Life is terrible.
Life is extremely terrible.
I need money.
I am at a party at Espargos. There is music playing. The inside of this bar is painted bright lemon. I think it’s a very interesting bar. I spent some time just walking about and marvelling at the markedly appealing aesthetic of the place. Elegant looking chairs at the bar, pretty fascinating layout.
There is also some Western music. Cape Verdean music is great- it’s very very great, but every once in a while it’s extremely refreshing to hear some EDM on big speakers.
Life is terrible.
Life is extremely terrible.
I need money.
I am talking with this guy. He works at the wind power station to the east of Espargos. I am excited by wind turbines. I think they are really cool. On bus rides from Santa Maria, I used to stare at the turbines on the hills in the distance. I haven’t been to the power station physically- not yet.
Talking about wind turbines is exciting, but life is very terrible right now and I need money.
I ask him.
I ask him for money.
At various points in our conversation I made him aware of the terrible things that had recently happened to me.
The burglary at the beachfront apartment at Santa Maria. The burglary at the living space I relocated to, in the desert of Terra Boa.
Those unconscionable thieves. Those reprehensible Cape Verdean motherfuckers.
Two consecutive burglaries.
Back to back. Back to fucking back with no intermediating space for a relieving breath.
These experiences are making me learn to perceive myself as someone who has things people would like to steal. And someone whose movements some other people closely monitor. I never really used to see myself that way before. The second realisation is an unnerving one. A very unnerving one.
Admittedly the security measures at the first apartment were weak, and the second living space had nonexistent protection because I had just gotten there and was still putting a lot of things in place.
In spite of this awareness however, those two burglaries occurred in ways I did not expect, and at times when I was not around.
Life is terrible.
Life is extremely terrible.
I need money.
The guy keeps refusing+ignoring my financial requests. For some reason he does not expect his continued refusal to have an attenuating effect on my interest in the conversation. He keeps talking about his job and his life. I think he is trying to give me life advice.
But right now I do not need life advice. I need money.
What sort of a guy is this. I am sure he has money to spare. I am sure. He is talking like someone who has money to spare.
- And he acknowledges that my recent experiences have been immensely debilitating.
- And I have made him understand that some liquid right now would really improve my situation and my mood.
- And so I do not understand his unwillingness to give me some money.
I am frustrated.
Or maybe he does not have money to spare.
Well in that case, he should simply let me know, so I can go get money elsewhere, and then maybe continue the conversation about wind turbines later.
The guy keeps on talking.
Just standing across the bar table from him, listening to him go on and on and on, gives me a nauseating, bitter taste in my mouth.
——————————————
You are a great guy.
Oh my God you are such a great guy.
Oh you are so great. You are such a great great guy.
One of the bartenders just made me a cocktail. For free.
The sharp sour taste of the free cocktail injects a stimulating incisiveness into the overwhelming mire of this evening’s disorienting angst.
Oh wow this thing tastes so good.
I just gave this guy a surface-level description of my situation and he compassionately made me a free cocktail. I talked and talked and talked with the turbine guy, and yet he didn’t give me shit. To hell with that turbine guy. To hell with him.
I keep drifting around the party, contemplating my situation while sipping on the soothing drink.
Life is terrible.
I need money.
.
.
Image: From a night at DNA- a club in Victoria Island, Lagos Nigeria.
Mayowa Osibodu's Blog. 