A Talking Stage’s Playlist

It’s 6.45am on this windy Saturday morning. The raindrops batter my windows without any signs of letting up, and the clouds outside tell me that the power cut won’t be rectified any time soon. Yewande, my female banker friend, posts a WhatsApp status update in the lines of “I need to hold someone’s son in this weather”, but knowing her schedule, I’m sure she’ll be too tired from the long week to even reply anyone’s texts: a full-time job as a head teller at one of Nigeria’s Tier 1 financial institutions means that her love life is nearly non-existent.

Lightening strikes twice, and the ensuing thunder threatens to crack the walls. It’s the kind of thunder that Ric Hassani probably had in mind when composing his post-breakup ballad, which is currently one of this year’s biggest hits. Dozing off early the previous night means that I couldn’t watch another episode of the Big Brother Naija reunion show, but then it’s not like I missed much: the novelty has worn off, and all the talk of sexual dissatisfaction is doing my head in.

My battery is almost flat, and that’s because I forgot to switch off the VPN software: we’re at the mercy of a government that seeks to stifle free press, so we have to cut corners just so we can use Twitter! Still I want to listen to music. The playlist shuffle opts to start with Ryan Adams’ “Come Pick Me Up”, and the harmonica causes all the memories to start flooding in: of last March, of night-long conversations, of late afternoon daydreaming, of you.

I was drawn to you from the moment that message came in, even before you shared stories about how you once cut yourself, even before you told me that you loved Ari Lennox’s Shea Butter Baby album too. You liked "Up Late" & I liked "Static". That 1st call lasted 50 minutes.

I remember sending a link to something I’d written. You responded with a smiley that suggested sarcasm, and typed “I’ve read nearly everything you’ve ever published”. I asked which piece got you hooked on my craft, and you made reference to a 2018 blog post where I discussed my relationship with my dad. It’s one of the most random things I’ve ever scribbled, but somehow it spoke to you.

We both cried as we listened to Frank Ocean’s "White Ferrari". I could tell; you sniffed in that voice note. I used to wonder how you could prefer Blonde to Channel Orange. I get it now.

You said The Weeknd was like Lana Del Rey for guys...& then there was me, who loved both.

The lockdown made us podcasters and essayists. You’re the only one who’s seen that manuscript.

I knew I’d fallen for you when you mouthed the lyrics of “Wrapped Around Your Finger”: how many Nigerian girls care about a 1983 track written by a band called The Police?

“I don’t like listening to Lana Del Rey’s ‘National Anthem’ too much; it reminds me of a former lover.”

I knew how that felt. There’s a reason I always skip Coldplay’s “Lovers In Japan” or OneRepublic’s “Goodbye Apathy”: all the images of stealing kisses from my first love at the back of UNIBEN’s medical complex lecture theatres just come rushing in. I could do without those; she got married last June.

Didn’t we both hate Drake’s Scorpion album, even though I argued that "Sandra’s Rose" was redeemable? I lived for your bad jokes, we reveled in catching each other’s double entendres, you hated video calls so much.

Sending you the Deezer link to Sabrina Claudio’s “Standing Still” was my way of saying “I want this, I want Lust, I want us”. The hurt wasn’t necessarily from the fact that you didn’t give a response, but rather from the fact that those tweets that had you seeming lovestruck were clearly not referring to me.

There was a time when the longest interval between texts was two hours. Now there’s little to say between us. I’ve typed 7-paragraph messages, & then used the backspace button…on six occasions.

“She won’t text you bro, go to sleep”.

On eight consecutive nights in August 2020, I sought solace and humour in the YouTube comments on Frank Ocean’s “Nikes”. You did love that song! There’s a lot I wanted to tell you, but “nearly 30+ man” got the better of me. I’m ruing the forced reticence now.

Maybe it wasn’t love, but why were you the only one I thought of when I got mugged at 2nd Rainbow? Why did I whisper your name when my knees were being pressed back into shape as I struggled with sprained limbs?

Leon Bridges dropped a new single last week. I was going to share the link, but...

I hope your heart doesn’t get too many palpitations these days. I hope you enjoy drinking spirits again. Your number is still stored on my phone with your nickname. Carrot-chewing Looney Tunes characters are hard to forget.

I remember talking about visiting you after travel restrictions are lifted. Didn't we promise each other to have a discussion when we felt the candle was flickering out?

Track 2 of John Mayer’s Continuum album has a striking title. I didn’t “trust myself with loving you”...but to your credit, you warned me that you could be quite addictive.

“Lol, I aired you and you walked right away from me.
I understood it but it hurt a bit.”

I concede, I stopped texting first, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I wanted everything, and when it was obvious that we couldn’t be, I just…

I hurt myself, and you. I’m not proud of it.

Congratulations on the new gig. You’re killing it with the newsletters. I wish things were different, really. All that vulnerability, and for what? But there are no regrets, none at all. I’m glad that I could be cheesy with you…and I guess it was always going to be tough. You were a disillusioned 22, I was a jaded 29, we both had too much going on.

I hope you enjoy the last playlist I shared. You’re right, Wet Bandits’ “Movies As Friends” draws you in before the 10-second mark. Spotify provides a better experience though.

P.S: I still think of your nose studs, Bunny. They are beautiful.

P. P. S: I hope you don’t get to see this.