A FAMILIAR KIND OF MADNESS

Being blinded by passion is like being blinded by rage. It’s a red in the eye that only people with the same defects see and acknowledge. The way mad people understand each other.

The first time Bolu had seen that red, he’d laughed at it till his cheeks ached. He’d seen it in the eyes of the security man?—?Terra, who guarded the flat he lived in. Out of frustration from being unable to sell any of his artworks for months, Terra had cried out that ‘his dream to build a career out of his art was truly going to drive him mad’. He seemed pretty close to it then, living on the meagre wages of a security and having a room choked to its neck with artworks that people rarely saw and barely enough space for his mattress and standing fan, which seemed to be his only property.

Bolu had sworn then that absolutely nothing?—?nothing, was going to make him live the life of a pauper, all because of some far-fetched dream. Especially in a place like Nigeria, where, to put it plainly, what you saw was what you got.

Yet, five years later, there he was, standing up to his father with the sternest voice he could muster, telling him that he was turning down the internship at the oil company his father had pulled strings for to take a job at a church instead.

It was a Saturday morning, and the beany smell of hot Akara was thick in the air, much like the silence that settled over the breakfast table when he dared to push his madness further by justifying his decision.

‘I would like to build a career around music instead, and the church seems like the best place to start.' He took a pause to steady his voice before he continued. ‘The job will not be paid, but there is a choir master who can teach me music compositions. I will also be able to attend music conferences and meet more people in the industry for free’. He spoke quickly, trying to get it all out before his father could interrupt.

He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. Every time this happened, he’d also imagined his father nodding slowly and smiling, impressed by his logic and his willingness to take charge of his future at such a young age.

But when the silence began to linger a little longer at the table and, when the dark clouds of tears began to gather around his mother's eyes, he knew that reality was about to do a number on him.

Bolu was kicked out of the house that day.

His ultimatum to return had been to go back to the church and tell them that he would not be accepting the job. However, Bolu, as adamant as his skull was, went to the church and informed them that he would take the job. He also pleaded for accommodation in one of the church’s extra rooms, explaining that living closer would allow him to work with reinforced vigor.

Before long though, the news of a father kicking out a son from the house because he’d refused to house any upcoming artists under his roof had spread to every acre of the neighborhood, even the church. Using Exodus 20:12 as precedent, Fr. Paul had advised Bolu to go back home and make peace with his Father. Suspecting that this was the kindest way the church could cut him off before it got any more bad reputation, Bolu packed his bags and was about to leave for his father’s house when Taiye (another aspiring artist who’d come to the church for the same reasons) convinced him otherwise. Taiye urged him to be his extra arms in Lagos, where he’d secured a gig playing instruments for a top artist for a month. The offer came with no promise of pay, but the enticing prospect of submitting his recent projects to the top artist and, building even more connections in the big city was once again dangled before him. Without a second thought, Bolu asked Taiye for extra money to top up his transportation, packed up his bags, and set off to begin a new life in a new city.

That had been less than a year ago. After realizing the catastrophic misstep he’d made—arriving in a new city with no thought for accommodation or the next steps. After being laid off far too early for not meeting the expectations of the job, Bolu had hit rock bottom. Bright and early on a Monday morning, after spending the night under the Third Mainland Bridge, he’d swallowed the bitter pill of his pride and called his father.

‘I need money to come home’. He’d pleaded, his voice coated in exhaustion and shame. ‘I’m really sorry for taking off without thinking twice about my actions’.

Although free from malice, his father had refused to send him money to return home. Instead, he gave Bolu the number of a relative in the city that ran a restaurant and told him to work there to earn his transportation fare and extra money for feeding.

Now, four months after that call, Bolu was about to close the shop for the day. He’d already removed his uniform, satisfied with the money he’d managed to save during those months. It was enough to take him home, with a little extra left over to finally get him a second-hand guitar.

Just as he was about to switch off the lights, a young man stumbled in, dressed in last week’s clothes.

‘Please’, the man asked, his voice shaky with hunger, ‘do you sell any plate of food here for N500?’.

Although the restaurant sold no plate of food for N500, Bolu recognized the madness in his eyes and beckoned for him to sit. He quickly gave him food and water, and he watched the man devour the food in a matter of seconds. When the plate was empty and the young man finally leaned back in the chair with a flicker of calm on his face, Bolu seized the moment to ask,

‘So..what did you come to Lagos for?’