The room is suffused with a soft orange light.

There is music playing somewhere in the background. It echoes around the walls.

I’m sitting on a chair. It’s a high-seat chair, like a bar stool.

I’m sipping on a glass of chilled white whine. I poured it myself from the table up front.

There is no one else in the room. It’s just me, walking around, trying to piece together the happenings that recently took place here.

I’m taking slow steps around- walking between the tables, taking things in. There are half-filled wine glasses here and there. Bits and pieces of unfinished cake. Chairs turned at an angle so their occupant could leave.

I’m slowly nodding to the music as I head towards the cake stand. There are a good number of untouched pieces of cake. I help myself to them.

I catch a glimpse of someone who I think is the janitor. He’s wearing some sort of a black janitor apron. He popped in through a swinging door by the right of the cake and wine tables. I think there’s a store out back or something.

The janitor guy appears to have something of a frown on his face. I don’t know if the frown is for me. I don’t know what he’s frowning at.

I keep helping myself to the cake.

There’s an interesting looking single-sofa chair at one end of the room. It’s got an upholstered back and armrests, with smooth wooden legs. I think it looks cool. Fancy.

I walk towards it and sit down. It’s soft and firm at the same time. Soft enough that you feel relaxed, but firm enough to make you sit up straight at the same time.

I bite some more cake and sip some more chilled wine. I’m feeling pretty fancy.

I was one of the last people to arrive at the art exhibition.

Or you know what, no. I was the last person to arrive- I had to be. When I got here, a good number of people had already left. The artist was giving like the brief speech at the end where she was appreciating everyone for coming.

That was when I walked in.

It took a while to locate the place, I had to walk a considerable distance after getting out of the U-Bahn station. When I walked into the compound, I realized I had been here before.

I was here a few months ago. The college I’m enrolled at, was having an event. It was upstairs, in the hall on the first floor. There was dancing and brief speeches and talking and pictures and general fun.

At some point I was in a conversation with a classmate and her friend who had travelled in from the US. We were talking about something- something random.

And then my girlfriend came in from nowhere and grabbed me like “OoOhhH! So this is where you are! I leave you for five minutes, and this is what you’re doing- chatting excitedly with girls!”


Later she’d be dancing with someone who used to be my roommate in freshman year. Jake. In between spins she’d glance at my face, searching for signs of jealousy.


Later we’d be talking in a corner, taking in the interesting aesthetics of the room- the glossy wooden floors and ornate furnishings. She’d be telling me about how the room reminded her of an old couple she met somewhere. How it reminded her of their house, and how talking with them in that house made her begin to dream about growing old with a partner in such a cozy space.

I thought that was interesting.

At the same time I was contemplating putting a hand up her skirt. Or down her trousers- whatever she was wearing at the time. We were in a somewhat private corner. There were a number of sofas, and the area was separated from the rest of the room by a thick soft velvet curtain.

It was very possible no one would notice us there. I took some time to think about it, while she talked on about the old couple.

Hm hm hm, should I try to be responsible, or should I just go for it — Hm —

I’m still sitting on the interesting soft-but-firm sofa. I think this general kind of chair is called a Charlotte chair.

I’m sipping some more on the glass of white wine.

From my perch on the chair, I stare at the art pieces that line the wall.

I think they’re interesting pictures. The theme of the exhibition is “Reflections”, and the artist was exploring that idea in her photographs. Exploring edges and contrast in buildings and a number of other objects. Interesting pictures.

I’m a little surprised that the pictures are here on the wall, even after everyone has left. I’m not entirely sure how art exhibitions work. Is someone going to come pack them up later? I don’t know.

I also don’t know if this room is an actual art gallery. It doesn’t really feel like it. It feels more like a general-purpose room what was decorated and furnished for the purpose of the event. That’s why it feels strange to have the pictures still all be here.

I keep sipping on the wine, and enjoying the dreamy ambience of the vacated exhibition.

The room is still echoing with the music playing in the background.

The German janitor is probably still frowning.

Image: A different exhibition. A different continent.

PS: I’m running out of Berlin pictures. I need to plan towards some new trips.

Berlin: College Event at Barbara’s Place.

I heard this used to be where Barbara lived with her family. Husband and I think two kids. They had just moved to a new place. Probably the rent here wasn’t up yet, so it was still available to host a college event.

I think it’s an interesting place. I like the main door. It’s this tall and somewhat grand-looking wooden door. Like something you would see in Lord of the Rings. But it was covered in graffiti.

Everywhere in Berlin is covered in graffiti. Berlin is making me see graffiti differently. I used to associate it with chaos and slummy areas. Now I’m beginning to see it as art. I think. It’ll take a while.

I just got here. Pretty much everyone else was here like thirty minutes prior.

The girlfriend was hurrying me up in the morning.

It’s time to go, get dressed Oh my God we’re going to be late Mayowa what is wrong with you


At some point I told her to just go. That I would join them later.

There was already an Uber waiting. The Uber for the hurry hurry people. And she didn’t want to miss it.

Just go please. Go join your fellow serious classmates who are always prompt for every event and never miss a class. Just go, mwah.

I’m looking around the room. I see Jake. I’m happy to see Jake. We were roommates in the first year. We don’t seem to spend as much time together anymore.

Well first we’re no longer roommates. He and some fellow American, very frat-boy-ey classmates decided to share an apartment this semester.

I was annoyed.

Frat boys plotted in secret and stole my roommate. Ugh.

And he allowed himself to be stolen. He was willingly stolen. Ugh.

There was this time I came across he and Kah, on the way back to my apartment from the corner store with the Turkish guy who makes interesting pizza. The one who was asking for my thoughts on Trump. Jake and Kah were going for some hallmark Berlin event. Festival of Lights or something like that. They asked me if I wanted to come along.

At the time the girlfriend and I had already made some plans for the night. And so it was just my physical body they came across that evening. My thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Jake recently suggested going snowboarding for the winter. Snowboarding sounds like a lot of fun. I have never done that before.

I just don’t know what my December is going to be like. I just don’t know.

I am looking around the room.

Skye is walking alongside two other women. They seem like relatives. Maybe one is her mother and the other is her aunt or something, I don’t know. They all seem very angry at each other. They’re walking side by side but they are all looking straight ahead. Skye has a particularly displeased look on her face. The look gives me the impression that she was displeased before she even walked into the room. I wonder what they’re angry at one another about.

Omer is calling me over. I head over. Omer is pretty cool. He’s one of the Israelis. They’re significantly older than the rest of the class because of the mandatory military service thing they have in their country.

I feel like if he was a number of years younger, there would be a higher likelihood of us enjoying each other’s company. At least more than is currently the case.

In San Francisco, he was usually in the common room. The one on the third floor. Always seated at that centre table and doing serious stuff. Like, always. He was always there.

There was this skateboard deck he brought into the common room. At some point someone filled an empty bottle of ginger ale up with water. I used to stand on the skateboard deck and see how long I could keep my balance with just the sideways ginger ale bottle under it. Swaying from side to side while the bottle rolled underneath the deck. Right next to the very soft and roomy and comfy chair where Esther liked to curl up and read.

I think I was the one who came up with the ginger ale bottle idea. I think.

Omer is always excited about the strangest things. One time it was one “Freakonomics” textbook. He kept talking about how cool it was. To me it just looked like a book about boring adult stuff.

India’s GDP increased by 2.5%.

What’s my business.

And Omer could be an annoying adult. Condescending. Every once in a while I would get to the common room to see a hostile poster on the door. Something like:

Go away. I am having an interview. I am an adult and I have a future and I do serious stuff. Do not disturb me you hormonal teenagers, go make out and just generally be hormonal teenagers somewhere else.

Fuck you Omer, fuck you and your important interviews and your serious adult stuff.

Omer is asking me what I think of some music he is playing on his computer. He passes me an earbud. I do not understand his excitement. It sounds like some ancient Middle Eastern music. Like something some Arabian king used to listen to, to lull himself to sleep.

I don’t understand why he is jamming his head. I don’t even see the rhythm to which a head can be jammed to. I don’t get it at all.

I keep walking around the room. I talk with Corey a bit. We talk about Professor Doyle.

I keep walking around. The girlfriend says she wants to take a few pictures. Says there’s a separate room up ahead.

Separate room.

To “take a few pictures”.

I abandon everything else and go with her. I wonder why she was so much in a hurry to leave the apartment earlier in the morning.

I am in the kitchen. Louis is helping out with some stuff. I think he’s cleaning something. Barbara is also here. I think I try to be useful at some point.

We’re back in the large main room.

I’m talking with Barbara. At some point the girlfriend’s flower-patterned scarf catches her attention. She says she used to have one just like that. I think there’s more. I think being very young is another thing she might also be thinking about at the same time. Another thing she used to have. I don’t know. It just feels like it.

I am in a different room. There are a number of different bottles of alcohol. I ask Jake to take a picture while I pose with some bottles.

Haha. This room is crazy. Why are there so many bottles of alcohol I don’t understand haha

The girlfriend says she’s leaving. Off to a cafe. To prepare for class and generally do serious stuff. She’s always hurrying somewhere. There’s always some very important thing she has to do, I don’t understand. Left to me we’d both probably still be in bed right now, wondering if going for the event with all the other college people was still a feasible possibility.

I reluctantly let go of her hand as she heads down the stairs.

Image: In the crazy room with all the alcohol bottles.

Of Summer Rendezvous and Stolen Wine.

Mister Wang is on the balcony.

I’m not quite sure what he’s doing. I think he’s just taking in the view. Or maybe he’s having a phone call- I’m not quite sure.

I am in the kitchen section of the college HQ. There is a stash of wine bottles by my right.

I never really used to pay attention to the wine. In my head, it was in the same category with the like shoulder-high rack of wine bottles in one of the meeting rooms. The one with a table and an iMac and bookshelves and sofas.

I had that room to myself on a recent afternoon. Reclining in the extremely comfortable chair, reading about a newly-popular deep learning library called Keras on the iMac screen. Thinking about neural networks and activation functions and feeling like some grey-haired Stanford professor.

In my head, the assortment of wine bottles to my left were not for consumption by mere mortals like myself. The wine was arranged there for a different species- one I had never encountered before.

In my head, the bottles by my left were not wine, they were art. To be protected from contact with my inquisitive epidermis, lest those invaluable vessels dripping with rich history, instantly crumble into regrettable dust upon contact with my lowly Homo Sapien skin.

But the bottles of wine in the kitchen- the bottles of wine here by my right? These ones are different.

Like a few weeks ago I walked into the HQ kitchen and saw a half-full bottle. I paused mid-stride to make sense of what I was seeing.

Wait, this wine is for drinking? This wine is to be drunk? By human beings?



Okay. Okay. Okay I get it now. I get it now.

I think there had been some sort of a celebration at the HQ a number of hours before. Hence the wine.

Mister Wang is on the balcony.

I intend to transport one of the wine bottles into my backpack.

I do not know if that is stealing. I know chocolates and general snacks are accessible to all, but I just don’t know about the wine.

I don’t know if it’s expensive wine. To be honest I have no idea how to identify expensive wine, either by the bottle or by the taste. I think confirmation bias could make otherwise unremarkable wine taste expensive. To like me the uninitiated, it definitely would. It probably would have much less of an effect on expert tasters and stuff though.

I wonder if Mister Wang on the balcony can hear my thoughts.

I wonder if he has already perceived my intentions. He gave me a brief glance a few seconds ago.

I don’t know. He seems to be very engrossed in whatever he is doing.

I don’t know. Or maybe he is just being disingenuous.

The wine bottle is in my bag.

In my head I am coming up with explanations for my actions. I am advocating my innocence to the skeptical college-faculty superego in my brain. I can see myself in front of a disciplinary council, drawing on ethical frameworks and logical arguments to exonerate my very pitiable self from impending doom and desolation.

The school administration has been expelling people in recent times. I wonder if I could get expelled for stealing wine from the HQ. I don’t know.

But wait, I don’t even know if this is stealing. The wine is definitely accessible to general staff. I think. For students? I don’t know. For a student sneaking a bottle into his bag to drink back at the dorms with his girlfriend? I have no idea.

The wine bottle is in my bag.

My head keeps dancing about in a web of ethical conundrums as I head out to Market Street and begin to skateboard down to Powell.

A Kenyan classmate just helped me with a wine-opener. She says something about having some sort of share in the wine.

I’m not quite sure what she’s talking about. There’s only room for two this night.

I head down the stairs. About ninety percent of the class is home for summer break- and so the building in Nob Hill which functions as our dorms, is largely empty. The girlfriend and I have been making use of a number of different rooms in the building, in addition to our assigned rooms for the summer.

I call one the “flute room”, because during the session one of the occupants used to play the flute.

It was somewhat ticklish for me being in that room with the girlfriend, and thinking about the relatively innocent conversations I had had right there, with the occupants of the room a number of months before.

Hm, if only these people knew what we’re doing in their room now. What we’re doing with their beds.

Today it’s a different room. This one has a view of California street. Like my room.

I’m heading downstairs, wine-opener in hand.

The stolen wine should set a very stimulating mood for the night.

This night should be a very interesting one.

It’s a number of days later.

I am having a conversation with a resident assistant- a classmate from Malaysia. She is telling me about a strange discovery she made while locking up one of the rooms in the building for the summer.

The room was supposed to have already been cleared out, and so she was surprised to find an unempty bottle of wine in the wardrobe. Along with a blanket. And a number of other things which had very tenuous strings to their consequently ambiguous owners.

Hm. I wonder where the wine came from. I wonder how it got there. I wonder how it got opened, and I wonder what activities the beings who drank from the bottle intended to engage in.

Hm. I wonder.

This life is a mystery.

Image: Drinking (unjustifiably?) expensive wine at Shiro- an interesting Pan Asian restaurant in Lagos Nigeria.

Nightclubbing in Berlin: Sisyphos.

I am skateboarding down the road. I’m heading for a club.

“Hopetosse” or something like that. I found it on Google. Traced out the directions on Google Maps.

Everything is annoying. Life is bad. I need some clubbing in my system this night.

I am at Hopetosse. There is a queue of some sort. I join.

It’s my turn to go in. The bouncer guy looks at me. He is asking for something. I wonder what he is asking for.

He is saying something. Tonight’s event is by invitation only, something like that.

Ugh. Bloody hell. Ah. Everything is terrible.

I am walking back. This is such a terrible night. Everything is bad. Even the nightclub I intended to visit was not accessible.


Someone is calling out to me. Some guy across the road. I wonder what’s up with him. I’m thinking he could be a drunk homeless guy, but I don’t know- this guy sounds too confident and clear-voiced to be a drunk homeless guy.

I walk up to him. We begin talking. He is German. He is tall. He is very tall. He is like six foot seven. I like him. I like very very tall people.

We keep talking. His name is Michi. He has had such a great night. And he also had such a great day. We keep talking about how great of a time he has been having.

He is in a very good mood.

I tell him about the severely disheartening event at Hopetosse.

He tells me not to worry. Says he has a friend who manages a club nearby. Says it’s a very selective club, but that he can get me in.

Ohhhh. Okay. Okay. Maybe tonight won’t be so terrible after all.

Now I myself am beginning to get in a good mood.

We are at the club.

The name is “Sisyphos”.

I am talking with his friend. I think he is the manager of the club. He is also very tall.

Wow I like these guys, they are so tall.

We keep talking. There’s another guy- one of the managers I presume. His girlfriend is next to him. I think her arm is around his neck.

He’s telling me about how he dropped out of an Architecture college programme a while back. He tells me about a motorbike roadtrip he undertook across a number of countries in West Africa.

My eyes are wide open with admiration.

The manager guy asks me what I’m doing in Berlin. I tell him school. I’m a college student.

He goes, “Oh so you’re a smart one!”

I don’t know what he is talking about. I think I’m actually seriously considering dropping out and going on motorbike road trips like his friend.

At some point they welcome me into the club.

The club is going to be open all weekend. From Friday night till early Monday morning. Nonstop. Wow. These German guys really mean business with their clubbing.

I don’t have enough cash in hand for the gate fee. And I think paying with my card is problematic. Michi has a female French friend who is also here to club. Her name is Virginie. She helps me with the additional required Euros. I’m to pay her back later. We exchange contact details.

Oh wow these people are so friendly. This night has taken such a dramatic turn for the better.

I am in the club. I am in one of the halls. Berlin generally has this lyricless Techno House kind of music that’s like everywhere. Initially I found it very strange, but I think I’m gradually getting the hang of it.

I keep dancing to the Berlin lyricless Techno House kind of music.

I am outside. I’m on the way to check out another hall.

On the way, I contemplate the ethics of clubbing as a boyfriend. What should I and should I not do in a nightclub, when I have a girlfriend (who is not with me in the club)?

What is allowed? What is right? I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.

I am in another hall. This place has so many halls. I have a lot of regard for these German guys. This club gives me a lot of respect for them.

I am dancing. I take some puffs of someone’s marijuana.

Wait, where the hell did he go. Isn’t he going to take it back? I don’t understand, what

I keep dancing. Every once in a while, I find myself in a situation which brings to mind my earlier contemplation on what is right to do in a nightclub when you are in a committed relationship with someone somewhere.

I keep dancing.

It is in the early hours of the morning. I am on the way out of the club. I come across the tall manager guy. We shake hands and laugh. He has such big hands. I let him know how much of a great time I had, and how much regard I now have for German nightclubs.

You’re going home alone? You’re a loser.

I’m not quite sure what he means.

Wait do you have a girlfriend?

Yeah! Yeah I do.

Oh okay.

The expression on his face changes. I am not quite sure how to interpret it.

I am back at my apartment.

For some reason the girlfriend is still up. She is at her place. We’re messaging. I let her know how much of a great time I had. Told her about the club managers I met.

She doesn’t seem too excited. She has become weird recently.

Very serious. Always thinking and talking about CVs and career and internships and all that stuff.

It annoys me so much. She used to enjoy hearing about my clubbing stories. That was one of the things she liked about me when we started dating. Now it feels like she passively disapproves.

I don’t like how it makes me feel.

It makes me feel like the nonchalant boyfriend who goes clubbing all the time and for some reason seems unconcerned with CVs and internships and career stuff, which unarguably are the absolutely most important things in life. More important than food or air to breathe even.


I keep thinking about what a great night I had.

It was a great night.

I don’t care if the girlfriend disapproves.

Okay. maybe a little.

Just a little.

Image: Berlin. A different night.

I am on the BART to Berkeley/“Black Virgins are Not for Hipsters”.



I am on the BART to Berkeley.

Lapsley’s “Hurt Me” is playing on my Spotify.

Spotify has this “Save offline” functionality with which you can save songs for offline listening.

That’s what I do whenever I go skateboarding at Potrero Hill. Potrero is so picturesque though. And relaxing. I love skateboarding there to just chill on the lush green hill in front of the very colorful high school.

I have this Spotify playlist I curated over the past few months. Plus, there was this playlist my roommate introduced me to: “Lush + Atmospheric”.

He is from Southern California, my roommate. He is so cool though. I got to learn about Spotify’s Lush+Atmospheric playlist one night when we were both very high in the room and listening to Spotify playlists. I think he actually had a “High” playlist. Or maybe it was an official Spotify playlist. That Spotify thing is pretty crazy.

That night I ran out of synonyms for “high”, because he kept coming up with new ones I had never heard before, every two minutes.

”Oh Mayowa, I’m so baked right now.”

I couldn’t even contain my laughter. I was like rolling all over the rug in the room.

”Baked.” What the fuck.

“Oh Mayowa, I’m so packed right now.”

”Jesus Christ hahaha! Packed! What the fuck bro, You just keep bringing it hahaha!”


I am on the BART to Berkeley.

I am going to see a show.

“Black Virgins are not for Hipsters”, that’s the title of the show. I found out about it on Eventbrite. Eventbrite is so cool. Plus there is just so much happening in the Bay area all the time, it’s so exciting. Although sometimes it feels like you’re always missing out on something. That can sometimes be an uncomfortable feeling.

Lapsley’s voice is really nice. I like this song. The lyrics are pretty gripping.

Under the overly bright lights of the BART this evening, I realize that I am experiencing a new feeling. I am currently experiencing a feeling I have never experienced before: The feeling of having someone waiting back at home for me. The feeling of having a romantic partner waiting back at home for me. This is new. This is a completely new feeling.

Some context: I recently got a girlfriend. I recently fell in love. And believe me, it’s crazy- I’m being introduced to this side of myself I never knew existed. This soft mushy irrational Mayowa I don’t understand at all.

It’s an interesting feeling- having someone waiting back at home for you. There’s the excitement that comes with liberty- being free to do whatever you want- being free to stay out as late as you want- That’s something I have been enjoying immensely over the past few months. But this is different. I have someone I love waiting back at home for me in San Francisco. For some reason, staying out as late as possible just doesn’t seem as appealing anymore.

Lapsley’s “Hurt Me” keeps playing.


I am skateboarding around the campus of UC Berkeley.

It seems like a cool school. Not as cool as my school though. Haha. Nowhere as cool as my school.

I am early for the show. I don’t know how that happened. I am usually late for everything.

I keep skateboarding. There’s a Frat House building thing by the left. Alpha Beta Gamma Zeus or something like that. Sounds like something Tyler and Zach would be extremely excited by. I myself am curious about what goes on in the building though.

I keep skateboarding. Some woman is doing a garage sale. I’m interested in a fairly used snowboard. I spend the next like twenty minutes in a discussion with the woman, while negotiating on a price for the snowboard at the same time. I’m not quite sure how much she agreed to sell it for- I think it was thirty dollars. I didn’t know if that was a good deal or not. I had no idea how much snowboards cost.

“I could ask Omar, my Israeli classmate. He’s a snowboarding guy.”

When we eventually agree on a price, I realize I have nowhere to keep the snowboard. My classmates and I will be moving to Berlin soon. How the hell am I supposed to transport a snowboard all the way to Europe? Who is going to pay for the extra baggage?


Black Virgins are not for Hipsters.

Echo Brown’s performance is impressive. Very moving. Her tears are so compelling. She is such a bad person and dating her will making you very disoriented and miserable in life and she is so open and honest and straightforward about that. It’s very admirable. At the end of the show she takes questions. I ask a few.

I really like my school. I genuinely feel like the experience I’m getting there is perceptibly improving the quality of my questions/contributions in general social situations. Echo Brown responds to my questions from her seat on the stage. This is so exciting.

After the show I’m talking with this girl from Ethiopia. She seems somewhat nervous. Come on pretty looking girl, open your mouth and respond to my questions. I don’t bite you know.


I am on the BART back to San Francisco.

It has been a very enjoyable night. There is just one thing on my mind right now- getting back to my girlfriend. I love her so much. I have never experienced this much affection and desire for a human being in my life.

I’ve missed her so much just in the last few hours. Right now I am in a Subway train under the ocean, pining to get back to get back to my girlfriend in San Francisco.


Something from my Spotify “Saved for Offline” playlist is playing.


Now Playing: Memories by Petit Biscuit.



1. In the MUNI, on a different night. I think I was on the way back from buying a new skateboard at Haight/Ashbury.

2. San Francisco. Probably also on a different night.



Would you like to talk?


I enjoyed talking with you. I really enjoyed talking with you.


What are you doing this afternoon?


I enjoyed this afternoon. I really enjoyed spending time with you.


Would you like to come hang out?

Just company. It doesn’t matter if you have work to do. I’ll just hang around and provide company.

You know what? I think we’re soulmates.

Will you be my girlfriend?

We’re doing great, we’re doing so so so so great.

I miss you.


I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much. Come here.


Why did you do that?

Why did you do that to me?

Stop. Stop, I don’t like it.

You’re not listening.


I miss you.


Would you like to talk?





. White noise .

Calheta Funda: Ethereal Visions, Voyaging Discomfiture, Craggy Rocks and a Shingle Beach.

Ilha do Sal, Cape Verde.

February 2017.

Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.


I shift a little in the cave where I lie- the ground is hard and interspersed with pointed edges; I am shifting to minimize my discomfort.

[What song was I playing?]

There is a hole in the roof of the cave. I stretch my right hand outwards through it. Maybe cellular reception will be substantially better outside.



Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.

I am thoroughly heartbroken.

There are a number of unattended messages on my phone. A number of people wish to interact.

I do not want to talk to them. I do not want to talk to anybody.

I miss my girlfriend.

I’m scrolling through her pictures again. This is probably where I expend an inordinate proportion of my internet data budget- scrolling through pictures.

I miss my girlfriend.

It feels like I have the emotional space to care for very little else. People wise? Nobody. I do not feel like I have any room to spare. The entirety of my emotional insides feel thoroughly wounded.

I was watching the waves earlier in the afternoon. The rippling crest of each wave looked like a troop of glittering translucent horses, each racing all of the others-determined to reach the shore first.

The wave crest had layers of these ripples- these horses. And every few seconds, a new layer of water horselets would clamber over the row preceding it.

I found it fascinating.



Yes, cellular reception is indeed better outside the cave. I withdraw my arm. The page on the screen is done loading.

I think back to a number of popular scary stories I used to hear people tell when I was younger. In Nigeria. Superstitious stories. Stories about mermaids that transformed themselves into beautiful women, with the intention of wreaking havoc on the lives of men.

And apparently being alone right next to the sea at night had its caveats, because these very dangerous women could emerge at anytime to accost one.

I have been sleeping in this cave for a number of days. No maleficent mermaid has come to demand rent from me, not yet.

Psht. Nigerian superstitions.


The sound of the waves is calming once you get used to it. It’s very easy to learn to see the waves as your friend- the ocean as your bosom companion on your solitary, amply-apprehension-inducing expedition.

Bosom companion my foot. I got back from the city the other day and virtually all of my food supplies were gone. One half of my pair of skateboarding shoes. The entire pair of the Italian shoes- the ones I only ever wore like once- with the suit in San Francisco.

I searched and searched in vain.

Bosom companion my foot.

Please make calming soothing sounds as much as you want, just don’t touch me or my things ever again.

I very recently learnt of the term “Shingle beach”. It’s a beach consisting of rocks- smoothed and rounded by progressive weathering by the waves, in lieu of sand. I did not know that before.

“Shingle beach”. Hah.

I shift a little in the cave.

I have very little money left. I’ve inserted discreet job-hunting into my island exploration bucket list.


Virtuality the entire rectitude of my future plans depends on some research I am conducting- which in turn is presently typified by a piece of computer code I am working on.

A piece I have been working on for more than a month now.

I wonder what sort of an impression a person who had very little experience with technology, would have of my current situation.


Like, hey. Hey, look at me. I am pushing a number of black buttons on this silver piece of metal. Is there some sort of reason to my pushing these buttons? Some sort of order? Some sort of rationality?

Who knows?

The meaning is only known to me. I believe I know what I am doing. Against all of the scaldingly adversarial social currents. To you I might as well be a monkey at a piano.

And yes. Here I am- on this island where I know absolutely no one- in this country within which I know absolutely no one personally. and my entire future and my entire life is reliant on the sensibility of all of these my disconcertingly abstruse endeavours.


Goodluck to me.

Good good, luck to me.

I am playing a metal song I just downloaded. I’m not particularly sure what the singer is saying. I think the volume is too high.

But it’s Metal. There is really no such thing as the volume being to high, is there.

I am outside the cave now. I am staring into the stars.

I hear people’s voices in my head. People I know- people I used to know. I can hear them talking. Not to me, no. About me. I can hear these people talking about me. I am not sure what it means.

You know how feel when someone you hold in some sort of regard, gives you a compliment? Yeah? Good?

This is like that, but the other way round. Like I feel a particular way, and then in my head I hear these people saying things about me, that usually would inspire that sort of a feeling.

Like inverted ethereal complimenting. I am not really sure what it means, or what purpose it serves- not really.

The Metal song is still playing.



Waves periodically crash against the black rocky shores of Calheta Funda.

The moon is floating in the sky, entirely immersed in adoring its glamorous reflection in the black waving water.

I am thoroughly heartbroken.

Crystal black sky.


The Metal song is still playing.

Skateboarding Berlin.






One more look around the room.

Duvet rumpled. The mind wonders what the girlfriend is doing. Miles and miles away.

Other than that, things in order.

Toe. Heel. The skateboard finds the hand.

Have to move quickly, there is sun today.

There actually, is sun. Today.


The stairs whizz by.

Whizz, whizz.


Turn. Push. Open air. Ahh.

Plat, four wheels on the ground.

Push push.

The sidewalk is rough. And slightly wet. Golden brown autumn leaves are everywhere.

Push push.

The sidewalk is rough.

The main road is cobblestoned.

I hate the cobblestones. You cannot skate on cobblestones.

Push push.



Push push.

No more cobblestones. On to the main road.

Smooth smooth journey from here.

Push push.

Ah there’s the garden.

Memory takes over:

Flashes of lipstick. Red nail polish, dainty white sandals. Golden brown hair. Red lipstick. Smile. Laugh. Kiss. I love you.

Push push.


Kottbusser Tor.

There’s a drainage cap. Sweeeerve. Nice.



Memory usurps again:

Flowers. I’d like a bouquet please. Wait how much did you say? The mind calculates. I have about five euros in my bank account. But the girlfriend and I just had a fight. They say when you fight with your girlfriend you should procure flowers.

How much did you say again? Ah to hell with it. I’d like four yellow flowers and — Wait what? Oh there’s a bouquet size for funerals and a different size for romance?

Interesting. I did not know that.

Give me one romance bouquet please.

Account probably in the red now. Fool for love. Yeah yeah I’m inundated with awareness thank you very much.


Kottbuser Tor.

Push push.

No one skates on the roads here. I’m not sure why that is.

Push push.

Ah sun.

Sun sun sun sun sun.


Push push. Push harder.


Kottbusser Strasse.

Sidewalk draws the attention.

Memory Again:

The girlfriend wants to go out. Fancy restaurant. You know, because. The remote god-family in Italy demands impression. Proud jacket. Beautiful. Yellow hair. Fancy.

Glass of wine please. The brain pinches me. How much money do you have left again? Ah to hell with that. Outing.

The brain is angry. What are you doing here? All posh and fancy. Indomitable mister glamour. Well done.

Can we please rush through the part where we elegantly sip wine and engage in forcefully spaced template conversation so I can leave this place.

The girlfriend is not pleased. I don’t care. I can’t right now, I can’t care I’m incapable of it. The brain is angry.

Good. Good good let’s go.

Way back.

That was not enjoyable. Yeah. I personally felt it was all too fancy. Contrived in its fanciness. And I found myself being an asshole. Sorry.

Wait. I need to wrap you in your jacket, arms and all.

Hah. You look like a penguin. You look like a penguin in swaddling clothes.

Haah. Haha. Laugh. Kiss. I love you.

Hmm. Interesting. Fancy restaurant is not imperative for couple happiness. Should spend some more time thinking about that.

Push push.


Kottbusser Strasse.

The road slopes upwards.

Ah that was where I had pizza with Ivan. Hah. The yellow hair was fresher then.

Push push.

The skateboarder identity is location-agnostic.

The underpinning physics do not really care where you are- what country- what continent- whether or not school says you’re doing well- whether or not anyone says you’re doing well.

The underpinning physics are concerned one thing primarily- your unwavering acknowledgement of their authority. That— do that, and you’re fine.

Push push.


Mercedes-Benz Arena.

Aesop Rock is saying something.

I do not like this place- I do not like what it makes me think of.

Corporations. All of these annoying mammoth companies.

You have to you know, be good. Play by the rules. Graduate. Get a job somewhere. Daddy will be proud.

Some classmates worked at mammoth companies over the summer. Girlfriend likes that sort of thing. They smell like money. I have a feeling gravity would have pulled her towards one of them if my grip was less firm. Of course it’s not her fault. It’s gravity. I completely understand.

I do not like this place.

I do not like it.


Haha. Ollie over your problems.

Interesting proposal.

Ollie. Ahh. Could have been better.

Push push.



There’s a lot of space here.

Push push.

Take a picture.


Ollie. Ollie. Ollie. You know what, I’ll just stay here and practice.

Ollie. Ollie. Ollie. I don’t care much who is watching.

Memory again:

I’m in a knitting wool shop.

There is so much wool. How is there so much wool. Where do they find all the sheep? Says something about sheep probably. Yeah, probably says something about sheep.

I’d like pink please. Pink wool. And purple. She says she wants to knit me a beanie. I like the idea. And I like pink. I love her.

Wait there are different sizes of knitting needles? How are those ones so large? They look like drumsticks. i had no idea knitting needles could look like drumsticks.


Push push.


Warchauer Strasse.

I need directions.

Hello, where do I find a skatepark around here?

Ah skatepark, I show you.

Conversation ensues with young man from Austria. He talks about nightclubs and custom tobacco rolling techniques and marijuana. I’m interested.

He says Austria is all cows and grass. A part of my mind staunchly disagrees. Is that not where some UN building is located?

Ah there’s the skatepark, thank you very much.

Up, down, up down.

I haven’t tried this curved wall thing before— let’s see what it’s like.

Wait what time is it that I have class again?

Ugh, class.

You should have seen my work on the Bloom Filters assignment. I described them  from an elegant algebraic perspective— verging on abstract algebraic even. I am very well near certain my point of view was novel.

But the scoring scheme is predefined, and rigid. How exactly is novelty to be quantified.




Frankfurt was beautiful. I loved every moment of it. Asides of course when I had no money to pay for accommodation and had to secure myself space in the lounging area on the power of my MacBook Pro.

Welldone. Indomitable Mister Macbook Pro.


Dresden. Ah Dresden. No I can’t think about Dresden now, not yet. The last time we spent time together, alone. My heart is still raw from the absence, I’m not touching that now.

I should go. I have class like soon.

Push push.

I should become a DJ.

Set things up at the Rosenthaler Platz U-bahn station.

I should play anti-music. I should be a Noise Cancellation DJ.

I started writing code for it. Noise cancellation code. I was testing it the other night. How did go again, I don’t seem to remember. I’ll check when I get back.

I’m growing older. I’ve had so many dreams. I have so many dreams. What is to be done with all these dreams. What is to be done with dreams in general.

It’s entirely reasonable to think there are dreams you’ll never know you even had. Dreams you’ll have like once, and never remember. Until maybe their memory was triggered by something. Hm how do you trigger the memory of a dream. How do you trigger the memory of a specific——

Mayowaaaa moove move you have class- It is my father’s voice. Einstein Podolski Rosen paradox and you have not done the readings.

What. What sef.

Mayowa has a class and unlike his more serious colleagues, he has not spent hours preparing beforehand. Wow. That’s new. I’ve never heard that before.

Girlfriend always used that to claw at me. I hated it. It was very effective at spoiling my self-confidence. I did not use to read before I met her. It was not that much of an issue. I did not understand why in the name of God it should be one after becoming a boyfriend.


Push push.

Push push.

Wonderful to have gotten some sun today. The paucity of warmth in this place makes going out a punishment. There’s the default inertia to going out, but this punishment poses an additional cost. Outings have to be promising of proportionally more utility to make acquiescing a reasonable course of action.

I should buy Pepsi. Augmenting class with Pepsi has been considerably pleasurable recently. And pizza. Pizza from the Turkish guy. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make pizza. I saw him making it the other day but——




Push push.