The things we do not say

Photo: Loverna Journey

The first thing I noticed as I walked into House 14, somewhere in northwest London, was the bouquet of flowers on the table.

No, I lie. The first thing I noticed was a smiling, forgiving face opening the door and wondering how I missed the very legible 14 on the door. Yes, that was the first thing.  And, then, there was the hug that I would have loved to linger for another five seconds.

The flowers I noticed only as we sat for tea. Yes, the tea.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” she asked.

You see, I am Nigerian. We don’t do tea or coffee. We are a carbohydrate and meat-loving people and that’s why we are always happy. 

So, pour moi, “tea or coffee?” is a transcendental question. It is like Jesus asking Thomas, “do you want to put your finger in my wounds?”

I understand the lack of options in “Coke or Pepsi” or in “Estrella or Carlsberg”. Soda is soda. Beer is beer. But “tea or coffee” is something else, quite the brain wrecker. Sometimes, I feel like it’s a trick question. Maybe, preferring coffee is the sign of an amazing work ethic, and preferring tea, the sign of a perennial belly-scratcher. I almost always defer to tea; although I must point out that it is not a matter of preference: tea is monosyllabic, ti, and usually placed before coffee, “tea or coffee”.

“Tea, please,” I replied.

The thing with tea in England is that it is never really just tea, which is also true for coffee but only when you buy from Starbucks. In my country, tea was the one thing.

“Normal tea or salted caramel green tea?”

“Normal tea, please.”

“How do you like your tea?”

“Little milk, no sugar,” I lied. I love my sugar.

“The closest thing I have to milk is mayonnaise. You sure you don’t want green tea?”

I have seen people do crazy things with mayonnaise. I still cannot forgive my mum for preferring her bread with mayonnaise. But mayonnaise in tea would be a first, and this was not a day for firsts. Moreover, the suggestion to take green tea was not really a suggestion. You know what I mean?

“Green tea, then.”

It was ready in no time. It was a very refreshing cuppa. I could not quite conclude if it was refreshing because of the unique qualities of the salted caramel tea or if she was just an expert tea maker. I could imagine her tipping the kettle and pouring hot water into the cups with so firm a hand that her bracelet—the one with the cross—did not even jiggle.

Mademoiselle Avril

Expert at tea

Say no at your peril

Straight as a tee

I add the lines because, although pretty rubbish, it looks cool to add verses when writing in prose not because I thought about it then. I should have thought about it though and maybe tried rapping with it and maybe do the Kendrick walk while at it.

The tea is as refreshing as talking to you is, was the thought I had in my mind at the time although I did not say it to her, choosing instead to ask about the framed picture on the small desk.

“Your aunt or your mum?”

Why do we think one thing and say another especially in a new friendship that we do not want to mess up? We act all polite and tread cautiously as if in a room littered with shrapnel and broken glass. One foot here, one foot there, both far apart and shaped like bows. You do not want to upset or mess up things so you act refined or, rather, bland, when your true beauty—your inner self— is in being somewhat crass and loud. 

We were to see a photo exhibition on the Syrian War, somewhere in Central London and, being a genius, I had left Bournemouth the previous day without a jacket. That Saturday was not a particularly cold one although it’s never a good idea to walk around any city in England clad in a short-sleeve shirt. I did not particularly care about the weather anyways; I looked forward to going out. I had good company. I also did not mind sitting and talking all day with my palms wrapped around the teacup but, then, Syria awaited us outside, and the tea had made me so hungry that I looked forward to lunch like Odysseus’s Penelope looking out to the sea as she awaited her long-lost husband.  

Syria was good. It invoked in me feelings of joy and pain. Pain, at the suffering; joy, at the humanity of volunteers and those who laid their hearts on the floor that others might not walk on hard and treacherous surfaces.

I had one of such beautiful humans with me at the exhibition.

“I have registered to have my organs donated in England or Denmark when I die. What would I do with them anyway?” She had said over dinner the previous day.

I remember thinking: You are a better human than I am.

Syria was also kind of romantic in its own queer way like two nerds having a date in a library.

Besides Syria, I had also come to see London. You know, be a tourist for one day. And I did love London—perhaps because of the street-shows, perhaps because of the Mugabe protests, perhaps because you could be in China Town today and in Syria tomorrow, or perhaps because of that small market whose name I cannot remember where you can buy little London souvenirs.

We accept bank cards, one of the shops had displayed.

Above all, I think the primary reason I loved London was because she made it beautiful as no one else could.

After lunch, I asked her one of the 36 questions that apparently should make two people—no matter what—fall in love with each other. The magic wand of love.

“What are three things you already like about me, I asked? 

I was smart, funny, and smart again. I think.

“And what do you like about me?” She asked.

I gave two reasons that I thought were reasonable.

“And what’s the third one?”

That I could drive through a red light with you and laugh about it so hard that I could do it again because it made you laugh too. That two days in your presence feel like two hours. That a 30-minute drive to yours took an hour cos I was happy to crawl to spend more time in that presence. That you look amazing in yellow or black or both.

The options raced in my head. Which one do I say? Which one?

“You are awesome.” Again, I settled for the blandest one. The things we do not say.

The beautiful day that started in House 14, ended just outside the window with another hug that didn’t need any extra seconds. I hope the story doesn’t end though, I have not still tried the connoisseur’s tea and mayonnaise.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Confidence is co-editor at Afritondo.