What he wanted, what I wanted

By Sanni Omodolapo

He wanted to offer me his fruit. He wanted to have some of my water. He wanted to know what phone I use. He wanted to know what school I went to, which course I studied, and why. He wanted to know if I liked the music he was playing. He wanted to know if it sounded right to me, if it fit the occasion. He came off as really sweet, a kind, genuine person, but also really weird, the oversharing, prying type that people call creepy. He wanted to touch my hair because it looked soft under the light, like that of a wet cat. He wanted to know if I had ever seen any wet cats, if I know how a cat gets when it is wet. He wanted to know if I had ever been caught out in the rain. He wanted to know which skin care products I use for my glowing skin. He wondered if I could recommend some for his dry, scaly skin, which he got from his mother, who died in an accident in 2019. He wanted to know what combing my hair feels like, what musicians I listen to to get through difficult times, when I am in love, and when I simply want to dance and feel alive. He wanted to know if I enjoy Frank Ocean, what I think of Nina Simone and the jazz culture. He was interested, particularly, in the culture of scatting. He wanted to know what I thought of it. He wanted to know if I had seen Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill, if I prefer Kill Bill 1 to 2, if I, like him, thought all the violence, across both parts, was grisly and unnecessary. He wanted to know if I knew who Satyajit Ray was, if I knew that when Ray made his first film, Pather Panchali, in the ‘50s, he had never made a film, had no prior experience, none at all, and he had made the delicate film with inexperienced actors and an amateur cast and crew. He wanted to know if I had ever cried listening to a song, what song it was, my favorite painter—he was himself fascinated by Caravaggio, particularly by the chiaroscuro technique, the stark dark and luminous light, and by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s timeless paintings, her lively, opaque figures. He wanted me to know he cried watching Pather Panchali on the night of his twenty-fifth birthday when the sari scene came on. It shattered him, he said. He wept like a widow, inconsolable. He wanted to hold my hand as I climbed up the raised platform to test the camera angles, though he didn’t believe in chivalry. He wanted to help reposition my face as I posed for a passport photograph. He wanted to touch my face again and again because it was soft when he first put his hand to it. He wanted to tell me all about his Nikon camera and its many lenses, and the other Canon that covers wider angles. He wanted to know my other names. He wanted me to know his other names—Festus, Dipo, Falana. He wanted me to know his Falana is pronounced far-lar-nar, not fa-la-no. He wanted to know if he could interest me in a ride home. He wanted to know where I live, if I ever wondered, plying Third Mainland Bridge, about the lives of the small people on the water in their small canoes, which, from a distance, look like fine black lines.
​
We were at work and I just wanted to work and get a move on. I wanted to work, complete the seven long hours, and return home. I wanted to return home and take a cold bath and put on another episode of Spartacus for the sex scenes during which I can slip my hand inside me and thrust and thrust, and then feel miserable afterwards and ask God for forgiveness. I wanted to return home and make pasta and go out for drinks with the new guy I met on One Peppered Summer, a dating app I found two nights ago, during one of those dull, reflective moods where I got bored and dissatisfied with the shape of my life. I wanted to go home and think about more reasons to love myself, per the bespectacled therapist’s instructions. I wanted to think about Abigail, my mother, if she ever loved herself, if she ever, after the father’s death, touched herself in the darkness of her room whenever the grief that so engulfed her lifted momentarily. I wanted to try the many new flavors the new bartender at the well-lighted bar down my street has been rumored to make for anyone who stayed late enough. I wanted to get drinks with the new guy and tease him all night and then, when I know he is ready to risk it all, leave him hanging like Leila from Lie With Me. I wanted to talk to H. again and see if I can get him to forgive me for sleeping with his dad after he slept with a lady from my Wednesday Pilates class. I wanted to tell him I miss him, even though I don’t really miss him, but have just realized that one’s fingers can only do so much, and onanism, according the priest that takes my confession, is a dangerous sin to indulge in, worse than anything else, because it is rooted in selfishness, and our Lord Jesus Christ set an example of selflessness for us to follow. I wanted to return home and make plans for Abigail’s memorial, figure out what flowers to lay for her, how much I should cry this year, and what to do afterwards—whether to return to the family house at Ojodu-Berger and spend the night with Grandma and the father’s ghost and be miserable, or go to a beach somewhere and get wasted and dance and dance and dance. But he wanted to know if I would be coming in tomorrow, if we could get lunch at Mega Chicken, if I like crispy or grilled chicken. He wanted to know if we could go out together. He wanted many things. I just wanted him to leave me alone. 

---

​Sanni Omodolapo is a Nigerian short story writer. His works have appeared in RIC Journal, the Weganda Review, Agbowo, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for the Writivism Prize for Short Story (2023).