Can we talk about the devil’s workshop?
In my case it’s not so devilish but still being idle can’t really describe the feelings that pop up every now and then.
Some days I wait for my phone to ring, for a staff in the care agency I had worked for back in Brighton to call me up and book me for the usual back to back shifts I had always done. Other days I think about the beach. How I had missed going to the seafront when I wanted to speak to myself. It’s strange because both there and here share the same number of hours a day, same day and night in a day but still I just got a bit lazy and weary, like I’m tired everytime. Some days I feel really unfulfilled no matter how occupied I get. It’s like time is slower here but things are getting done, at least not by me just yet.
Most of the kids I grew up with on my street have either moved out or are still in school as I was told. Some of the younger ones wait at the end of the street early evenings with words on their mouth “aunty Chidinma ele kwanu ihe izutara anyi?”. Some of them are secondary school graduates, rewriting Jamb and waiting on a not so promising admission into university. Others are just new faces still muttering loudly about my hair when I walk past them. However, not much has changed about the people. It can get quiet most afternoons, the weather can some days decide to be good to me and rain loudly.
My alarm clock these days is usually horned by a work man with his loud-engined bright yellow concrete mixer. The same routine everyday. Collects gravel, sand and another type of soft-looking gravel and drives slowly to the main road. Most days I drag my feet to the veranda, crouch to stretch out my thighs with my hands leaning on the usually cold rail. I had named the driver in my head, ‘Tochukwu’ cause he looked like one. Other days I called him ‘Ifeanyi’. To be honest, I name him depending on the mood I wake up in. He would some days look up and stare at me whilst changing the gear of his cement mixer other days he’d appear too engrossed with his work. Regardless, I pay attention every morning to his legs, hands and his sweaty back as he works quietly and alone. I wonder what he had always wanted to become before this.
There isn’t always any much difference between yesterday and other days before. My dad knows this and you can sense pity in his words when he is talking to me. I actually don’t pity myself or feel as bad. The strangeness is in being where I totally want to be but not adding to it. I feel pampered a whole lot like everyone’s looking for how to contribute to my life not minding what it would cost them but I feel it should be the other way round. It only leaves me with a company of idleness, finding details in the unmeaningful. My sister says it’s what comes with home and I don’t doubt her.
Picture gotten from- Iranian Photography
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.