Revolt

24. Eye Of The Needle

“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” – Aldous Huxley.

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The episode of the exhilarating extreme sports show being broadcasted on the Plasma TV before him—wasn’t riveting enough to erase Lekan’s dark, murky thoughts. Virtually nothing was. Even work which was his first resort in these cases, was inadequate. It made sense that nothing was palpable enough to distract him, from the ruthless thoughts that had invaded his mind, ever since he had come to grips with the fact that he wasn’t a changed man and that all his efforts dispensed in the area to become a better version of himself had all being in vain, as he had being in denial all these while.

Asides from the fact that it had all being in a fruitless venture that had taken so much from him—the collateral damage incurred in the process, was more disheartening. It was never his intention to hurt Anjola, but in the process of trying to be the person she needed him to be—he had faltered and made a costly mistake. He then wondered if he was hopeless, and if he was beyond redemption. Beyond changing. God knew he had given it his best—his all, tried leaving his past behind, tried refraining totally from his old profligate ways, tried becoming the type of man that stuck to one woman, but he had relapsed eventually.

What did that mean then?

That he wasn’t capable of changing, and was doomed to this life forever? While he didn’t exactly loathe its offerings, he wasn’t naïve enough to think it wouldn’t get old soon, as it was indeed an ardently lonesome path, which he definitely didn’t want to tread forever. He didn’t know if he’d be comfortable with the constraints of marriage someday, but he did know he wanted love in his life. He had experienced it, and it had been greatly rewarding but of what use was it, when it wasn’t enough motivation, enough fuel to ignite his transformation.

Lekan had assumed that love was the ultimate formula in the recipe of transformation, the one thing he had been missing. And so he had relied on it, and it had failed him or did he fail it? Whichever, he was wrong to assume that his love for Anjola, his compulsion and willingness to move mountains for her, if need be—was enough to change him. It was crucial nonetheless, as it had played a huge role but it wasn’t enough. At the end of the day, he had crawled back to his old ways, like the miserable addict he was.

Anjola deserved so much more, and he felt guilty for robing her into the relationship in the first place. She had been willing to try of her own freewill, but if he hadn’t cajoled her and made an offer—perhaps, the relationship would have never come to fruition and their feelings for each other would have died in its infantry stage. They wouldn’t have shared the deep affection they had, but they wouldn’t be enemies now at least. Anything was better than being the person that hurt her. He couldn’t help but hope that the perfect man came along—if such person existed—and swept her off her feet, and erased all aching thoughts pertaining to their debacle of a relationship.

“So that’s it. You hurt my best friend, and you stay holed up in your house like a criminal on the run.” The disappointed voice preceded its owner, as it reverberated through the room—before its origin surfaced in front of him. It was Tiolu, of course in a blue Pippa, summer short sleeve dress and nude wedges.

Her comport was mostly a contemplative, musing one and not one suffused with rage, like he’d have expected. Tiolu had a short temper, and he expected she’d unleash her wrath on him for hurting the person she cared for most in the world, asides her husband. Or maybe there was an ulterior motive to her being calm. Whatever it was, he wasn’t looking forward to it and wanted to get it over with.

“If you’re here to tongue lash me and everything, just get it over with.” Lekan replied, reaching out to lift his glass of wine from the stool beside the couch, where he was seated. He shook the glass, and the ice cubes in it, crinkled as they collided in the drink—before he took another sip. “And if you feel I deserve more than a tongue lashing, I could go in and get one of my belts for you, because trust me—I hate myself enough for what happened, and there is probably nothing that you want to say now, that would make me feel any worse.”