Deadlines are what they are for a reason and I should definitely not be writing and calculating at 20 beats per second, 10 words per microsecond, but I, Bukola, will beg to differ.

Ayo would mimic me and say, “It is when the inspiration comes flowing, yen yen yen. If you like, don’t stop procrastinating, it will bite you in the ass.” He says it with love, no real bite in his words. But some days, I wish there was. I wish Ayo could sound harsh. Then, at least, I’d be able to be mad at him. I’d be able to not smile till my eyes crinkle at his soft words. I’d be able to— oh God no Bukola. Deadline, yes, I have a deadline. Enter:

Author— Bukola Sharon Adekoya.

Date— 8th October, 2023.

Title— The Obsession.

What is Obsession? It can be defined as the state of being obsessed with someone or something. An idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes in a person’s mind. While these definitions are spot on, they do not divulge how poignant obsession is. Now Love and obsession should be dichotomous,—

The word comes from ‘dichotomy’. Ayo is so fascinated by it for some reason. When he first discovered it, he was reading an article that he hoped would be relevant to the piece he was working on at the time. He spent a copious amount of time working his way around the use of the word in various areas that were not agricultural, as he had seen in the article.

I was beside him the whole time, his excitement literally jumping unto me, and he said, “Bukky, have you perhaps heard the word ‘dichotomy’?” His lips broke into the most beautiful smile, showing off his perfect, pearly white teeth. His face beamed, his eyes wide as they always grow when he is about to share a discovery he has made, compelling you to listen and take as much interest in it as he has.

“You can even use it as ‘dichotomous’; it depends! Oh God, my fingers are just itching to get back to my piece and use it. Just imagine how the flow of the sentence will be Bukky! Just think…” And he spiralled like that, talking about the word and his works.

Trust that I had a sheepish smile on my face because I understood—I understand. Ayo writes the most beautiful pieces in the most beautiful ways. If Ayo writes about an apple, you will wish God created you as the fruit associated with sin itself.

Oh! To be Ayo’s muse! How I’ve longed to have the curves he described as ‘come-hither hills and valleys of lure, worthy of all adulation and blandishment’. The lips he swore were the root of all things perfect. The eyes that sparkled far more than the jewels of the earth. A smile that turned heads. How I’ve yearned to be half of what Ayo portrayed in his pieces.

But alas, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and I have most definitely, unashamedly, indisputably been a beggar, hoping to be looked at, to be glanced at with just a modicum of awe as he would his muse. For his eyes to twinkle for my sake, light up at the mention of my name. For— Oh Bukola, this piece will not finish itself. Snap out of it!

—Now Love and Obsession should be dichotomous, as Love and Hate. But where the lines were once thin, now seem to have been blurred almost entirely. While love is pure and selfless, obsession is selfish and possessive. While love is giving and sharing, obsession is about taking and controlling.

It is also believed that love arises from the heart while obsession is of the mind. Obsession is a persistent, disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling. It is an intense, nonsensical fixation. But is it safe to say that all obsession stems from love?

Does one just become obsessed with someone or something, or must there have been a ‘pure’ feeling towards that person or thing ab initio? But would obsession not then be just a deeper form of love? One being so enveloped and intoxicated that they have little to no control over how they act or react towards the person or thing, and things regarding them? Is it so abominable to be possessive over a person? Does it not convey how deeply one feels?—

Dami had once said that I was obsessed with Ayo. I was offended, and I stood on the defensive. I told him that if I was obsessed, then I would not care for him the way I do and want to find ways to prevent him from having difficulties. He argued that I allow him to interrupt my every thought and consume my entire being, leaving me often unproductive and unable to focus on anything else.

I said at the top of my voice, a bit louder than I intended to, “That’s love for you! you’d have known if you’ve ever loved anyone.” And Dami, being his reserved self, very softly said, “I’m pretty sure that’s not how love works. It’s either that or I don’t love Funmi, and I sure as hell do.”

I was quiet after that. We both were. He, because that was the first time he was telling me about his feelings for her and me because the jealousy that had been violently sprouting in my heart for so long had developed thorns that seemed to pierce right through my flesh.

We silently agreed to disagree. I was not jealous because I had feelings for Dami. It was because he had feelings for her. I wondered why it could not just be me. What was so noteworthy about her? But that was a foolish question to ask. If there was nothing exceptional about her, then Ayo would not have written about her the way he did.

Funmi, his muse, the object of all his desires. The goddess behind his afflatus. She is everything I can only strive so hard to be a fragment of and will probably still fail. I have come to terms with the fact that life is not fair and all hands are not equal. So if these hands can at least hold Ayo’s hands, if they can hug him, feel him, slip into the pockets of his hoodie on a cold day that I definitely did not intentionally forget mine, then I’m satisfied.

Well, most of the time, because these same hands, ungrateful as they may be, want to do so much more. These hands want to— Alright, I have to get back to this. I barely have any words down.

—Does it not convey how deeply one feels? Maybe the thin lines should be between obsession and hate? Can obsession grow into hate the same way it is believed that love can? Does it then mean that it is a sequence? Love to obsession to hate? What then causes one to stay in love, and what causes another to fall into obsession? Is it a case of unrequited love? So much longing might cause one to sink into the depths of despair but what keeps another from not doing so? Shouldn’t help be rendered instead of them being shunned? And if so, what sort of help can be rendered? The heart wants what it wants and—

Ayo once said, “ ‘The heart wants what it wants’ is an excuse people make for their wrong decisions with people and life in general.” It hurt to hear him say that. Dami had just asked me why it had to be Ayo of all people a few days prior, and I told him, “The heart wants what it wants; I can’t control who I have feelings for.”

I knew he wanted to say more. Maybe something along the lines of “Even when they are obviously interested in someone else?” But he, being the amazing person he is, kept it to himself. I have just an hour left, and yet I can’t seem to stop getting into my head. Dami was probably right after all. Maybe I am obsessed with Ayo and maybe it is not so deplorable.

They say, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ so I will count myself blessed over and over again to have the privilege of bearing such weighty feelings for Ayo. Unrequited or not. And if anyone calls me out for it, then I am up for scrutiny. I would rather go through hell than give up all the moments I have had and will have with Ayo. He might not see me as her, but at least he sees me. That should count for something, right?

Because it would have been a totally different game if Ayo did not even know I existed. Ayo was the one who acknowledged my presence first, and we bonded over poetry and theatre. He declared his interest in studying how best to commingle the two without one overshadowing the other and asked me to be his partner while stretching out his hands, palm open.

At first, I laughed, but when I saw that he was not backing down and was serious about it, I cleared my throat and, placing my palm in his, I said, “I, Bukola Sharon Adekoya, agree to be your life partner in all things research and studies till we grow old and grey and take our last breaths.”

And grasping my hand in a firm grip, he broke into that pearly white smile, and our eyes met, and from that day, I knew, undoubtedly, that as he was excusing himself to get some of the hard copy articles for our study, he took my heart with him and when he returned, he definitely did not give it back.

I didn’t mind anyway. Still don’t. It was all his. Still is. Sometimes, I joke within myself that the agreement to be life partners was more about the heart than the project, and you know what is even more chucklesome? Ayo never knew. Ayo will never know. Dami believes he is playing with my feelings. Once, when it hurt so much that I cried fat tears on Dami’s shoulders, he said, “But Bukky, can’t you see that Ayo is aware? Men know these things. Men do these things.”

It was from a place of love, I am sure. But Dami does not know Ayo like I do. Amidst hiccups and sniffling, I replied, “Not men like Ayo. Definitely not Ayo. He is too pure for this world.” Once again, Dami knew just when not to say more. He believed that Ayo knew right when I was about to walk in and chose to drag Funmi by her waist into a corner.

I do not know what they did there. I could not bear to watch nor let myself think on it. Dami pulled me back to himself and quickly moved us away from there. He did not mention anything else afterwards, but I kept thinking about it. I still think about it. What if Ayo does know what he is doing? What if Ayo is fully aware of the state of my heart? That I’m a finished woman for his sake? Will I then count it wickedness and deceit?

But even if he does know, even if he is aware, I find Ayo blameless in my sight, and I should be held liable and impugned because Ayo never asked me to feel anything for him. It has all been me. Taking his little threads of graces towards me and spinning them into a full fabric with all patterns of love and wearing it proudly like a coat of many colours.

I deserve every bit of shame and disgrace as Joseph faced. If it is for Ayo, I can do anything. If Ayo wants me to walk through hot coal into the depths of the bottomless pit, then I will count it joy to do his bidding. If Ayo promises to write me a piece, but only if I can find a way to part the Red Sea again, best believe that I am making my way to heaven to meet Moses and if I have to die, then so be it.

And if Ayo— Bukola Sharon Adekoya! Get a grip! 30 more minutes. I can definitely write 700 words in 30 minutes…right?

—The heart wants what it wants, and if, of a truth, obsession is a thing of the mind, then perhaps, the mind wants what it wants as well. It may not be justifiable, but it surely is not atrocious. And there might just be a thin line between obsession and obsession itself. Say: ‘positive obsession’ and ‘negative obsession’. And with that being the case—

Positive and negative obsession…I find myself agreeing with the school of thought. If I am obsessed with Ayo, then I believe it is in a positive way. I will even allow myself to think I care for him to a greater extent than Funmi does, that I love him more than she has the capacity to. That I understand him more than she can allow her Prima Donna self to. That I know him in depths she does not know exist. That I deserve him far more than she ever will.

And as self-destructive as the notion is, I allow myself because then it will be that Ayo and I are facing similar challenges: Loving people who are not ours to hold or who do not want to even hold on to us. And I will console myself by saying that even if Ayo knows, he also leans on me sometimes and fuels my delusion because he, too, is looking for love and comfort. Because he, too, wants to be held.

And I will shoulder it, fully accepting the responsibility. If that is what I can get from Ayo, I will bask in it. I laugh now, remembering when Dami had finally come to terms with the fact that the feelings were here to stay, and instead, he asked, “What about you try to not always be around him?”

I looked at him like he had grown a third eye, and sensing my distress, he quickly added, “No, I mean, like, let him feel your impact, you know? Let him miss you, small. Maybe then he will realise that he feels for you deeply, too.” I considered it; in fact, I acted on it. Why would I not take up an opportunity to see if Ayo could grow to feel for me, even half of what I feel for him?

I avoided him like a plague for the rest of the day, and it felt like my heart was being torn out. Just when the day was about to end, and I had congratulated myself for a job done well, I heard a knock on my door. I went to open it, and standing before me, in his tall, dark and handsome, 6 feet 2 inches glory, was Ayo.

My heart was beating riotously in my chest, and as though that was not enough, looking straight into my eyes, hands coming up around my shoulders, he dared to ask, “Bukky, why are you avoiding me? Did I do anything wrong?” And my heart jumped straight into my throat.

I was suffocating for so many reasons: 1. I hadn’t seen him all day, and I missed him terribly. 2. He was so close that the proximity was clouding my head space and impeding my breathing. 3. Ayo noticed my absence! I was not sure if I was to laugh or cry, but I did what the opportunity presented and flung my arms around his waist, burrowing my head in his chest.

I heard and felt him chuckle. He wrapped his arms tighter around me and said, “I missed you too, Bukola.” And Ayo saying he missed me, with my full name, in his rich voice was the cherry on the cake that let the flood gates of tears pour out of my eyes in very rapid successions. They were soaking his shirt, but he did not seem to mind.

I could feel his heartbeat. It seemed faster than usual, and I allowed myself to believe it was for my sake. Whispering at the top of my head, he said, “Shhh. It’s Okay. Will you now tell me about it?” And, of course, I nodded and invited him in. I could not tell him the whole truth, obviously, but I mentioned that I had been distraught and did not want to bother him till I figured it out.

And being the perfectly sweet soul that he is, he held up my chin with his index finger so that I could look up into his eyes, and he said, “You know you can come to me with anything, anything at all, and we will figure it out together, right? O gbo?”

And smiling sheepishly, I was about to apologise and thank him, then he asked, “After all, what are friends for?” And I felt myself deflate, literally. Friends, yes, we are friends. How could I have forgotten? I put up a reminder somewhere in my head to inform Dami that although his theory worked and Ayo missed me, it only worked in part, and Ayo did not grow any extra feelings for me. In fact, Ayo reminded me that we are just friends and that it is all we can ever be.

I realise now that it was foolish of me to have experimented even after agreeing to be content with whatever bits and pieces I get and— Oh wait…Blood of Jesus! 3 hours past my deadline, and are those missed calls? My phone must have been ringing for a while now because I can see 18 missed calls, and they are all from— Dami. It is strange, to say the least. Dami would never leave more than two missed calls and would always drop a message afterwards.

I hear banging at my door, Dami screaming my name. I rush to the door and yank it open, ready to throw hands, but upon taking in his appearance, I come to a halt.

He is sweating profusely, breathing raggedly, eyes crimson with tears streaking down his face. Tears? Before I can ask what the matter is, he speaks up, “Ayo is dead, Bukky. Ayo is dead!”

The words fly over my head because it must be a prank, and there have to be cameras somewhere. Dami stretches out his hand, a white envelope in it. “He left this for you, Bukky.” I can not collect it from him. My eyes are clouding, and my head is spinning.

Just as I am about to see black, my brain processes what is written on the envelope, “To My love and my muse: Bukola Sharon Adekoya.”