I used to be different but one day I woke up and couldn’t see beyond 5 meters away. My father still paid my bills back then and so off we went to the cheapest optician we could find.
The optician’s smelled like old books; it smelled familiar and strange at the same time. There was one attending nurse who looked as old as the place smelled. She offered me some kind of sweet and I looked to my father to ask if it was okay. He nodded a yes and I remember how the nurse had beamed at him; as if by allowing his child take her sweet, he had somehow provided her with enough validation to last a lifetime.
We were the only other patients there so we didn’t have to wait long for Dr Ajumo to minister to my needs. He smelled like the old nurse smelled and I would later ask my father if they were married. I cannot remember his answer. Now that I think about it, he probably ignored me and continued reading his newspaper.
The good doctor recommended glasses. I was myopic he said but it was good we caught on early before my eyesight deteriorated even further. I was glad too that we caught this disease early, who knew what fatality awaited me otherwise. I could have gone blind or worse, died from being myopic as I explained to my mother upon reaching home. She had mumbled something about my overactive imagination and my father had grunted in agreement.
Before leaving Dr Ajumo’s clinic, I picked out frames and my father paid the bills. The first time I wore my glasses, I saw a different side to myself; the better side. The serious, determined, focused side. I gleefully wore it to school the next day. My friends oohed and aahed over it. A new respect came with my putting on those glasses. I was going to be someone important just by reason of this glasses. No one told me about things that were better left unseen.
It has been some 20- something years since I was eight. Those plastic frames have evolved over the years and today I have four different pairs- of steel, of plastic and some other materials I never bothered to decipher. Dr Ajumo is long dead and I sometimes wonder about the old nurse. I will never forgive them for this lifelong bondage they seduced me into.
My first boyfriend was beautiful until I put on my glasses one morning and found the red panties under his pillow. I would never wear red underwear. The second man in my life was perfect until I wielded my glasses early one morning while we were in bed together and saw his bent crusty toes. The toe nails themselves had to have been borrowed from an alien. The story of the third man in my life is better left for those badly made horror movies. I will give you a clue: dandruff and other growing things in his hair.
My friends call me picky. My father too but I stare him down from behind my glass screens whenever he brings up the topic. My mother is mischievous and has broken three of my frames on purpose.
It isn’t 10am yet; at least that is what I tell myself as I try to read the clock on the wall of his room without my glasses. I can feel him breathing and I know if I look at him I will see his chest move up and down in rhythm with what I feel. But I will not look; not now. I will not search out my glasses from whatever jumble they got entangled in as he undressed me last night. I say a silent prayer that they are not broken but my heart is not in it. Last night was worth a million broken pairs of glasses.
My mother knits sweaters and all what-nots and sometimes I help her. She insists I take off my glasses if I must help. I love the power that comes with creation; even if it is only a little sweater for my mother’s unborn grandchildren, the children i have refused to birth.
‘But how will I know when I have made a mistake with the knit design without my glasses?” I ask her.
‘You can see all that you really need to see without those glasses. Go with your gut.’ She answers
I place my head on his chest and sigh. Love is blind; there is really no need to brighten its path with my glasses. This is what my mother has been trying to tell me since forever. I think of all the badly made baby sweaters in my mother’s old chest and I feel a flutter of hope for the children that will wear them someday.
Splendid. I love the brevity in which this story is told and the relationship you created between a pair of glasses and the rest of the world. I must say, it wasn’t the glasses anyway, she was just too finicky.
maybe she was…maybe she was waiting for the right person…
Nicely done! Love how you wove a story around glasses
sigh..i wear glasses…they are the bane of my existence
This is beautiful. They say poets make wonderful prose writers and you have proven it again and again. I love the writing, the imagery, the things left unsaid. Simply beautiful
The first paragraph needs more attention.
And ‘beyond 5meters’. No need to add the “away”.
@Osakwe great great!
“My friends call me picky. My father too but I stare him down from behind my glass screens whenever he brings up the topic. My mother is mischievous and has broken three of my frames on purpose.
It isn’t 10am yet; at least that is what I tell myself as I try to read the clock on the wall of his room without my glasses. I can feel him breathing and I know if I look at him I will see his chest move up and down in rhythm with what I feel. But I will not look; not now. I will not search out my glasses from whatever jumble they got entangled in as he undressed me last night. I say a silent prayer that they are not broken but my heart is not in it. Last night was worth a million broken pairs of glasses.”
I like twists. Please is the “him” in the first same as the “him” in the second paragraph?
Wow, so here comes the title and contents. FRAMED!
@ostar, this is not my post even though I wish I wrote it.
@kiah.. I must say, that I open your stories with a smile on my face cos I am quite sure that innit there’s a written treat. You never dissappoint…I’m glad.
You framed this quite well…Splendid writing. Well done…$ß.
awww…thanks @sibbylwhyte
Once again, good stuff. I salute this humanist flavour that’s always present in your writing.
why thank you kind sir…
hmm award winning stuff, if i could just get this to the right magazine i would sign a million dollar column deal and….. Well done kiah. This ia sumptious and vivid and poignant and lucid and sweet and hopeful all in one. Thank you, reading your work keeps me literarily fit
errr…all these your compliments these days…thank you oh…
Yeah, i have always loved your work. I was coming back to say the title does not do the piece justice but you beat me to it.
i remember saying the post ‘Yam and Fish peppersoup would have done better with another heading and the near nasty response that earned me. For a while i was bitter, i decided to say nothing, then i was better, perhaps i should make only scathing remarks…. But in the end, there is no winner. So until there is a block button on N S, i will say it the way i feel it. ‘Framed’ does not quite do this justice. To be frank i read it cos i saw your name on it. Better the slap from a friend than Judas’ kiss. All the best with your gift.
have you ever read ‘purple hibiscus’ by miss Adichie? can you tell me what the title has to do with the book? then again, why am i wasting my time? some people will never get it…
Mtcheeeeew,lol,sarcasm is unbecoming of you, lady. If you are on twitter consider checking out @1000wordsflash , i think they ll love your work and you ll benefit from a broader readership. Cheers
i see the gloves are off…biko carry your comments go another person side… someone who finds you witty or worth it…i don’t
Nice one. @kiah, u try.
Very very nice. And I like the name too. I think it frames the story perfectly (no pun intended). (Ok, what the hell, pun intended… sue me)
By the way, I hope you and @nicolebassey were only just pretending to quarrel, o. I can’t tell for sure.
even those without glasses tend to b picky until dey meet d right person.
Ur a really goodwriter @kiah
@kiah , @nicolebassey… I just came across your exchange and I see it just as what it is, ladies’ squabble. Tempers shouldn’t flare here. A reader is entitle to his/her opinion of a work. The writer should take note and probably take correction where plausible. It doesn’t mean I agree with @nicolebassey. @kiah‘s titling of her works are a work of art. You just need to see it. Again, the title ‘purple hibiscus’ had everything to do with the book.
I love this site and everyone on it. Let’s not quarrel Abeg.