I am curled up at the edge of the room.
The door is to my left. Every once in a while someone comes in. Every once in a while someone goes out.
A number of huddling silhouettes encircle the bed, their shadows sliding silently across the pink walls dimly lit by the flickering orange candlelight. The air is warm and abuzz with male voices speaking in Wolof.
Grande´ is the oldest one here. He should be in his late forties or early fifties- I’m not entirely sure. He has long dreadlocks, and is missing some bottom incisors. His room is markedly neat, and his bed is always smoothly laid.
His room smells like strange incense and old clothes. Like clothes that have been in the same room for decades. The smell reminds me of my maternal grandmother’s room. I wonder if there is a way old people generally smell. I don’t know. Maybe. I am not really sure.
We just had dinner. It was steaming Senegalese rice, with boiled carrots and tasty fish. It was served in a big bowl, and about eight of us sat around it while we handled the rice.
Bamba made the food. Bamba is such a great cook though. His food is always so delectable. Whenever I eat his food I find myself experiencing some very interesting sensations.
I used to eat the communal food with a spoon before. But then I realised that between one spoonful and another, like one thirds of the food would have already evaporated.
And so I had to adopt their strategy of eating with the bare hand.
I am curled up at the edge of the room.
Grande is making tea.
Grande is always making tea.
Come to think of it, I think he is like a Senegalese Sisyphus, but his own curse is to be perpetually stuck in the motions of making tea.
Haha. Hahahaha.
The tea is warm and light coloured and sweet.
There is THC in my system.
I am experiencing depersonalization.
Separated from worries. From anguish and anxeity. From the intermittent disruption of my train of thoughts by the searing pangs of heartbreak.
Right now I do not feel heartbroken, no.
Mayowa is heartbroken, and in a way I can see him going through this experience. But right now I do not feel his pain. I feel separate from him- I feel like a separate person.
I am not quite sure what strain of Marijuana we had this night, but its most prominent effect seems to be depersonalization. Right now I feel separate from myself. And that feels relaxing. My thinking faculty is right now, unburdened of the responsibility of both making sense of my disconcerting past experiences, and navigating current uncertainty with the aim of figuring out my next step in life.
Right now my mind feels like it has been ejected from the cockpit of what would have been my usual cognitive vehicle- and now it’s roaming about, untethered, and paying attention to things that usually would have been suppressed and submerged beneath my subconscious.
It feels very calming, sitting here and being supplied with warm Senegalese tea.
Voices resonate around the room.
Everyone in this room is older than me. Right now this makes me feel safe. The weight of my responsibilities feels lifted by the sound of their voices. I feel like a child who has absolutely no problems because he is surrounded by adults. I take my time to enjoy it.
Recently I’ve been experiencing some confusion regarding how to perceive older people. Some people are older, and there’s the usual tendency to afford them some deference with regard to the validity of their thinking. But recently I’ve gradually been coming to the position that a lot of these people are just older than me- their thinking could use some recalibration.
The marijuana is numbing that right now. Right now I just see them as adults, talking about whatever it is that adults talk about.
I am curled up in the corner of the room.
I think the pangs of heartbreak are coming back.
Mayowa Osibodu's Blog. 