Walking Shoes #Shortstories

I am tired so i sit to look through the pictures on my phone. This has been my habit of late. I see a picture of Funke doing something dramatic and i instantly hear her voice and mine intensely arguing in my head. It is about who really disfigured the “normal” dance step. Bimpe is there. She says nothing but laughs. I really don’t get Funke’s argument. About how i have made a “tush” dance step look igbotic. “The movement should be sleek and delicate, not overly energetic like something from the native atilogu dance troupe“. She continues about my knees and how i always manage to involve them in every move. But really i don’t get it, i don’t see what is wrong in one expressing themselves with such energy, should not dance be full of life? Hian. Bimpe is still there. She obviously finds this really funny from the tears that now hang around her eyes as she laughs. 

Memories suck. Never quite pure truth. Always adulterated in the slightest bit. See, Bimpe laughed but it was not so funny as to sustain a laughter that would last through out the argument. I would not even call it an argument sef… There also was no tears and all… 

I am leaving. Tonight. I would make a new memory in which i am conscious of the memory-making process so that no detail is wrongly stored in my head.

And so, I turn on my speakers and press play to Mali’s walking shoes. I sing along loudly whilst using my mop stick as a microphone. It is beautiful. You should see the glow in my eyes. I close my eyes to picture the newness of this new place i am leaving this old memory-filled place for. New  smiles, eyes that tell stories i have not yet read, new familiar voices, new laughter, new slangs, newness.

I don’t remember how i fell asleep. Thanks to memory-making. 


(Special shout out  to Maro and Amarachi who made every dance rehearsal memorable)


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