I started writing a bit early in my life and found inspiration from books like Enid Blyton's Famous Five/Malory Towers/St Clare's, The Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley Twins/High/University and some local books like Eze Goes to School. I enjoyed fiction and loved the photographic illustrations that came with these books. So each time I wrote, I drew (more like doodle) alongside my ALWAYS fictional story and just had a strong affinity for make-believe. However as time went on and authors like Chimamanda Adichie, Terry McMillan, Segun Afolabi and Sefi Atta to name a few, came into my life, I wholly believed in the power of words and the beauty and freedom that comes with descriptive writing. Art comes in different forms, some are great with paintbrushes, others great with musical instruments and some are just great with words. Last summer, Chimamanda's The Thing Around Your Neck pushed me to try a whole new writing style and it was on a quiet day in the office, I found myself scribbling the below short story.....
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The scratching sound of nails on perhaps dandruff coated scalp, kept distracting my concentration. I was already somewhat rattled by the fact I merely hopped on board my daily 5:42am Northbound Bakerloo line train, but now my breathing was much more controlled, although I felt the familiar wetness of sweat as it trickled down the side of my face.
I looked up from my daily journal and for a moment wished I had actually missed my train. My fellow early morning commuter had no business polluting the air and destroying my early morning tube rituals .....infact, the more his presence irked me, the more I wanted to know his story. But today was different. With my nightmare of a dream still weighing heavy on my mind, I found it incredibly easy to feign ignorance at his heavy wheezing, torn clothes generously littered with several weeks old dandruff and even more infuriating, his noisy scratching!
My concentration was so low I actually heard the automated announcement "The next station is Warwick Avenue." It had only been a minute or less and I felt like "Smelly" and I had been stuck in this cabin for eternity. At this point, I obviously contemplated switching cabins, but a quick glance at the empty station reassured my fears that the doors would probably shut before I was able to get onto another less disturbing cabin.
As we galloped through the dark tunnel, I tried to refocus my attention on my reading but every word kept reminding me of my too vivid nightmare, "SCREAM", "STARTLED", "BLOOD"... By this point, I gave up trying, shut my journal and reverted to my ipod. During this switch, my eye caught Smelly's eyes and he smiled....a welcoming smile. His message was so clear I did a double take and looked around the cabin to ensure he was indeed smiling at someone else.
As much as I hated to admit this to myself, his smile brought a familiar warmth to my heart. The feeling I got each time I felt a story at my finger tips. I felt my hairs stand but I knew this morning was different. Everything about it was; so today I chose to ignore my warmth. Instead I put my best fake smile forward and promptly planted my earphones in my ears, looking straight ahead for the remaining five minutes of my journey.
At Baker Street, I alighted for my interchange and dared to look back as the Bakerloo line train forged ahead. And at that moment, I saw him wave, but it was familiar. A wave that said see you soon. As disturbing as this short-lived encounter was, I looked forward to another opportunity to ride with Smelly again. His familiarity intrigued me, his wave left me nostalgic and his I'll see you soon message probed the very core of my ignorance. This time I let the warm feeling simmer as I strolled to the Southbound Jubilee platform with hopes for a better day ahead.
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