BN Prose: The Quirks of Emotions by Toyosi Onikosi

Yara perched by the window, observing as the vibrant hues of the city faded into the calm blue of twilight. She found herself in anticipation of a message, a signal, a fleeting sensation—anything that might indicate joy was finally on its way. In reality, she had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, enduring the painful solitude, the piercing sting of jealousy, and the fleeting comfort of hope. Each of these emotions, she mused, resembled weather patterns. At times, it rained incessantly, while other periods were characterized merely by a dull grey, neither stormy nor bright, but simply existing like a low ceiling overhead.

Memories of her childhood danced in her mind, where she dashed barefoot across the courtyard, exulting without a care in the world. The tiles beneath her feet were scorching, and her mother would yell for her to come inside, but she would run on, reveling in her freedom. Back then, happiness felt like a bird landing on her shoulder unbidden, content to stay as long as it chose, and she never entertained the thought of it taking flight. Now, she was left waiting for it like a bus that perpetually lagged. Sitting on that metaphorical bench, she watched others board their vehicles, moving forward in life while she remained stagnant in her spot.

Her friends often reassured her, "Patience is key, good things are ahead." These words echoed over coffee breaks, voice messages sent in the early hours, and hasty phone calls between appointments. She believed them at first, until that belief waned. The days accumulated like stacks of old newspapers, each promising a different tomorrow, yet each tomorrow mirrored the mundanity of today. The same room, the same view, the same underlying pain masquerading behind a facade of distraction.

On some mornings, she awoke feeling lighter, thinking, "Perhaps this is the moment of change." However, by midday, that lightness would dwindle, slipping away to hide behind her ribs, and the day would progress like any other. Scrolling through images of friends’ lives—weddings, vacations, job promotions—she would convince herself of her happiness for them. Often she succeeded, but sometimes she fell short, mastering the art of smiling with only half her face.

Across the street, Yara observed an elderly woman sweeping her steps, an everyday ritual performed with painstaking care. This routine seemed personal, as if the dust had committed an affront. Yara watched with such frequency that she could predict the sequence: first the left, then the center, a brief intermission to lean on the broom and catch her breath. She pondered whether the woman experienced joy or if she busied herself enough to forget about the waiting. Perhaps the secret lay in constantly moving to avoid contemplating too deeply.

Yara came to realize she had reserved her finest dress, most cherished perfume, and her laughter for a day when she felt deserving—a time when happiness would finally make its entrance. The dress still bore its price tag, hanging in the back of her closet like a promise unfulfilled. The perfume bottle remained largely untouched. When laughter did emerge, it was subdued and cautious, as if she feared she would need to conserve it.

Standing up, she opened the window, flooding her senses with the smell of dust and the clamor of city life. A motorbike sped past, its speakers emitting a familiar love song. Voices began to fill her surroundings: a child’s wail, a man’s boisterous laughter, a dog barking at an unseen point. The city buzzed with its usual rhythm—murmuring, shouting, breathing—indifferent to her emotional state.

She reflected on the array of emotions she had logged: happiness, fear, yearning, regret. Joy would flicker in brief moments, like a match struck in the darkness. Fear lingered more persistently; it had grown familiar with her body. Longing settled patiently within her chest, always ready for conversation, while regret flourished in the wee hours and in hushed spaces. Each emotion demanded her attention, insisting on its importance, urgency, and veracity. They all whispered, "Pay attention to me. I am the truth." Yet now, in the silence, she understood that they were merely clouds drifting through her mind.

She had crafted a multitude of decisions around these clouds. Days spent at home labeled under the excuse of not feeling like it. Messages left unsent due to a lack of courage. Opportunities she let slip by because she felt unprepared. Her feelings had deterred her from truly living. Arriving without invitation, they rearranged her mental landscape and departed, leaving her to manage the aftermath.

Yara adorned her best dress, the fabric felt peculiar against her skin, belonging to someone far more self-assured. For a fleeting moment, she nearly peeled it off again, folding it back into its hanger for another time. That, however, would merely compound her old habits—"awaiting feelings of worthiness."

Exhausted by that word, she brewed herself a cup of tea. The kettle emitted a sharp whistle, the sound commonplace yet invasive. She selected the lovely cup reserved for guests, and then reminded herself that she was deserving, too, of enjoying her own life, which felt like a waiting room. The tea seared her tongue, jolting her back into her body. For once, she offered no apologies for the minor discomfort.

Seated by the window, she watched the streetlamps flicker to life, one after the other. A taxi pulled over, letting one passerby exit and another hop in. The old woman concluded her sweeping and melted into her building, softly shutting the door behind her.

Yara thought about how emotions can be whimsical, those intricate things that inhabit us fully yet often deceive us into thinking there is always more time. They would insist, "Not today. Tomorrow. Next month. Next year—when you are better, when you are stronger, when everything aligns." These feelings made her believe that there would always be future opportunities to start anew, to take risks, to wear the dress, to laugh freely, and to truly live. But time is not infinite; what we possess is the present, which is already slipping away.

With that realization, she chuckled softly at first, then burst into a more resonant laughter that surprised even her. The sound didn’t resolve anything. It didn’t erase the years spent waiting or the apprehension of regressing into old patterns tomorrow. Yet for a brief moment, it broke through the heaviness that surrounded her, like sunlight breaking through a sheer curtain.

While she was not precisely happy, she still felt the familiar pang of longing alongside a gentle pulse of anxiety nestled in her mind. Nothing miraculous occurred, no new message arrived, and the universe offered no validation. Outside, the city remained a tapestry of noise, light, and people, each encased in their personal storms.

Yet there she was, alive and adorned in her finest dress, with the warmth of tea in her hands amidst the gentle night breeze, fully present in her life's journey instead of relegating herself to an observer's role. Perhaps, for now, that was more than enough.