Insomiaspiration

Its 1:27am, a young woman sits in front of her tablet trying to write a post to commemorate her reentry to blogger, however nothing pops out of her tired brain.

Rain

It's raining in Benin when I get in, it's always raining in Benin. I find that I shouldn't have rushed down, I'm actually two days early. I drop my things in the place I'll be staying and decide to go and get food in Mat-ice, I've been fantasising about their fish and ice cream for sixteen months.  

As I walk through the corridors of UBTH- on my way to Mat-ice, I'm assauged by an avalanche of memories. It's raining steadily, no one carries an umbrella, the rain never gather muscle as they'd say in Benin. I suddenly realise how much of my memories have been shaped by rain. Me at eighteen, with a crush on the cutest guy in fellowship, luckily I didn't know it was a crush, even luckier that he didn't take advantage of me and my feelings. The long walks after fellowship when we'd talk about everything under the sun, his voice washing over me, his brilliance and humour kept me magnetised. He left that year, I didn't mourn him too much though, I had already falling in crush with someone else. 

A long walk

You come down at Ajah park, a frown of confusion on your face, this isn't one of the bus stops your father had given you directions from. Crossing to the other side with your khaki trousers digging into your sides, you find yourself in front the UBA head quarters, a little disoriented. "where do I go from here" you whisper softly and then call your father, he doesn't pick up, he forgot his phone at home but you don't know that at the time. You call your mother, her number is busy "who could she be talking to that's more important than her first child?" You listen to your thoughts and shake your head in amazement at the way your mind works.

Samsoness

It was a hot afternoon, probably around 3pm- the writer cannot be certain because many years have passed since that fourth Sunday in January in the mid 1990s. A beautiful six year old girl was crying at the top of her lungs, it was another Sunday, another day when she faced the biweekly daymare. Her aunty was about to plait her long and thick hair.

This girl's hair was unfortunately rather hard to comb due to its thickness and its tendency to tangle,  she also had two major problems- a tender scalp and a very low threshold for pain. The result was a crying spell that lasted from when the old hairstyle was loosened till when they finished plaiting the new style. This had gone on for years without fail.