Edosewele's script

Dear Diary Diarrhea, short for DD,

No particular reason for that name, for this is my journal, and I call the shots.

’Tis I, Vanessa… longest of years, DD, since we last spoke, and I feel terrible already that we haven’t spoken at all in a while. I feel guilty, but we cannot dwell on that, because we simply must speak now.

I went to a wedding this other weekend and I saw a man—boy, child. I say “saw” and not “met” because that is what it was. It seems to me that I have been afflicted with the disease of thinking spells: the ones that bring upon you plagues of wistful imagination and make you inescapable to them. But in many ways, I think that is what I wish to believe myself.

I remember clearly his skin tone and think to myself that he must hate it when someone tries to pacify him by saying that he escaped albinism. But then it wouldn’t matter what people would say, because he would be perfect. I tell my friends that he is perfect—in fact, for Rebecca—because Rebecca is a classy girl and I am not. I am rather a silly, opinionated, bull-headed, and uncouth girl, who may not be a good match for him. So I say Rebecca is best, and in many ways I agree, because she is cute and, all the same, classy. I think she would be perfect for a supposed Yoruba man—boy, child—with an accent.

Today’s thinking spell is an elevator day. I would sit at the bottom café section reading a book as he passes by. I would stand up almost at the same time he passes, and we would both head for the elevator doors, oblivious to each other’s destination in the same direction. He would not speak to me, because I imagine him to be nonchalant. I would also see that I do not grab his attention, because he would appear eager to leave the elevator, shuffling his feet and checking his wristwatch. I would forget that it is not his eyes up close that leave me breathless, but my corset woven too tight.

I would stare at his reflection on the other side of the elevator because he is a handsome person, and I would etch a set of teeth into his face to make it a blissful memory. “Perhaps,” I would then say in my head, “I could be humorous enough to draw out a chuckle.” It would certainly be better than the smile etched into my memory. But I wouldn’t do that. Instead, I would fuss with my dress, thinking of what to say, praying for a slight malfunction of the elevator as I bear down that same fear of elevators that I now suppress momentarily because of him.

How I feel tells me that I have a crush on this mysterious man—boy, child—but I believe and know that it is not true, because I do not know this man. It is something my heart does: it looks around a room and selects a suitable participant for me to swoon over. And the swooning, I do enjoy, because it means that I can have a rom-com in my head when I want to, and for as long as I wish. Although my curiosity questions why I crave for it to happen this way instead of the participatory, realistic ways people ought to meet, I think instead that it may be the horrendous feeling of abject loneliness that I do not want to admit. But then I do not wait to dwell on the thought and dismiss it alongside its answer.

Before the elevator doors would open, I would say a rhetorical question about his cologne and receive no reply. He would move to leave in a hurry, and his hat would fall because of his contrasting height as the elevator doors open. At this, I would inch closer—further toward him—a distance less than that of a creep, to receive whatever lovely scent floats around him, and I would not be disappointed. It would become embarrassing that he could see the haste with which I reach for his hat, but I would not mind, nor would I care. Instead, I would pick up his hat, holding it firmly to ingrain in memory the texture of its fabric and wonder why it is such a deep orange.

The moment would be brief as he reaches his hand out for his hat. He would offer a thank you that I wouldn’t reply to, and without a second glance at my face, he would walk away hurriedly—never to be seen again.