Pineapples
Originally posted on April 26th 2022
It’s a little past 3 a.m. and I’m fortunate enough to be at a pub with some friends.
And I say fortunate with every ounce of sarcasm available to the human body.
Heavily intoxicated and completely out of it, I’d say I was ready for the sandman to drop barrels of snooze-dust in my eyes. Though with the games and the good vibes in the air, it was enough to make this guy sit for awhile longer, smile to himself with content and say, “this is the life”.
And then everything became strange.
Not suddenly.
Gradually. Quietly.
The music began to sound muffled, as though someone had lowered reality underwater. My vision, which for the record has not been trustworthy in years, sharpened unnaturally.
Painfully sharp.
I looked around and realized I was no longer seeing people as people.
Everyone had become strings.
Not metaphorically. Actual winding threads twisting and unraveling around themselves. Walking balls of tangled stories. Words wrapped into flesh. Every movement loosened another sentence. Every laugh revealed another paragraph.
And somehow, impossibly, I could read them.
I was far too exhausted to panic properly, which honestly helped. So instead of screaming or asking if anyone else was witnessing the collapse of reality alongside me, I simply sat there and watched.
Some stories were poetic.
Some painfully sad.
Some absolutely unhinged.
One guy near the bar looked like his entire life story was written by someone who says “trust me bro” before every terrible decision.
But one story stood out.
A petite girl sitting some distance away.
We had exchanged occasional glances throughout the night. Nothing dramatic. Just those accidental meetings of the eyes people pretend not to notice. The polite half-smiles of acknowledgment when she stood to meet her friends again.
I remember details with alarming clarity.
Black top.
Red shorts.
White sneakers.
Faux locs tied into a bun that sat on her head like a pineapple.
And because I like pineapples, my brain apparently decided this was enough justification to become emotionally invested.
Her story was beautiful.
Not perfect. Beautiful.
It carried darkness and humor and sadness and joy all tangled together in equal measure. Like proper Nigerian jollof rice, salad, chicken, all somehow coexisting peacefully despite having no business being that good together.
(Vive la Jollof de Nigeria.)
The strangest part was the intensity.
She was at least twenty feet away and yet every emotional thread hit with impossible clarity. I could feel heartbreak hidden between ordinary gestures. Loneliness tucked inside confidence. Joy surviving where it logically should not have survived anymore.
And somewhere along the line, reading her became the only thing that mattered.
In that moment, my life’s mission was to finish this story and nothing else was as important for the time being. Everything else could be damned till then.
Bills? Later.
Career? Tomorrow.
Existential dread? On a straight line.
Then reality interrupted.
One of the guys I came with noticed my thousand-yard stare had lasted slightly too long for comfort and decided to check if I was still alive.
He started small talk.
I responded with nods, monosyllabic sounds, and the facial expression of a man buffering internally.
Eventually he left.
Unfortunately, the joy I felt watching him leave may have been too visible.
But worse still when I turned back, the story was gone.
I scanned the room once. Twice.
Nothing.
No black top. No red shorts. No pineapple-shaped bun drifting through the crowd.
She had disappeared completely into the night.
And suddenly the music returned at full volume.
My vision blurred again.
The strings vanished.
All that remained was the unbearable realization that I had just lost a book midway through reading the most important chapter.
So I sat there trying to calm myself the only way drunk men pretending to be emotionally stable know how.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe…
…
Just wonderful.
Drink responsibly
Vive la Nigerian de jollof- long live the Nigerian jollof