Unchained (A short fiction on Mental Health)

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  It is 21:19, it's night time and I am outside, seated outside my  hostel. The air is cool, a faint smell of urine from a nearby toilet hovers above my head. A young lady in her early twenties sitting nearby strokes the strings of her guitar as she hums slowly to one of Timi Dakolo's song "Medicine". There is a tingling sensation in my head or my heart. I think it's my mind, there's a tingling sensation in one of those. Isn't it just magical what the strings of a guitar carefully handled by a professional could to to your spirit, soul and body? I get why David's strokes on the harp calmed King Saul's nerves. I feel some sort of connection to the deranged king, I think we share the same bond. We're both crazy but all for the wrong reasons. 

  I like a boy. I know I say it all the time but this time, I'm serious about it. He's light skinned (not usually my type but the heart wants what the heart wants) he has nice hair, a weirdly structured face that I've come to massively love. You know those weird houses that are built by creative white people and the houses are shaped in the most bizarre form and you just look at it from your TV screen and go "Why is this house shaped like a chihuahua's anus?" and then they show the interior designs and there's an indoor swimming pool and mini cinema and you think to yourself "Wow, I did not see that coming". That's what I feel about him. Weirdly structured face but when he smiles, my heart skips beats and I mentally put myself on life support. I have heard him talk before. He voice sounds musical like a beautiful symphony rendered by an orchestra by the sea side. He is tall, just as tall as I am which is great because then he wouldn't have to look down at me when he talks because I'll be right in front of his face which is where I'd love to be all the time-- right in his face. 
  Falling in love or something close to that for the sixth time in two months is probably the most stressful thing after scrapping left over Jollof rice in a pot. You have to write about how the way he walks can be compared to terminator walking away from a building he just blew up because he knows he can't die, because he's a robot and he can always get new skin from the laboratory back home. You also have to write about how his hair too, how it looks soft as velvet which is of course a lie because he's Nigerian and it's harmattan season. 

  The beautiful rendition of Timi Dakolo's "Medicine" has come to an end. I watch sadly as the lady takes up her guitar and slowly walks up the stairs to her room. I feel agitated now, my hands are shaking and I am breathing heavily. I run up the stairs to my own room, I look at the number, 231, to make sure I am the right place. My roommates are out, they went to a club with their respective boyfriends, all three of them. I try to keep my hands steady as I open the lock on my door. Immediately I am in, I made sure it is locked from inside, then I took a glass cup and tossed it at the wall. The shattering noise give a claiming effect. I can hear people from outside asking if I'm alright, I tell them that I'm fine so they'll go away, they do. If I am correct, this is exactly what happens to King Saul when David walks away. Whoever in their right senses would love a girl like me?

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