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| Photo Credit: Charles Deluvio |
My glasses broke. Now, don't roll your eyes. This is a big deal (to me). At least, you do remember I wear glasses? I have worn one ever since I was ten. And now, it feels like forever. I guess I am dependent on mine. It is that second skin you get so comfortable in that you forget to remove it till you're in the bathroom or about to sleep. I know. My fault. But why not. I rather see all than not.
It's been years since I lost my glasses or broke them. These things happened in boarding school. When you just walk and someone slams into you too hard or you just stay on your own jejely and someone aims at you and aims directly for your eyes—for no just cause. At least, that's how I explained it to my Dad then. I see why it never made sense to him. It doesn't make sense to me. Not even now. One second, I had it. The next, I didn't —at least, not as a whole.
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| Photo Credit: Bud Helisson |
“I am fine." That's what I said when friends came asking. I thought I was. I insisted. They left. What would you have me say, “I have never been without my glasses. I don't know if I can find my way home without them. Do you mind leading me to my route before you turn to yours.” No? Exactly, my point. Looking back, I should have done just that. I didn't understand yet, the extent of my predicament. How dependent I was on my glasses. I told them I will figure it out. It's what I always do. Figure it out. Figure it out was what I did each time I had to cross the road. Is the upcoming vehicle too close? Too fast? Slow? Do I run? Walk? I have never feared for my life this badly. Gone too soon because she didn’t look became too realistic. A tale told to children to remind them to look well—both sides—before crossing the road. “Make sure you cross at the Zebra crossing. Or you will be like that girl at so-so-so road. Do you want to be like her?” A sombre look. Then a fearful, tearful shake. “Good, then look.” I shuddered. Having an active imagination doesn't help at all.
I crossed, without hurting. Thank God! My indecision had cost me time. Night was falling. Fast. Even normal human beings don't see clearly at night talk more of a me without her glasses. I ran to the bus stop. The buses going to my location are identified by their yellow color. But who cared if I screamed my destination bus stop to every bus that passed. How am I supposed to find colours when I can't even find myself.
Someone is coming closer. His teeth are showing. I think he is smiling at me. Or the person behind me. Do I smile or not. Haew! So many decisions to make. I rather not look like a snub. I smiled. What if it's for the person behind. I stopped. Wait. What if…he is mad. I frowned. My stare must have lingered. Now, the person is looking at me. Wondering what to make of me. Digging his memory log for a matching identity. Nothing comes up. He comes closer, waiting for me to make a move. To tell him of our previous encounter, good or bad. I don't. He goes. My bus comes.
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| Photo Credit: Neil Soni |
I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to relieve my eyes of the stress. I had squinted for too long. My brain had also worked overtime trying to cover up for my loss. Relying on instinct, previous experiences and making deductions as fast as it can. My heart never stopped racing till the end. Which is not now. Buses could take you beyond if you do not take care. So I took care. I put out the lens of an eye and placed it at my eye every ten, five mins. And less, when we began to draw closer to my location till it just stayed on. It is at this time that we realize how central the eyes is to our survival. How connected it is to so many things. Like the eye-hand coordination. That one aside, there is the eye-mouth coordination. Don't look it up. I just coined it. I think it should be used for times when we didn't hear well but we read the lips to understand. This is exactly my problem. I can't see enough to read the lips of the conductor. It didn't help that I sat at the back. After many eeh and eehs —and with the help of the passengers—we reached a conclusion of my fare and I paid. He didn't say anything. But I think he was glad to see me gone. And I, him. I stepped into the familiar quiet of my street and sighed with relief.
I rejected a lift. Of course, I couldn’t see the driver. His smile was familiar. I hope I didn't have to apologize in church on Sunday. The good or bad news about my situation is that I couldn't see. I will never know what I did wrong. Why a smiling friend stopped smiling —unless, of course, he tells me. Until then, I am basking in the bliss and glory of my ignorance.
Relax. I am not blind (I fear I may have sounded like I am). I am only short sighted. It means the farther, the fuzzier. It means I can't see it well enough until it is close by. An arm's length, if I want to play it safe. A little farther if they are not in words. Even farther if in colours. But closer, closer, if in words.
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| Photo Credit: Shingi Rice |
Seriousness or Jokes apart depends on the lane you've been on since I began this story. I won't blame you for anyone. Look at me. I thought it was serious. I felt my confidence dwindle with my sight. I hesitated to make decisions till I was close enough to trust what I saw. If only we didn't make automatic/involuntary decisions every second. Believe me, I thought it was very serious. That nothing less serious had ever happened to me. I didn't even know my eyes were this reliant on glasses. Imagine my relief when I got home. I quickly slept off my headache and embarrassment. Then I laughed. And laughed. It made a good joke. The kind that makes you chuckle randomly when they creep into your memory.
Don't ask me how I solved my problem. I told you I will figure it out. Figure it out I did. Don't dare think I bought a new one. Since I am as Nigerian as they come—and a creative at that, I put my prudence to good use and bought super glue on my way back. So next time you see—if you ever see me—(please, please. I beg you) do not look hard at my glasses.
Till I tell you another story.
To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom
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