LIZARDS AND SLEEP
That is what ladies do really. They hit you in the middle of the night: “Tuntu, I can’t sleep.” And, somehow, you’ve to ring the god of sleep. It has to be you. Because, you and the god of sleep are buddies. On a good Saturday night, you throw rounds of cold beer at each other at Harry’s Bar. At times, it’s just shisha and, well, better yet, the two of you were together last Tuesday for golf. He sucks at it. So, you see, you are unenthusiastic about calling him in his pent-up disappoint because you whipped him so hard last time that his laughter started to feel like he was about to burst into wild sobs. You are overwrought with the feeling that he is not going to pick up.
You are wrong. He does pick up — at first ring, “Hello.” Check that. No, not hello. You are tight. Hello is not the thing he would say. It’s what people who are waiting for a call for an invitation to an interview would say. It’s a thing my sister, Nacha, would say when the news she will soon convey is that she is broke. But, not a friend. A good friend doesn’t say hello — he mocks your penis or promises to kill your grandmother or to piss in your ear if whatsoever you are calling for in the middle of the night is not significant. You too make a solemn vow to deflower his sister.
“The lady can’t sleep,” you ultimately tell him. He is the god of sleep. He will handle it. You hang up then straightaway you call your woman to inform her that you have done your due diligence. She is not picking up and you imagine she is dead asleep. You WhatApp the god of sleep, “I owe you one, man.” And he replies, “Fuck you, you unbridled piece of dogshit.” You try to go back to sleep but your sleep has whittled down too.
At least, that is the relationship ladies imagine that we men have with sleep — a relationship built on an unfounded stridency. Sleep happens contingent on creation design. We too are bothered with insomnia too sometimes. Do we install larger-than-life megaphones on our rooftops to wake up the entire universe to keep us company? No, we read Grisham. We read O’Malley. We read Marechera. We reflect on life. We reply to emails. We get on the internet and look up articles on how to reduce our belly sizes.
So, one night Vee rings me, “Tuntu, you’re not online.”
“Yes, I’m not. What time is this?”
“I don’t know. Get online.” She says with a voice of finality and hangs up. It is 3 am, I check.
I get on WhatsApp. There are messages that immediately pour in from groups, family and friends. I locate her contact. There is a thread of messages directed at me:
“Hi”
“Hey!”
“You”
“Why are you not replying, huh?”
“Dear.”
“Love.”
“Hello, are you there?”
“Are you ignoring me or what?”
“Tuntu, you are really boring, wamva?”
“Khala!”
I don’t know where to start at replying. Her contact starts to indicate that she is online. The word ‘online’ starts to look like her set of eyes staring at me and wondering why I am not typing something yet.
I type, “Sorry, I was asleep. Wassup?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Why?” That’s not the question I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask “So?” but thought against it.
“There is a lizard in my room.”
“So?”
“I’m afraid.”
“How big is it?” I find myself asking because the only way, in my universe, I would be afraid of a lizard enough to deprive myself of sleep is if it were the size of an elephant. Maybe then I would be afraid that it would fall from the ceiling and I would die under its weight.
“It’s huge,” she answers.
“How big?”
“What do you mean how big?”
“Is it the size of the middle finger?” She types for what seems like a minute and the only word that comes out of it is, “Almost.” Then, I know its smaller.
“The size of the pinky, maybe?”
“Thereabouts.”
“What is it doing, this lizard?” I’m curious. If it is a lizard spiting bolts of lightning or dancing on its tail to zumbawumba then I too would find the smallest opening, and escape for my dear life. It is a miserable life, yes, but should it be ended let it be with some dignity and not some lightning-throwing lizard.
“It’s staring-” She says, “It’s just on the wall staring at me.”
