Weightlessness

Do friends just recognize friends? They just link arms one afternoon and say “Hello my friend, I’m so glad I found you.”

Photo by Lynn on Unsplash

When the door to the other room is slammed against its frame, she gently climbs off her bed. The two windows in her room pour golden sunlight onto the floor at an angle like tipper trucks. Most of the floor is cool but the patch of blue rubber tiles by the wooden headboard is warm. So she sits, adjusting her thighs against the grainy dust that must have fallen from her feet earlier. The noise from the other room escapes through the crack at the bottom of the door frame. Her eyes are led to the peeling paint on the door of the shoe cupboard beneath the window. They now store old books in black trash bags there. Shoes that went there, went there to be forgotten. When someone slams their hand on a table, her shoulders immediately rise to her ears. As her soft shoulders press against her ears they seal her into herself. Voices in the background begin to muffle and soon reach nothingness as she is transported to the pool. She cannot swim, in fact she almost drowned last week at the after-school swim club, but in this pool she wades through like a dolphin, a master of the water. She imagines the water here is lukewarm but leaning more towards cool. Like the in-between of the patch of light by her headboard and the patch of darkness beyond it. When she gets to the bottom of the pool, there are people waiting for her. Friends.

The first time she sat on the tiled floor of this pool inside her, there were old faces, distant faces, and faces that could not be made out. They bonded over Angelina Ballerina and grandmothers that smell like coconut oil and sweet apple hair grease. The friends from the first day and till now did not know where she came from. She is here, and that was all that mattered to them. So, they shared all the sweet food from her favorite cartoons she could never seem to find in real life at the supermarkets no matter how slowly she walked, paying attention to all the cartons and sachets. The water swished and swashed by their ears like a cuddly cat eager to be pet. It tickled. So they laughed. Such big laughs that morphed into a dome no one dared to cross. When they asked her how she felt she told them her head felt like Sunday morning eggs. All her thoughts and feelings are being whisked, clashing and fusing into each other without a care in the world.

Today in the pool, they are wondering about the cookies from Sesame Street. One friend says I bet the chocolate is so chocolatey. Another says I wonder how many I can eat; they are so crumbly. This friend who is always there, sighs and says I wonder where I would ever find a cookie so huge. This friend was the same height as her and had beads in her hair like her and her eyes seemed much deeper than this pool they were in. It was this friend who brought the cookie dough from Angelina Ballerina on her first day. As she watched her friends laughing in the circle as the water wove through their arms and between their feet, she wondered if they were real beyond this here now. When she returns outside, will she find them waiting under the mango tree beneath her window? Their time together here was too short. Maybe if she lifted her head while walking in the supermarket this evening, someone would also be looking for chocolate chip cookies. If not, would they be among the children that hold her gaze at the market? Or among the children from the boarding school next door that peeked into the compound while the hairdresser plaited her hair. Or maybe they would be an adult. They have been here long enough. They would easily recognize her. She wonders if she meets any of them outside, if they will recognize her and slip their arm into hers and call her friend. If someone asked her if she could recognize herself, she would say no. So now, when she goes back outside, she will stand in front of her mirror and memorize every feature. Like her vocabulary words. So she can help her friends find her.

One friend with the same accent as Peppa Pig starts to float in the middle of their dome. Everyone oohs and aahs. In science class last week, they learnt about gravity. Their teacher played a video of astronauts floating in outer space during a spacewalk. They were weightless, the teacher said. She and her friends did not need those protective suits in their pool. Astronauts are not without their weight; in outer space they are just not held down by gravity. In traffic on the way back from the supermarket one night, from a television propped on two large party speakers, an older woman in a peach bubu shouted at a person sitting across from her “Did you even think about the gravity of your actions,” her dress puffed up as she lifted her arms, as if to show how heavy this invisible thing she now has to hold is. In her pool, she is weightless. There are no invisible things for her to carry. She is not without her weight, her arms are still soft and full and her belly is still round. She uncrosses her legs and begins to rise to the middle of the dome, with her friends. If outside people did not think about the gravity of their actions and she was left with all these gravities like the woman in the film, how much of the weight she carries outside is actually her own?

As they float around the dome, they sing theme songs and chase each other, laughter bolsters their bounce, and the water is happy as they twirl and swirl with it until she falls asleep on the patch of blue, blanketed by the orange of the evening sun.

Two days later, it is a Monday. She stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom at attention. She peers beyond the thin layer of dusting powder and toothpaste splashes to remind herself of what she looks like. Two birthmarks. A scar. Nose like her grandmother. Then she steps back into the ray of light. Brown eyes. Smile. No smile. Smile. Chip on one tooth. No smile. She squints at her ears. They are slightly folded on the top. It must be from the hairdresser’s heavy hand. She runs a finger behind her right ear and pushes the plastic beads at the end of her cornrows against themselves. It reminds her of the friend from her pool. Today is a new day and it is time for school. Our class teacher said we are still waiting for a student, I won’t be too forward, I can’t, after all my seat is at the back of the class and the only seat left is in front. In the car, she counts the pleats of her uniform’s plaid skirt severally. Halfway through the third round of counts, she stops to observe the birthmark on her right arm. It looks like a fading cloud of brown most days; on other days it looks like a brown bear. As the car comes to a stop in front of the gate of her new school, it is as if a ram has run into her rib cage. She is told “Murewa have a great day, I’ll pick you up at 3:30”. The stone path to her classroom is a long one. Her black leather shoes with bouncy laces, her wool cardigan with the school crest patched onto it, her heavy school bag with all its books and zippers and pockets, and her stainless steel flask hanging around her neck all remind her of the astronauts. She almost trips when her foot catches a slightly offset slab. I can’t go to outer space, she thinks while adjusting her water flask, what if I fall on the moon?

The new student is brought to the classroom during math class. Murewa lifts her eyes from the cluster of stars she was drawing in the margin of her notebook as her class teacher’s heels announced their presence. It had only been one week of school, but her class teacher had a particular rhythm to her walk. Everyone did. It was easy to learn.

Her name is Olatomide. When Murewa saw her she remembered the friend from the pool. They both have pastel blue and clear blue beads at the ends of their cornrows. She had baby hairs that wisped when she stood under the fan to introduce herself. Olatomide sounded like her mind was clear when she introduced herself. Her words came out crisp, like cold water, fully formed with every syllable. Their class teacher told the math teacher, she was starting the term late because her family was just moving back from England. Tomide had her water flask hanging on her neck and a big pink backpack with so many rows of zips. As she sat down on her chair, she turned to hang her flask on the hook on the back of the chair and that was when their eyes met. Brown eyes, both warm and welcoming. Tomide’s smile was lined with a row of deep blue rubber bands on silver metal squares like Murewa had seen on television. The math teacher gives them seven algebra questions to work through so he can talk to their class teacher out in the hallway. Murewa goes back to doodling stars as soon as she is done solving for x.

When break time comes in, all the other children rush out of the classroom to meet their friends. Under neem trees, in other classrooms, in the cafeteria, on the basketball court, everywhere you looked there was a cluster of two or three or four or five. The only noise in the classroom is the blended hum of whirring ceiling fans and the chattering of children from all over the school campus. Murewa draws three more stars before gently closing her notebook. Tomide was the only one in the classroom with her. When their eyes met and Tomide smiled at her, it felt familiar. If she closes her notebook without care she fears that it might all disappear. Tomide’s beads click against each other as she turns to grab her water flask, it is then that Murewa realizes she has been holding her breath.

Murewa places her books and calculator in her backpack and sets a napkin on her desk for her lunch. As she turns the food flask open, she looks towards Tomide’s desk and a smile tugs at her lips when she notices their napkins are the same too. Maybe she will be my friend. I should ask her to eat with me she thinks as she wipes her fork with the corner of the plaid napkin. Her lunch today is white rice with turkey stew and fried plantains. She lowers her gaze to the food flask cradled by her left arm in her lap and begins with the plantain quadrants. By the fifth piece of plantain, an obstruction of light from the window beside her and the sound of a chair dragging against the terrazzo floor cause her to lift her head up. She looked up so quickly the piece of plantain flew off the fork and right out the window. Both girls looked at the plantainless fork, then at the open window, then at each other and then they began to laugh.

“I am so so sorry,” Tomide says with her food flask in her right arm. It was a teal tin with deep blue floral patterns that reminded Murewa of the flowers she used to doodle in primary school.

“Oh it’s fine, I still have more,” Murewa points the food flask at Tomide and quickly sets it down on the napkin.

“My name is Tomide, I was going to ask if I could eat with you,” Tomide raises her fork to symbolize the question mark at the end of her statement.

“Oh yes, that’s fine,” Murewa shifts her flasks closer to the wall to make space for Tomide. When she sits, the girls continue eating quietly, their breaths and bites syncing amidst the break time hum.

“So,” they both say at the same time as they reach for their water flasks.

“Oh sorry, you talk,” Murewa says.

“Okay, what is your name?” Tomide asks as she pours water into the cup that came with the flask. It reminded Murewa of women at tea parties, with their napkins, and small flask covers, and ordinary water.

“My name is Murewa,”

“That’s my cousins’ name,” Tomide’s smile widens so much that Murewa can see her molars.

“That’s interesting, I have never heard of anyone with my name before, are they a boy or a girl?”

“A girl, she is older than me by a lot, so I call her cousin Murewa,” Tomide responds.

“Is she also in England, where you came from?”

“Yes, she is attending university in London,”

“When will you see her again?”

“Maybe during our next holiday, it will be her graduation by then, she’s studying economics, so hopefully we can go and celebrate with her,” Tomide’s shoulder fall, “if we can’t go then hopefully she comes to visit us after, she’s like my older sister, do you have an older sister Murewa?”

“Oh no no, I am the only child, I have some cousins but they live in Abuja so I only see them during the long vacation when we go to my grandpa’s house,”

“Do you miss your friends from England, Tomide?” Murewa asks as she folds her napkin into her lunch box.

“Well, I guess I do, I didn’t really have a lot of friends, I have moved around a lot because of my dads job. Do you know where Azerbaijan is?”

“Azer-bai-jan,” Murewa pronounces the word slowly, then images come to the front of her mind “Oh I have seen some adverts for it on CNN why?”

“I lived there before I went to England, and before that we lived in Greece,” Tomide places the blue tin on Murewa’s desk and props it open. It’s a tin of cookies. Salted Caramel cookies.

“Do you have any friends in the school,” Tomide asks, “also would you like a cookie, they are my favorite. I wish they made larger sized ones, I brought them back with me?”

Murewa’s eyes squint, in an effort to capture the instant that is unfolding in front of her. Tomide reaches into the tin and offers Murewa the first cookie. Then she grabs one for herself. Tomide clinks her cookie to the cookie in Murewa’s hand. “Cheers!” and some crumbs fall to the floor like stardust, Murewa thinks. She places the cookie on the tin cover and goes to pour water into her own flask cover and begins to drink, slowly. In her head, her eyes solve for the chances of this happening. Of sharing cookies with someone. With a friend? She can’t tell if they are friends yet? All her other friends, she knew them until she didn’t. Is this how people become friends? By sharing a meal and laughing at food flying out the window. Is this easy because it’s familiar? Have they done this before?. She wonders if Older Murewa bought the cookies first for Tomide. University people are so cool and they don’t have to wear school uniforms.

“I don’t have any friends here, I’m also new, I came from a different primary school, most of the people here went to the same primary school so they already know each other” Murewa says. She brings the cookie to her lips and nibbles at it like a small mouse, like Angelina Ballerina. Tomide is halfway done with one cookie when her left eyebrow rises.

“My friends from the other school, well I didn’t have friends from the other school, they were my friends but then they stopped, they didn’t want to be friends with me because of one other girl - Ashley,” Murewa continues, shaking her head at the mention of Ashley.

“Well I think they are stupid.”

Murewa’s eyes widened at Tomide’s bluntness. Tomide handed her another cookie. Even the teachers liked Ashley. They always believed her and they always took her side because of her hair and maybe the fact that her mummy is a popular actress. One day, on the playground during breaktime, the girls that flocked around Ashley, saw Ashley push Murewa onto the ground. It had rained that morning and now Murewa’s uniform was soiled in mud and loose grass blades. Mud trailed up her shoes and onto her white socks before stopping at her shin. The girls pointed at Murewa and laughed. They used to be her friends. Jomi, who was the only clear view beyond the blurriness of her tears, used to be her friend. The wristwatch on Jomi’s hand was a gift from Murewa. She gave it to her during her party. That was the last time she went to Jomi’s house. She remembers hearing their mothers argue that evening when all that was left was empty popcorn bags and flattened cardboard crowns. Her and Jomi set up the watch, sitting on stacked white plastic chairs under a red canopy heedless of the rising voices of their mothers behind the house. Then that day at school with a hand bearing Murewa’s gift, she pointed and laughed at her. That is a stupid thing to do.

“They only wanted to be friends with her because of her hair and can you imagine she only came in primary 5” Murewa widened her palm emphasizing the year of Ashley’s arrival. Tomide laughed at Murewas’ display. Murewa caught herself laughing too. She laughed enough, she remembered her birthmarks. She remembered what side of her face they were on.

The bell rang and all the clusters began to find their way to their classroom blocks. When the boy who sat next to Murewa came in. Tomide tapped his shoulder. Soon after, her big pink backpack with all its zips and her water flask sat next to Murewa. Both girls turned to face each other, like mirror images, ready for the second half of the school day. Murewa’s eyes had the renewed clarity of dusty louvered glass panes of a window that received a dousing of water. If you looked close enough you could see the sunlight bouncing off of them.

During science class, as the science teacher talks about the planets of the solar system, Murewa looks at her wristwatch multiple times while taking notes. She wants her class to finish early before three thirty so she can talk to Tomide about Azerbaijan and show her the notebook she draws flowers in. She glances over at her seat partner and her heart trips over itself. Tomide doesn’t know if she is going to be here for long, after all it is her dad who moves them around for his work. She hopes in her heart that she stays, and they become friends, real life friends, real enough that one day Older Murewa also buys cookies for her. Her cousins in Abuja always tell her ‘you’re too in your head, come outside o’. Maybe she and Tomide share the same head. There wouldn’t be a need to come outside or go inside. They can just be, as they are, where they are.

The teacher slams the meter rule against the white board to draw a table, jolting the entire class to straighten their backs and widen their sleepy eyes. In one column he writes Girls and in the next column he writes Boys. It’s a scoreboard.

“Now class, I want you to look amongst yourself and select representatives, let’s have a fun quiz!” he exclaims like a proud games master.

“Also who would be my scorekeeper? Class captain, are you here?”

A boy taller than Tomide and Murewa raises his hands. His name is Michael. Murewa whispers to Tomide that the class voted him in last week.

“You two whispering in the back there,” the meter rule is pointed at them. They both turn their heads towards the man.

“Will you represent the girls?” he asks, Murewa remembers now that his glasses remind her of the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

“Um yes sir” Tomide responds for both of them.

“Are you Olatomide? You weren’t in class last week, I hope you’ve settled in”

“Yes sir, my friend Murewa is helping me, thank you sir”

“Girls, are you okay with your representatives?”

“Yes!” the girls shout, turning right or back to look at their two classmates standing in the back corner of the class.

Murewa’s feet feel a bit more grounded on the floors of this class. She knows the names of most of the girls that look at her - Joy, Mutmainnah, Sewa, Ogechi, Emem, and the second Joy that wore glasses. She looks at Tomide as they walk out of their row to the front of the classroom. Mutmainnah gives them both a thumbs up and a full smile. The afternoon breeze wraps around her collar like a silk scarf. For the first time she takes in the full breadth of her classroom for the next year. It is the fan by her seat that whirrs out of rhythm from the other four. Her corner in the back seems tight from up here but it’s just right, and from this position in the classroom she can see the orange flowers on the trees on the way to the cafeteria. Her head is lifted up and Tomide smiles in recognition of the smile on her face. My friend Murewa is helping me.

The two boys that represent the boys are the one Tomide swapped seats with - Pelumi and another boy, Tumininu. The teacher sits in Tumininu’s front row seat and begins the quiz.

“So here are the rules - each question is worth 2 points and I have 20 questions, ten for each group,” he turns right then turns left to look at the rest of their classmates.

“You cannot cheat o! If you whisper or wink or even blink,” he scans the seated students through his glasses and that makes them laugh.

“Okay you can blink, but if you cheat, your team’s points will go to the other team, understood?”

“Yes sir!” the class choruses.

“Alright since the girls had their representative’s first we will start with them, are you ready?” the meter stick points at both of them again. Their classmates start a drumroll on their desks.

Tomide links her arm through Murewa’s and bumps her hips to hers. Murewa thinks about two astronauts going to the moon, defying gravity, bolstered by all the fuel they can get. She glances at her watch and five seconds later the first question comes.

“What is the name of the first ever animal to go to space?” Their teacher looks over his glasses at both of them.

“Laika the Dog!” they both exclaim at the same time. They laugh when they look at each other as the seated girls erupt in cheer. Her hand felt light in Tomide’s and Tomide’s felt light in hers.

“Who was the first person to walk on the moon?” their third question.

“Neil Armstrong!” Murewa answered and Tomide clapped for her along with the classroom.

In the pool, on an afternoon where they floated in a dome of stars, Murewa wondered if she would ever feel weightless in real life. She imagined herself as an astronaut, floating, bouncing on the moon. Astronauts don’t do space walks alone, they usually have another astronaut with them, an astronaut friend told her that as she curled up on the blue floor. That’s why she started lifting her head up in the supermarkets and peeking through her window. She needed to find someone to do her space walk with. Tomide called Murewa, my friend. Did she recognize her too? From the pool? I didn’t even have to ask her to be my friend, Murewa thought. Do friends just recognize friends? They just link arms one afternoon and say “Hello my friend, I’m so glad I found you.”

With another round of drum rolls on desks from the entire class. It is time to announce the winners.

“And the girls win with 27 points!,” the teacher points at them with so much glee on his face. The whole class erupts into cheers.

“How did you know the number of moons Saturn has?” he asked them both as he packed up his meter rule and marker pile.

“I saw it at a museum when I was younger,” they both said at the same time. They unlinked their arms so they could really look at each other after that response.

“There was a kids space lab I visited with my family in London,” Murewa said.

“When I was in primary 3, they gave me an encyclopedia I read everyday for a year” she continued.

“Wait,” Tomide says.

“Did you ever meet a girl that had the same shoes and hair as you, blue Reeboks and blue beads like us now?”

“I think so, I went during our second term holiday” Murewa says slowly, looking at Tomide starting from her black leather shoes up to the baby hairs standing in ovation.

“In April?” Tomide asks. Murewa nods, she can feel the ram in her chest again.

“That was me! I always wanted to look for you - I made my mum take me back to the museum the next day to see if you would come back, because the space camp was for three days,” she continues.

“Wait, we were just visiting, I think the next day we came back to Nigeria,” then it all came back to Murewa.

The dome of lights and the chatter of children, and the museum guide who sang songs to the visiting children about the planets in the solar system. The cookies they ate that looked like the moon with silver glitter on it and the one girl with eyes like hers. The two girls squeal and hold hands and spin in a circle, their beads clinking, the sand on the ground dancing with their feet, their eyes knowing, the skirt of their uniforms twirling in the wind, their laughter floating high and bouncing off the classroom ceiling.

When the girls returned to their desks, Murewa looked out into the field beside their class. School ends at three thirty and she will be picked up at three thirty. She has somebody to explore the school grounds with now. They will start there. She leans out the window by her seat to catch a glimpse of the flowering trees on the way to the cafeteria. Tomorrow they’ll eat quickly and take their cookies outside and talk under the tree while she draws its orange flowers.