My Favorite Part of Being Mentally Ill is How Often I Change My Mind
You count the pills and say a prayer before popping them into your mouth. Water. Pills. Swallow. More water. Life is hard when you live with the aid of pills.
Five pills in the morning, six at night. A routine. You're good at that. Change scares the hell out of you and triggers your panic attacks, but it's easy to go into auto mode when it's routine.
Your phone rings. "Somto."
"Girlie. Don't you check your ID before you take the calls? What's with the formal tone, for God's sake? You no dey play?"
You check the ID and chuckle. "Babe. How are you doing? What's up?"
"Mr Jimmy would be in the class in fifteen minutes and you're not here yet. You know how he shuts the door on latecomers, yeah? Be like you no need the fifteen marks."
"I'll be there soon, jare. Don't mind me. Trying to finish up with my make-up."
"Haha. I like the sarcasm."
"See you."
"Sure. Be fast."
Every morning before you leave the house you predict people’s questions and your response to them. You don’t ask questions. You never do. Phone calls throw you off. Face-to-face conversations are worse. You wonder why people can’t give a brief—document — a few days before their conversation with a person. I need preparation, you murmur. Preparation.
For mornings when you go to the convenience store, you prepare your three conversation lines: Good morning to the security at the door; Good morning, and thank you to the cashier. Nothing more. So today when you find out you’re sweaty with a racing heart after the call from Chinonye, you know. You know it’s the curse.
Your watch tells you it's twelve minutes to the time for class and you're a solid ten-minute walk away from the hall. You can make it if you lock up and leave immediately, but you don't. Instead, you sit on the chair in front of your vanity mirror and frown. There's something you're forgetting.
Tapping the right side of your head doesn't work, same as pacing. You're forgetting something important. You hate forgetting something important. Every time you have the feeling of forgetting something, it turns out to be something you couldn't have afforded to forget about.
When you have nine minutes to spare, you stand up and lock the door. You'll have to deal with Mr Jimmy.
Mr Jimmy, Head of Arts and Liberal Science Faculty for the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. An Oyo man with three gigantic tribal marks running down the side of his face. Lecturer for Introduction to Theatre Arts, 100 level. Your favourite lecturer.
As you near the hall, you try again to remember what you feel you’re forgetting.
Chinonye still calls you, even after all this time. She knows you don't like her half as much as she does you, but she takes it in stride, invites you to party—fails miserably every time—and remembers to bring your favourite flavour of Pringles every time Chief takes her shopping.
"Babe, I brought this for you o," she says every time you open the door.
You hate the knocks on your door, but more than that, you hate turning away people who offer you gifts. Your philosophy is that life is too short to turn away the affectations of those who care.
You always smile at the Pringles and offer exclamations as she relates what happened that day to you. And then you wonder what she sees in you. Most of all, you feel sad for her. You feel she must live a sad life for her to see you as a worthy companion.
A man is waiting by the door of the hall for you. He smiles at you and opens the door as soon as you’re close. You’re surprised, but since you didn’t plan for the interaction, you offer a small smile and step inside. Worried that Mr Jimmy has sinister plans for all the latecomers today, you look around. Everyone keeps quiet as soon as they notice you’re inside.
Your time shows you are five minutes late but there is no sign of Mr Jimmy and Chinonye. You bring out your phone to dial the last number on your call log but it's your psychiatrist's number. She's the only one you call often: you don't have to prepare for the calls; you're never prepared enough.
Chinonye's call is not on your call log. Her number is not also on your contact list. But she called you, you're sure. You heard her. Now you wish you had recorded it. Where is she sitting?
You tentatively walk to the front of the class to weave your way in and find a seat but stop when some students at the front greets you: "Good morning, ma."
You look at your feet. You're putting on heels. And a suit. A cream-coloured suit. Chinonye's favourite colour is cream. Wait. Was. Was cream.
You're not late to Mr Jimmy's class; you're late for your first Introduction to Theatre Arts class for the session. You're the lecturer. Mr Jimmy died eight years ago on his way to his daughter's wedding.
You held Chinonye's body in your hands as her last breath left her on the day of the most fatal Student's Union protest Nsukka ever witnessed.
You're ten years older. You're a lecturer. You are not late. You are ten years older. You are Somtochukwu Wilson. You are a lecturer, heading the department your favourite lecturer headed. You are not late. You are a lecturer.
You faint.
