Mama in the morning

My mum watches me when I'm tottering about in the kitchen.
She would have been looking in a pot, or drying her hands, or yelling at the help. I would walk in and she would stop, and watch. Her eyes follow me as I put my bag down, all busy-like, as I totter over to the cooker to inspect her hard work, as I stalk to the cupboards in a huff when I find there's nothing there for me.
Sometimes she'll say, "Oh, you can't eat that? Gluten abi," with the tone of one who humours another's eccentricities. Or she'll say, with a strange, small smile, "Did I buy you those earrings?" Never anything that demands an answer longer than, "Yes."

I find it strange, her staring. Under the weight of it I get busier than normal, huffier than normal. I suddenly can't see anything but the bowl in front of me, the bucket of garri I've lifted pointedly, the bowl of sugar in the fridge (to keep the ants away.) She stands there, and she stares.

I don't suppose she's done this all my life. I don't imagine that I would be bugged by it if she had.
I wonder, when I let myself tone down the haughty contempt for her silent eyes, what she's thinking; what she's saying with her eyes as they track my movement.
I wonder if she's thinking, "she's eating too much sugar. she just won't listen." I wonder if she's watching my breasts bounce in my blouse, laughing at their subdued movement. I wonder if she's staring at my odd shoes, wondering what it is about the screws in my head that make me wear such weird things... but that's the sound of my arrogance reverberating in my head.

When I take a minute to breathe, to listen to her silence, to be, in her presence, I hear the smile in the way she steps out of the way of my bustling. I don't need to look up to see that she is happy. There's something about me in those moments, that transcends her disapproval of all my life choices prior.
In those moments, she doesn't wonder why I chose to waste my brains studying Writing, she doesn't wonder what it means to be post-25 and unmarried, and un-engaged, and surrounded by newly wedded bliss. She doesn't even wonder, really, why there's so much sugar in my bowl.
She's just, maybe, happy, because despite the fact that I'm just about to do something else wrong, just about to laugh at the wrong joke or disrespect her, I haven't done any of that yet.
And in that moment, she is - maybe - proud.
Of me.

 

Girl, On Hiatus

In one of the comments I got from the three posts I put up so far, my friend said he did not care for Morenike the party girl at all. You know, the one who only paid attention to the guest at the party when she needed her opinion, the one who was obsessed with nail polish, the one who dates clients. I thought, oh! Is Morenike a vapid, vain woman? Then I thought, am I a vapid, vain woman for not noticing that the character I’d created was? Then I thought, Morenike is not you. Then I thought, uh oh.

That comment helped me realise that I hadn’t paid any attention to what I was writing, why I was writing, or what I wanted to achieve by writing.

I started writing Morenike without a voice. I didn’t know who she was, I didn’t know what she sounded like, I didn’t know what she wanted. I let her name roll around in my head, and each update reflected whatever Omotayo was feeling at Time of Typing (TOT™). But you can’t build a whole person on snippets of uncertainty and, without a personality to love or loathe, adore or abhor, the words are just an empty shell; clever constructs without the core that creates a connection. Wink.

So, Morenike is on hiatus. It’s lonely in my head, in the corner where she is, and so I need to play with her a bit more. Find out what she wants, now that she’s kissed Bigfoot. Find out what she’d do with a broken heart, if it came to that.

I want this story to mean something, to explore the reasons why women make the choices they do in love that they wouldn’t anywhere else. I’d like to examine the idea of identity – the choices we make because of who we want to be, who we think we are and who we would like to be. And, what do others see when they look at us? Vain, vapid or, you know, vigilant and vociferous? I’m very visibly vying for verve, here. Just throwing words unto the pile, ignore.

But, what will happen to my story-a-week, the point of this entire exercise? Will I go right back to slacking again?

No, no, I won’t. There will be slices of stories and snippets of stuff splayed in sequence for subscribers to see. Ha.

Also. Morenike's illustrator is getting married soooon :D