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Dear Bolu,
“Brother man”, Wiley says as he hands you a bag of ground cannabis and some rolling papers, “why do you say only children fall in love?”. It’s what you say, isn’t it? It’s what you’ve always said, and you have no intention of denying it. You’d answer him in a moment, but first, you mumble a familiar frustration to yourself—you’ve never really understood the phrase “brother man”. What is a “brother man”? “Brother”, you understand. “Man”, you can explain. But what is this strange coalescence of the two? Is it at all possible for a brother to be anything other than a man? You’ve never fully comprehended the manufactured identity of a “brother man”, and that comprehension will not come to you no matter the tokes of exotic weed you take. Ultimately, you chalk up the “brother man” confusion to the inexhaustible capacity of language to conjure repetitive and unnecessary jargon, leaving you with enough mental wiggle room to respond to Wiley.
You’d appreciate some quietness as you roll this delicious cannabis, but you know that’s too much to ask of Wiley. For whatever reason, he can’t keep his thoughts to himself or his mouth shut. Should you refuse him a response or evade his question, he’d find another one just as fast. He could also easily break into a story or a song if the atmosphere is too quiet. You’d like to tell him off, but you can’t because it’s his stash, and you badly want to hit one. You’ve always been good at rolling, and that talent, on days like this, grants you access to a smoke or two at no additional cost. So as you put your gifted hands and tongue to action, you tell Wiley that what you’re trying to say is there are certain child-like attributes in our adult relationships. Consider, you say, the language and terms by which we address our lovers. We call them “baby” as if they were no taller than a footstool, their handwriting comprised a hodgepodge of jagged lines and distorted waves, and they were incapable of forming a coherent sentence. It's not just "baby", of course—it could be "hunny bunch", "sugar plum", and any other name in the cuppycake song. We are accorded the exclusive privilege of calling them these names, and we are both happier for it. You say that a good marker for when things go sour between us is the loss of this privilege. They would no longer be referred to as babies; they are either Adam, Billy, Eve or Mandy.
As you finish with the first roll, you say you fancy the irony in the fact that we're encouraged to be mature in relationships, and yet the best ones we have are those in which we’re allowed some of the liberties of being children. We may be engineers who spend the day in purple overalls, steel-toe boots and an orange hard hat; skilled defence lawyers in striped suits who are renowned for being thrifty with their smiles; television show hosts with several layers of makeup, a bob wig and a heavily edited voice; but in the company of our lovers we can stand bare, with as little on as a pant or a pair of briefs, and know that we won’t be judged for having a mole on our left ass cheek, a birthmark the size of Quebec on our chest, and a navel that resembles a button more than a spiralling depression. We aren’t any less cute or less adorable for these adornments on our bodies, says the gaze of our partner. They may playfully tease us about these observations and say, perhaps, that the mole betrays the existence of a nascent superpower, the birthmark is the map to our secret superhero hideout and that pushing on our belly button grants us access to the mysterious lair. They may make these statements with our heads face-up on their laps, drawing our mouths and noses and cheeks into many configurations, saying with a dearth of words how, if we were only a few pounds lighter and they were a bit stronger, they’d want nothing more than to throw us up in the air and catch us on our way down to the sound of our delightful screams and the reassuring knowledge that no matter how hard or fast we fall, they’d be right there.
Midway through the second joint, you remark that just as we relish these child-like liberties, we also try to extend them to our partners. We are rather careful to love them how they yearned to be loved as children. So we don’t mock them for crying when Jiraiya gets swallowed by the sea or when Dumbledore, in his final moments, says, “Severus…please”. We are in the crowd beaming with pride when they’re called to receive an award at the office end-of-the-year party. We buy them a special treat when they publish a paper or earn a deserved promotion. We organise a party for their birthdays and invite their close friends. We may have bitter recollections of that sunny Sunday afternoon when our dad urged us to go put on our shoes while he waited in the car for us. No sooner had we worn our finest pair of socks had we heard the engine's purr intensify and fade gradually till it was out of earshot. We’d run out with one shoe in hand to confront the reality of a painful betrayal, and we’d cried for a good while. So today, we don't do so evasively when we have to leave our partners for a bit. We are honest in a manner that they can understand. We depart with a goodbye, a hug, a forehead kiss, and an oops-I-forgot-my-passport-in-the-drawer kiss. And if we’re gone for long, we make sure to buy them exotic fruits or an amulet bearing the face of love.
You’ve been speaking for a while now, and you can’t continue to stave off the urge to take your first hit. Wiley is way ahead of you, and with each drag, he comes up with a flurry of fresh questions. His latest curiosity demands that he knows whether, given all you’ve said, people ever truly grow up. You say that we do. You say that the problem is we often conceive growing up as consisting only of the whittling away, shedding, and cutting down of juvenile tendencies. When we say to Ronke—the blonde in middle management who hugs a teddy to sleep and lives on sesame street in a galaxy far, far away—that she should grow up, we usually imply that she’s exhibiting certain childlike behaviours that should be done away with for a lady her age. Much of growing up, you argue as you take your third drag, rather lies in the masking and wrapping of these behaviours in layers of responsibility, maturity, and shame. They remain. They’re always there, and any semblance of their absence is owed to the many other behaviours we’ve stacked on top of them. You say that when we come upon another soul—hopefully one as imperfect as we are—these behaviours find a means of expression that pierces through those dense layers. We let them call us “baby”. We win for them a bear the size of a centre table at the game village, gift them an Elmo keychain, and buy them a Millenium Falcon LEGO set for Christmas.
Now more than halfway through with your blunt, your mind begins to weary a little, but the questions keep coming. You answer each one with the same measured apathy and precision as always. Then Wiley asks, “what about you? Have you ever loved in a child-like manner?” You smile palely as you take a very long drag. Memories of your past lives cloud your eyes, and they vanish with the mist of smoke that purges through your mouth and nostrils. “Many, many times, Wiley”, you say, “and yet only once”. You can tell he’s unsure of what you mean, but you’ve had enough talk and can’t bear to lengthen the conversation. “You should know by now what I mean”, you continue, “there is wisdom in the high, dear friend”. What follows is the gentle nodding of the head as if to say “word”. And then, silence.
Fin.
P.S.
This one is a nod to Nick Mulvey’s Cucurucu, which you can listen to on Spotify or YouTube.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
Beautifully written...love it, "Brother man".