Broken | ✓

CHAPTER FOURTY ONE: JAY O II

                               Jide

Why do white people think all black and colored people look the same? I wondered as the white man dragged me along to see his fiancée who supposedly looked like Ireti. It was impossible because Ireti varnished five years ago, but I followed him. It is one of the many things you do so people buy your work.

“Jide” Ayisa called, she was the art curator of the gallery I chose to display my work. She tracked me down two years ago because just like the others, she was curious about the face that owned the name Jay O and the works accredited to the name. Jay O were the initials to my name; Jide Oluitan but with a twist. Ayisa and I met at the opening of an art gallery in Italy where they displayed my work. We were staring at a black and white portrait of a woman with a big afro that reminded me of Ireti. I would have left that show sulking if Ayisa and I didn’t start conversing. We talked about how art is one of the biggest forces of change that humanity is oblivious of, about how it had the ability to heal. It was there and then I opened up about my struggles to find redemption and how art saved me.

The world became a quick sand and I was sinking fast but one day I picked up a pencil and the world disappeared. It was just me, the pencil and the drawing paper. Through art I found peace and purpose. Purpose; we stumble through life in search for it. Something to get us looking forward to our tomorrows. Purpose has a way of redefining your life for the better good so even though I lost Ireti and I was still in a constant battle with that pain, I was at peace. Two foreigners can exist in one home.

Art gave me the courage to leave the Oluitan business. It made me explore the world because art doesn’t stay at the surface, it thrives best at the bottom level. Art is about depths. My voyage was through Africa, Africa carries depth.

Ayisa understood all these too as art also relieved her from her fight against depression. It was from that intense conversation between two artists that a bond was formed. She was the one who cajoled me to start therapy, the same way she convinced me into showing my work at her gallery.

Ayisa was a tall slender woman with eyes as brown as chocolate and a gap tooth which was her trademark, it made her more beautiful like the freckles on her cheek did. She was a lot younger than I was. I was a decade older than her; she was twenty-six but the age difference never affected our relationship. Although, sometimes I saw as a younger sister which made me a bit overprotective of her.

“Could you please give me a minute? I need to talk to her” I requested.

“Yeah sure. I will be standing over there” he pointed to where a woman who wore a black dress was standing. She seemed to be lost in whatever painting she was looking at.

“Okay” I nodded and he walked away.

“What’s up? I turned to Ayisa.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sell this painting?” she asked.

“Ayisa…”

“Yes, it is the painting of the love your life yada yada yada. It is about time you let her go and I really think letting go of this painting is the first step to your freedom” She cut me short.

Ayisa knew what that painting meant to me. it was the only painting I had left of Ireti after I destroyed the other paintings during a rampage. I wasn’t able to paint another one of her, I tried but I just couldn’t. When I started therapy, it was one of the things I discussed with my therapist and he attributed it to the pain I felt. Thoughts of Ireti came with stabbing pains and to paint her, I had to think of her.  Not being able to paint her was my brain’s way of shielding me from the pain. So, each time I picked up a brush in an attempt to paint her, my hands wouldn’t move. I decided to keep the painting to myself away from the world till Ayisa persuaded me to put it out at this show alongside my other paintings. She claimed it was one of my most beautiful works. I agreed but on the condition that it wouldn’t be put up for sale.