This came up one sombre night in the city of Lagos.
Her temple is glued to the window of the bus. The whistling dark winds are whipping up loose strands of her dark hair, swaying and straying and sticking to her lush lacquered lips. She lets them sit there.
Alluring. A sight for my stinging eyes.
On her ear lobe hangs a large green hoop. Or maybe it is yellow. Or lemon. Or all of them interwoven. Or just a reflection of the neon lights from the gargantuan e-billboard overlooking the bridge. I just know they are pretty and unusual.
A large pair of earphones sits firmly on her ears.
Shut out of the world. Perhaps she’s done with all the negativity. Or just plain irritated by the honks of impatient drivers piercing d night air. I wonder what flow of music is pleasing her. Something demure, I presume. Her mien is sombre. Maybe Rock. Or just the Blues. Her eyes are set. Still. Unblinking. They seem to stare through the night at something only she can see.
From the corner of one of those bright eyes comes rolling down a single shimmering green bubble; down her dark smooth cheeks; catching the effulgence from the e-motion adscreen. I want to catch it in my palm. But down it drips, taking its glow down to the rusty pane her palm is resting on. I wonder why she is crying? Why doesn’t she move at all?
She is so beautiful. Picturesque. Like a pretty vintage picture held in a rusty and jagged frame. I could paint her. Sit back in my fold-up cane chair and hang a clean sheet on my easel. Mix up those hues and let my bristles capture this enthralling brilliance. Tracing these contours and those sweet eyes looking straight ahead. My muse. Drifting away to dazzle with the street-lights that seem to hang like hundreds of chinese lanterns. Foreshortening. This technique in painting. That’s what it is called. My belly surges with a sudden burst of joie de vivre. My fingers twitch slightly and curls a little tighter around my iPAD. The screen holds a plethora of jumbled numbers. Other peoples’ money I have to keep watch over. Pathetic. I miss painting. I know this. A rancous blast of blaring horns breaks my riverie.
”Oga. We have start to move small-small”
I nod to acknowledge my driver.
I can feel the release of a deep, full breath. I hope he did not notice my brief escape. Traffic is crawling now. I look out to see that my muse has finally moved. Taking her resplendence into the shadowy bus. We seem to be moving a little faster. The honking is
louder now. Stupid mechanic! All he had to do was fix a leak.
My windows should be wound up with the Air Conditioner on max!
But then, I may not have seen my muse. Pfft.
I have to laugh at myself now. This is crazy. Man. I am so knackered. I hate traffic jams. I am just going to marry my bed the minute I get home. Arrgh man!
I miss my wife!