with the ones who won't stay

I act like I’m not inclined to general desires. There is this nonverbal thing about how my interests are super niche; it’s not true. When I sit on the toilet seat, I take my time to think about certain things. Though we all want unique partners, we still want a beautiful one, and as a non-negotiable addendum, we also want someone desired by others. Someone you’re happy to wake up next to, amen? It’s the same game we’ve played since childhood. Having your toy, but still wanting the toy of others, not because it’s better. Underneath that, you see it: some things aren’t learned. They come with us; history and common existence give us a precedence that can’t be denied. Today, at the office canteen, with the ordered food from item 7 that took forever to be delivered due to heavy traffic on the island, disgruntlement got the best of me as I uttered the “7-3-0-8” pin to the delivery guy. Something else followed. The flow of colleagues from the office building started as soon as the clock hit 5 PM, and interestingly, I imagined myself as a woman. I looked around, wondering if the tales I hear are true, and the things I find in books are not just horseshits, and right there, I drew parallels between the life I have lived and the one I’m imagining. Over there, by the table, towards the sliding-sensor door, I see the person I had a stint with three months ago. Blue suit, not too tall. Loosened tie. Something to just imply that the day was over or about to be. He was speaking many words to this other man, and because I can only see the back view of this other person, I feign ignorance, as though I didn’t see him. Or them. I focus on my phone. Judah speaks too fast for a man who should be confident in himself. On the far side of this place that is believed to house culinary experts. Seasoned chefs. Right here, my phone beeps. The betrothed man who drops me off at home left a text. And calls some minutes later. He wants to check in. We barely spoke today. And when I’m not driving shareholder value, I think of his wife. And I see the darkness I’ve allowed myself to embrace. He is planning a staycation for both of us sometime in November. I don’t know how to feel about it, but the danger in the situation is the thrill that keeps me going. A slippery slope. A death wish. I can be that stupid. The premise for everything was that he was separated, not divorced. Separated. And I don’t believe him. But still. The focus should be on the wife, and not me. I check the last messages I sent to Dave; it has been over a month since what happened, and he isn’t replying to my texts or even acknowledging the physical notes I sent him. Another end of the road for something I thought would bring stability to my romantic life. That’s the thing about endings; they always make the beginnings look so ordinary. Time compresses the minute you start to take interest in a person. Met him one of those days at the elevator. One never knows the day they’d meet someone with so much brightness in their eyes. He was an external auditor who was very shy as I stared with intent. He had a nice dentition. And a fashion style that was up there in the charts. A wide smile. So I doubled down on the conversation to help him snap out of whatever was keeping him from speaking to me. The thing with shooting your shot is the ricochet that those actions produce. And if not properly handled, you’d be leaning hard into whatever looks like the next best thing after a failed attempt at securing the package labeled as the love of your life. As an additional layer, the thing with shooting shots is that all of us cannot be sharp shooters or snipers. Some of us have to settle for mundane processes. That good looks will count for something in the overall scheme. That oratory prowess, appreciation of dark humor, analysis of existential realities, philosophical reasonings, empirical deductions, and sarcastic wittiness will put you on the radar of finding what you think is well-deserved. We all accept the love we think we deserve, don’t we? That’s what I said three years ago, and now, the trend is changing: deliberate actions. You must respond to texts, and watch yourself crumble at the feet of limerence. You’d yearn, gasping for life, and they’d tell you - let’s remain friends. Even after having your first kiss. You’d wonder if your breath was that foul to produce such an outcome. You’d lock in hard to distract yourself, and even leave the office late to ensure that when your body hits the bed, your mind won’t get the chance to reason out frivolities, but you’d be awake by 1 AM. The thought of everything that could have been will cause your chest to ache. Your village people will be happy. But you’d lock in harder, because if you can’t bag the handsome bloke, then at least pass your certification exam. You’d do 78-85% during mock practice, and you’d still feel inept because something feels missing. You’d drill yourself with questions, cram up twenty-five pages of how income taxes should be analyzed properly, and you’d vomit the content out at will when you need it. And no one would be impressed. Because you don’t get any advantage for being geeky, and quoting Baldwin or Alain De Botton won’t save what or who has chosen to leave. Right there in the middle of a world that has defined everything, you can’t place your hand on the simple adventure of an affectionate lifestyle. The rumors are true: women are supposed to have it easy in the dating pool. Not with me. Not my type. Not the ones who understand simple linear regressions and the truth that the intercept of a security characteristic line is the Jensen Alpha. Permit my French, I’ve become fluent in a knowledge I knew nothing about eight months ago. Tonight, when I take that walk again outside the office. The temperature has achieved a balance. The heat, like a rumor too. Nowhere to be found. The security man, asleep. Can barely keep his eyes open. Me too. Can barely keep it going for three weeks with anyone without falling through. He is struggling. Me too. With the ones who won’t stay. --Author's NoteI hate when it rains in Lagos. It took me nearly three hours to get a cab back home from the office. And the office is on the island. Where did the cab drivers go? Adding to the disruptive crashing of my darling club, impairment losses and a proper way to pass it through to P&L, or other comprehensive income, is not something that’s staying in my head anymore. I hope all the coins I can scrape off from my savings will help me afford three nights at IITA when I’m done with this exam. Jide may have a good point; perhaps stopping at Level 1 might be the best decision he is making.

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