Sing Of A Tree In The Wild

Collision

Trust me, I was enjoying that party.

But as you know, I have a point to prove. The cans in my hands are already losing their chill, so I increase my pace. In no time, I'm standing in front of her gate. Elfrida's house is a duplex, like every other house in this estate, Gbagada Phase One. I manage to ring the exterior doorbell with my can-laden right hand. Almost immediately, the small door opens up to reveal the gatekeeper.

"Good afternoon, sir." I say.

"Good aftanoon. Who you dey look for?" The grizzled man says in Pidgin English, his accent undoubtedly Yoruba.

I straighten up a bit, composing myself. "My name in Dennis, and I am here to see Elfrida. We dey for the same class." I instantly regret taking a shot at Pidgin English.

The man's serious countenance assumes an inquisitive tone. "This one wey you come find her, you be her boyfriend? She no dey get visitor at all!"

Seriously, dude.

"I'm not her boyfriend o. My sister is having a birthday. I just came to give her this," I say, motioning to the can on my left hand. The gatekeeper doesn't look too convinced.

"I hear you. She dey upstairs, for balcony," He says, pointing upwards to Elfrida, who doesn't seem aware of my conversation with her gatekeeper.

"I go take you to am," he says as he lets me in. I follow his lead.

So I'm upstairs and close to the balcony. Nobody but Elfrida seems to be home. He tells me to wait inside, while he goes to inform Elfrida of my arrival. In a jiffy, he comes back in and gives me the go-ahead. I thank him. Taking a deep breath after the man's departure, I walk right into my fate.

Funny enough, Elfrida STILL doesn't seem aware of my arrival. It's like she's so deeply immersed in her writing. I'm very sure, if I don't speak at all, the situation won't change till sundown. Slowly, I edge closer to her and take a seat.

Here goes nothing.

After cursing Ehis in my mind, I begin."Hey Elfrida. I, uhm..dropped by to see you. I'm-"

"Dennis. Dennis Asiegbu. My school mate and neighbour." Finally, she fixes her gaze on me through her glasses. She stands up shortly before I do and stretches forth her hand for a handshake. Then she says with a smile, "It's good to have you here, in my home."

I take her hand, amazed. Soon, she returns to her seat, to her writing. Without much hesitation, I stretch out the can to her.

"So, er....I didn't see you at the party. Not that you ever attend any party, though. I should have brought more than this, I'm sorry."

To my surprise, she takes it, smiling again. "Thanks a lot, Dennis. I totally don't mind. Your visit alone makes me extremely happy and surprised. I wonder why everyone avoids me; it's not as if I'm a leper or anything horrible."

Her words struck me deeply. She's right. She basically has no friends, and no one ever visits her. I shouldn't judge her, really. She clearly finds solace in her writing, which isn't bad for her. Meanwhile, she drops her book and opens her can.

"Come on, open yours!" she says excitedly, looking at me intently. I follow suit. Next thing, she's asking me for a toast. Once again, I obey. We hit our cans gently and boom, we're drinking away. This doesn't seem bad at all.

Neither does she.

Now, she's back to her writing. Maybe I should go deeper into her love for the 'sacred' art. I call it sacred because I personally feel writing is a torture reserved for those who are willing to suffer. How do writers ever think of ideas? Rather than cook up scenarios or retell past happenings, why can't you just live life as it is? Come to think of it, anyone can be a writer these days. There's Wattpad for all the aspiring authors.

"Turns out you love writing a lot. It's all I ever see you do."

She stops writing, sets down her pen and looks at me. "It's all I am. It's all I've ever been. Probably all I'll ever be."

That sounded quite sober. That, coupled with her facial expression, gives me the idea that there's this deep sadness within her that she has bottled up, a deep sadness that's eating her silently, slowly.

"Have you heard of Edgar Alan Poe, Lewis Carroll, Nnamdi Agbakoba or Niyi Osundare?" She blurts out suddenly.

I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about. I hope she reads my blank, searching expression. Well, it turns out she has. "I can see how lost you are. They are famous poets I admire. I write poems. I've written a lot since last year. About twenty-four actually."

Twenty-four?

Wow.

I shouldn't look all that blank right now. I have to impress her. "Twenty-four is a whole lot. You could consider compiling an anthology."

She laughs in reply. And my, her laughter's amazing. Elfrida isn't remarkably beautiful, but man, her laughter covers the loopholes. She stops, before looking at me. "I have actually considered that. But not now. Not while I'm still under this roof."

"What's bad about your house? I actually envy your life, minus the reclusive aspect. No offence."

"No, sure, it's okay. Never judge a book by its cover, or a house by its façade. A lot may be going on within and you may not know." She's sounding sober again. Now, I'm totally convinced she's bottling something.

Elfrida picks the can, takes another gulp and drops it. She adjusts her seat in such a way that she's now facing me. "There's this poetry competition the University of Liverpool has up and running. The top three contestants get cash prizes and the winner is entitled to a scholarship to school there. I stumbled upon it two weeks ago when I was surfing the web. Ever since then, I've been putting my heart and soul into writing a poem perfect enough to get me out of this house and into the university in question."

After a moment of silence and hesitation, I edge forward and place my right hand on hers. "I don't know exactly, what it is, Elfrida, and I know we don't know each other so well. I just want you to know that, even if you want to shut everyone else out, you can at least let me in." I feel my countenance is too mushy and all, but guess what? Elfrida just placed her hands on mine. Wow!

"I'll let you in, Dennis, but not today. Some other time." She drains her can and tosses it into the bin, before standing up. "Thanks a lot for coming, and for the drink. Wish your sister a happy birthday on my behalf."

I follow suit, standing up. "I will do just that."

"What's her name?"

"Her name is Amarachi."

"That's a nice Igbo name," she says and smiles. I smile back."What does it mean, though?"

"It means 'God's grace'."

"That's nice. So, I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, hopefully."

"Yeah," I say as I walk away. Before stepping out of the balcony, I am struck with a thought, a question. I turn back to face Elfrida, who has already rejoined her 'friends'.

"Elfrida?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you started writing the poem at all?"

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Yes I have. It's titled, 'Sing Of A Tree'."

"The title's inviting. Can I check it out one of these days?"

"Sure, you can. In fact, I want you to."

"Alright then. Bye Elfrida."

"Bye, Dennis."

In no time, I'm out of her house, on the way back to mine. I have to be honest with you, today has turned out to be the best day of 2015 so far for me.