quietly in the next room, while you struggle to push them down again; straighten your tie, touch up your make-up; put your ‘face’ back on; I will say nothing when you come out; hold your hand and smile; tell you, you missed a good joke on TV. Because, I know, if I was looking for proof that you love me, that what we have matters to you, then this is it; you, afraid to tell me; hiding things you think will hurt me; struggling alone to put these things behind us.

You know what? I don’t even know if I really want to hear it. I CANNOT guarantee that it will NOT change something. But if you NEED to tell me, if it is something you need to do FOR YOU – God, help me – I will listen with lips pressed into a silent line. And when you finish, no matter how hearing it made me feel, I will nod and say – Okay. And if it is all I say, don’t worry. Because, I know, if I was looking for proof that you love me, that what we have matters to you, then this is it; you, here, showing me your ugliness, asking me for help.

So, let it be. It breaks my heart. But I will live in peace with you and your secrets, if you will live in peace with me and mine.

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CAN I LET YOU INTO MY POCKET?

This is all with the benefit of hindsight. But if you ask me now – Dike, be honest, if you are looking at a girl and wondering if you could marry her or not, and you were only allowed to consider ONE thing, what would it be? Honestly? Can I let her into my pocket? Yes, I know, I am Igbo. But if Love had a mathematical formula, Money would be one of the constants. And it’s not that I think it’s a commercial transaction. But relationships don’t run on fumes either. In fact, you could measure ‘LOVE’ by diaries and wallets. Because they always get eaten up by the things we ACTUALLY (not ideally) place the most value on.

However, my mother did NOT raise a fool, so I know where NOT to go – near those people blessed with the uncanny ability to conclusively determine your potential as a LIFE partner from the car you happen to be driving (or not) NOW. But I dated someone once and, after the initial ‘gra gra’, I coughed a little and said – I really can’t keep up with these daily ‘drinks’. She didn’t say anything, but the next time we met, she suggested a stroll. And I thought to myself – I can live with this. Cheap? No. Just on a budget.

And that’s where all the meaningful information really is. The things we buy. The things we don’t buy. How much, or little, we spend on what and why. Not many things we do are as self-revealing as how we use the money we have. So, in many ways, it’s not how much they splash out on you that speaks volumes; it’s what they do with the rest of it. ONE receipt may bend the truth, but spending PATTERNS never lie.

And that, my friend, is the scary part. If I HAD to impress you, I could borrow to do it. But can I show you the WHOLE truth? That I live in that car, or I borrowed that jacket, or I gave you those diamonds but they really cost me nothing; because I winter in Barbados and summer in London, and rented you that apartment with the change in my pocket?

So, for a second, forget butterflies in the stomach as the supreme indicator of affection. Try letting them know how much you earn. And all the OTHER things you do with that money. Try giving them a say in how you spend it. Try telling the TRUTH about the money in your pocket. Well, if you tried any of this, you must now know why most people prefer to keep secrets. But the question you asked was an idealistic one - Dike, be honest, if you are looking at a girl and wondering if you could marry her or not, and you were only allowed to consider ONE thing, what would it be? Well, for me, the question would still be – Can I let you into my pocket? Because, if I could, it would suggest a level of compatibility that is, frankly, out of this world.

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HOW ABOUT UNDERSTANDING MY "LOVE LANGUAGE"?

At a point, it was all the rage, how you had to learn the ‘love language’ of your significant ‘other’. So, I was told, don’t get her flowers if flowers don’t mean jack to her. But what if they mean the world to me? Then, you’re being ‘selfish’, they told me right back, because you shouldn’t be loving her how YOU want to be loved, but how SHE wants to be loved. It’s not about you! I had it screamed at me so many times I began to believe it. It’s all about her! ‘True Love’ was the very second I attained that lofty height – where making her happy was what made me happy. But! Everything in moderation! I am a human being. And I honestly think that THAT level of selflessness is a bit beyond me. Moreover, I got tired of being miserable.

Because, you see, we all put our backs into it. So, you come home from work early, even made the torturous detour into that insane Wuse market to find the right ingredients, just because you want dinner to be waiting when he gets home. But he’s a nit-picking freak. So, the only thing he notices is how untidy the kitchen is. And right after swallowing his first ball of eba, he looks up and says – You know what would have made this soup better? Periwinkles. Didn’t you see any in the market? Murder flashes through your mind, but the syllabus says that you’re the ‘selfish’ one – not speaking his ‘love language’.

Honestly, I understand the syllabus. But something is way off if it doesn’t matter that I nearly spilled blood to bring you these flowers, to write you this poem, to tidy the house, or wash your clothes; if the end product itself is of little value to you, how about my footprints, the miles I trekked to fetch it; how about what it cost me? How about the fact that, ultimately, I did it because I thought you would like it? Shouldn’t that count? Yes, it is true, I thought you would like it because I would have liked it. But I didn’t know that another definition of ‘selfishness’ was ‘to do unto others what you would like them to do unto you’! It really hurts when you refuse to eat my jollof rice just because there is no meat inside. Does that make me a bad person, thinking to myself that you could have, at least, said - Well done?

Tell me - how many times do we walk past what we have, looking for what we want? Sulking because he didn’t take you out to dinner – again! But he was up all night coaxing Junior back to sleep, pacing the hallway, singing lullabies. And you hate the ties you keep getting for your birthday. Doesn’t she get it? PS3, goddamit! But you’ve been eating three times a day, like clockwork, and don’t even know the way to the kitchen. So, what, should I just shut up and smile, pretend I love these things that don’t really matter to me? Hell, yes! Okay, fine. Everything in moderation. So, I’ll be fair. It is selfish if I don’t take the time to find out what you actually like and do those things. BUT! It is also selfish if you don’t appreciate what I go through to get you stuff, even if you don’t actually like the stuff I get you. So, we meet in the middle. I learn your language; you learn mine. That way we can always be grateful – if not for what we get, then for what it cost to get it - sounds a lot more like ‘True Love’ to me.

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SILENCE DOESN'T REALLY SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

If there’s something getting married has taught me about myself, it’s that I think too much. I see a nice dress and I think to myself – she looks really nice in that. Or I glance over and think – Wow! Her make-up is flawless. But then I notice she isn’t smiling, hasn’t been smiling all day. So, I try to make jokes, but they’re all dry, falling flat at her feet. And when I finally ask- what’s your problem? I’m told that I haven’t said anything all morning. Did you even notice that I made my hair? I did. I’m sure I said something about it. That’s how loud and clear my thoughts are to me. So, we quarrel - because she insists I should have said it, and I insist right back that it’s more important that I felt it.

To be honest, I do have a point. Too many fakes out there saying things they don’t feel. But! No one is a mind reader. And the ears are still an important gateway to the heart. Especially when the negative stuff finds its way to the tongue readily. And, trust me, it does. Like in the middle of that quarrel, when the heat rises, sharpening memory, bringing back into clear focus all the unkept promises. I don’t think my little corrections. This food is a bit salty. Or, you left the lights on in the sitting room all night. No problems vocalizing thoughts then. So, it suddenly seems like a big conspiracy – to speak out on her faults and be silent on her strengths. And grunts substitute for ‘thank you’; a nod in the place of ‘this is really nice’. That’s what makes it feel almost adulterous (just as painful) when I hand those same words over to the girl that brings our order to the table, with a wide smile too. Just being polite. Till I turn back to my girl – the one sitting with me at my table - and she’s looking at me with daggers in her eyes.

So, now I know. Saying something nasty hurts as much as not saying something nice. And you should never get so familiar you forget to be courteous. Because, honestly, that’s where it starts, the process of forgetting; when something stays long enough in your head, never coming out, it becomes a memory. Suddenly, passion becomes a memory; the slight excitement at the thought of seeing her becomes a memory; the surge of gratitude at the voluntary sacrifices he makes everyday becomes a memory. And everything is taken for granted. Including how they feel. It’s taken for granted that they KNOW – that we find them attractive and appreciate everything they do. So, logically, we stop making the effort to show it. And that’s when it becomes clear that Love doesn’t run on silent thoughts, no matter how flattering.

So, now, when I begin to forget, I pinch myself and say it out loud – You are beautiful. And so this Love breathes.

THE BEAUTY OF SIMPLICITY

When all is said and done, it can be surprising the things that actually make you happy. Like lying in bed on a Saturday morning, looking out the window. Listening to cars passing outside. Watching people from the verandah - teenagers walking hand in hand, neighbors coming home from work. The smell of plantain frying. Making a cup of milo. Brushing against each other, as she reaches for a plate and you reach for some sugar. Nothing electric. Yet deeply comforting. Like sharing the couch in the evening - head on an armrest, eyes on the TV; she’s curled up on the other side, leafing through a magazine. The occasional word exchanged. But the silence sits well between you.

It is true. We don’t live on peaks. That’s not where we build our homes. Not on peaks of passion. This Life is not a flurry of fast-moving scenes. It slows down a lot. After the club, after the party, between dusk and dawn, when the movie ends; it falls into this valley of ordinariness that goes on for hours and days, for weeks and months. Yes, even years. The topography of Love. Moments of rapture separated by days of routine. The sun rising and falling, without fanfare, but turning the world around and around. That’s what I’ve found. That Love is not a perpetual high. But it turns the world around and around. Like sitting at the table after work and sharing a good laugh. Priceless.

And that is the irony – people asking us ‘out’, when all we really want is someone we can stay in with. But the spectacle is always so attractive - the swinging hips; the baritone voice; the alluring promise of a smoking hot evening. Everything else seems to pale in comparison. And haven’t we all been told that ‘boring’ is bad? If we’re unlucky, we slug through miles of nonsense before it dawns on us – they lied. Boring is bliss. As blissful as waking up on a Saturday morning, without eye-liner or lipstick, your old hairnet pulled down to the middle of your forehead, no plan for the weekend - but happy. And if you’ve found someone you can share a moment like that with then, honestly, you are doubly blessed.