Out here, they say summer lasts one day, and no its not Midsummer’s day. That claim – entirely anecdotal mind you – has been made with surprising regularity by quite a few of the cab drivers I have had the opportunity to chat with while commuting to work. One cab driver even offered a quasi-scientific explanation, the town is surrounded by highlands on one side and the North Sea on the other which explains the bi-polar behaviour of the weather. Yesterday it was a windy 8 degrees, the day before a summery 14 degrees, today its rained bucket loads of water. The locals have quit bothering – they merely shrug and quiescently suggest tomorrow will be a better day.
Nearly a year spent in this town hasn’t eliminated the possibility of meeting people I used to know in Nigeria. On the number 23 bus today, I ran into yet another classmate from undergrad. She’s married these days, with a kid to boot. Perhaps its anchoring, but I seem to remind her a lot more trim. Considering I last saw her almost ten years ago now, I can be forgiven for having an image of the demure 20 year old girl I used to know. I also have changed too – I now wear an unruly afro and there is the hint of the burgeoning keg, my euphemism for a beer belly.
I have not done any reading for the greater part of the year, even though I have shelled out a fair bit of money acquiring books. That, is definitely the focus of the remainder of the year. My plan was to focus largely on African writing this year – Brian Chikwava’s Harare North, Helon Habila’s Oil on Water, Chika Unigwe’s On Black Sisters’ Street and a half dozen other books have gathered a layer of dust on my shelves. The first few books were very well reviewed and I had great hopes. Like the procrastinator I am, I have given myself an ultimatum to kick-start my reading… Tomorrow