HOMECOMING
The air is thick with smoke. Teni's "Billionaire" plays from the radio. Her raspy melody saunters into a chorus of muffled beeping, slurred shouts, deep humming. All around is chaos, soothing and sweet. The air is thick, the night is dark, our car sways along.
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Oil tankers float past us now, young men gathered along their backs, untethered. Their once white shirts wave limply, surrendering to the stale breeze. Office ladies in a-line skirts and creased button downs hang off the backseats of motorcycles, kekes, and other doorless vehicles. Their undone blazers flutter softly in their wind, their headlights streak hazily across foggy windows. Our view is distorted from it all. The air is thick, the road streatches on, the night is silly with the stench of gasoline.
My head drops low and startles itself back up again. I fight to stay alert, conscious that things can explode at any moment. Jetlag has taken its time with me. I turn to the window, trying to reorient myself. One turn of the lane is unrecognizable from the next. The bars on my cellphone flicker, trying to establish a connection. I text my uncle anyway, trusting that the message will find its way through. Lost in traffic, will be at your house soon. The air is thick, the night is dark, my lids are heavy with sleep. Our car follows the rhythm of self appointed lanes, inching and halting, the landscape revealing itself in slow motion.
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Another weighty nod and my ears perk up, the driver is deep in explanation. The official nature of his tone has softened on to more casual speech, he is sharing a testimony. Lowest days, parking off the side of the rod, a prayer is said, a prayer is answered, a lucrative ariport assignment, God always comes through with his grace. I try to follow but his words are honeyed like Teni's, their tones ooze together, her song of ambition, his tale of survival, their lullaby of the African dream.
AG-BAH-LOU-MORE
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Catching your eye in the stack of the passing fruit seller, Agbalumo draws you in and demands your whole mouth to request it. Its ag hits with authority at the back of your throat, bal rounds out your lips and flirtatiously flicks up your tongue, lou coos back at you as it takes your breath away, and more is a whispered moan of desire.
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Once in your possession, Agbalumo intensifies it's seduction. Sensing your greediness for its sweetness, it takes its time with you, slowly revealing its flavour. The first bite into the tip, a satisfying soft crunch, a soft slow ooze that is greedily sucked off, the following bigger, hungrier pull at the skin, a peak of white sour sweet flesh. Its juice is sucked. Its seeds are tongued out. Agbalumo transforms itself from juicy fruit to a pleasant wad pineapply-plummy gum.
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Agbalumo repaces you, Its too messy to multitask, can't go 'til it's gone sweet stickiness, leaves you fully at its mercy, immobilized in the moment, suspended in its time. The transfixing nature of its hold deepens as you savor the process of refining your technique with each new fruit, craving the surprise of just how lip sticking, mouth smacking, cheek puckering each new Agbalumo will be. ​Each little layer an exercise in patience, a lesson on the value of the work. Agbalumo leaves you understanding that no matter how sour its flesh may be, Abgalumo holds sweet seed.
