Urbi says it is a phase of puberty, a young child's trait that will fade by the time the hairs in his body begins to seek for air on the surface. At a time, she guessed my condition was a sequela to when she left me unwatched as a 1 year-old. I had rolled from the bed onto the floor, my soft head breaking my fall. I do not remember the details of this occurrence but every now and then, recoiling behind Urbi's eyes, I see the picture of a woman holding her crying baby as she massages its bulging head. This makes me pity her.
Tomi, a girl whom I helped write a letter to a school principal for a worthy referral, once described it as my brain, moving faster than my tongue, causing it to skip in its rhythm.
Òdé wittily said, one day, that I had an old man's spirit in my young body and both elements were always conflicting, causing me to tweak aggressively which is reflective in my speech. In his words, "That is my assessment; you can't get it anywhere else". I am not one to dabble into the prospects of reincarnation but I had laughed at this possibility.
Everyone had his or her propositions but none was close to capturing how it feels. It is like having a noose over one's neck that strangles the host with every pull. Words do not come out as imagined. The first syllable arrives as a short blast of repetitive mess as it stares at its last, arms outstretched, trying to touch its hem. Some days, I get to touch the hemline of the last syllable. These were the times when Urbi will sit with me, bearing eyes of soft steel, as she pats my hand for the little effort I make and if it was a big one, a hug to her breasts.
These lessons were tasking and as much as it pleased Urbi to see her child speaking fluently and in some way, assuage her age long guilt, I dreaded these constant reminders of my defect.
For Idehen, the process is different. Sometimes, I try to whisper the words just before I get to use them. Short raspy breaths of matching letters. For instance, before Idehen gets to the door, the quarry trailing after him, I repeat short breaths of "Welcome" until the words go into a positive frenzy and almost become fluent. As Idehen comes into view, the first letter will refuse to leave my tongue, clutching aggressively as if letting it down from the roof of my mouth will kill it. When "W" is finally convinced, "el" eyes its counterpart in suspicion, unsure of whether to join or remain neutral. Indecisiveness reigns in its embryonic mind. Finally, it is persuaded and that is where it ends. The "...come" never comes.
Others times, I refuse to make an effort and just stay in my room, waiting out the passing of the rock. Like this morning after the school gave an unprecedented break to mourn the death of Òdé and I had to stay back with Idehen.
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