Dear Roomie,

You sit there round the clock, about a metre away from me, all busy and busy. You have found one; you’re yet to admit if it’s the one but whichever way, he’s one. Your smile is like a tide that comes so quickly and unexpectedly, resounding on the doors and fixtures of this room we call ours. Your laughter makes my heart skip, for reasons I can’t explain.I respect you, a lot. But, I’m Mmeso and you don’t know me.

You sit there almost round the clock, busy and busier. You can’t seem to help it. You’re covered. You’re settled. You want to stare at that very screen that holds the keys to most of all we learn here. It’s ok. You stare away, fingers busy, eyes dancing; foreign words are released. I’m staring at my screen, too but, not as well as I should; as I want to. Listen, I respect you, a lot. I’m Mmeso and I wish I weren’t tongue-tied.

I remember the first day. Seeing your name imprinted on the yellow cardboard paper on the door next to mine, I didn’t have questions trailing my mind. Jet Lag and confusion and the newness of the world I had dived into, overtook me but I still wanted to know you. I was expectant and hopeful. You didn’t show up on time. Your shoes said the welcome I expected of you. I minded. How cute they were, by the way. I barely considered the high-up-in-the-air bunk beds and cute tiles. Why didn’t a clinic come to mind? Jetlag. You showed up, after I had so wondered and given up on my own curiosity. You were fair with the Chinese eyes I barely noticed and the F shirt on. “Somebody already had someplace to go to,” I thought to myself. I would probably be stuck in this beautiful room forever.

Details of ones and twos are not my point here. My point is that one is becoming something of note to me. I feel alienated. I don’t mind that. I grew up in alienation, the one I created. You’re the older figure. That doesn’t come to my mind though. But you see, I’m a weak seed. I’m an egg and I’m suffering, trying to find my way. You’re not the solution, apparently. I am, but I need help.

That screen with the other is so perfect. I want you to be happy. You light up worlds and you don’t have wahala.The constant sounds, the ping of that heart-shattering ringtone; the pop sound of those messages on the hangout that come with the smileys and the loves and the foreign language. They are sweet. You seem busy, too busy for life. Scratch that, for what lies outside life. Because apparently you have made life out of that screen, that one, those pop sounds, the smiles, giggles and business. Remember what we are here for? You seem to be living it up. Thankfully he’s smart. Well, we all are, huh? So, they say. Some are smarter. You know where he belongs.

I’m no hater. You should know that. I shouldn’t state that, though. It eliminates the credibility, I know. But you see, I have issues. I’m lost and I wish for a lot.

When you shut us, me, the other life away for the life, I am lost in two worlds.  I try to fit into the two but I can’t because there’s no space for me. Why do I try? Because somehow, I am inquisitive in matters of the heart,and somehow, I can’t avoid the AC right in my face. I am trying. It’s not you, because you listened when I talked about noise and distraction. I guess I have to define noise again. “Anything that shifts my attention from myself to someone else” is a distraction.

You can handle it. The pressure of assignment at the nick of deadline, engaging conversation for hours, giving all to that world you have created. But, can I? When you’re less than 2 metres away? Take it that a piece of you, due to this constant proximity, dwells in me and these situations also drag me away from the life that I wish to create for myself. You sleep and the screen is alive with the face and sounds on, right beside me. It ain't creepy but why? Why does it feel like I’m also the one being watched without my permission even though I know I am not?

Will you always be this busy? You see, I came here with big dreams, not-so-big but I had plans and so far, I am still at that point I came here at. I can’t network. So, it’s all on me. My every step; my inspiration. Thanks to my good friends though; the ones I told that your video calls were disturbing; the ones I ran to for help when I needed it.

You’re up there, as I write it, doing what you do best. What’s with the whispers and whistles? You two are so cute. For how long? I try to do my work but you don’t seem to be doing yours and I feel defeated. I try to read but you don’t know that even a tiny gasp from your end or his is enough to make me shut the book.

Don’t get it twisted. I am not a hater. I love what you do, and how you’re able to navigate this life of yours with the other life, the one I exist in, so perfectly. You’re a pro. But me, I’m not. I’m not  a pro. I need guidance, motivation to work. I wish to be told that I will be taught projects and I do end up being taught projects. I wish I still wrote. I wish I could read these books on my shelf. I’m losing my aim as usual and when I try to reach for it, this life of yours drags it away from me. I need help.

This room is ours. I don’t know for how long. You seem to be in love with that one. Do you think he’s the one. Sadly, this isn’t about him. I barely know him. This is about us, this room, this shared possession. Above all, this is about me. As I write, I wish for my own space, to be away from this other life of yours and to create mine, which of course, won’t be centered around “one” like yours. I might see the counsellor. I don’t have much time left before going home.

I respect you. But, if you really “love” me like you said this afternoon, you would understand, No pressure. I honestly don’t expect you to.