Man of my dreams.

When I first started having dreams of Rasta, I thought it was because I had been listening to his music repeatedly before going to bed. Then I started seeing him in my dreams every night and even during my afternoon naps. He appeared in numerous ways in the dreams; one time, he was my partner, and the next, he might have been my teacher. I like the boyfriend ones best, because I am a hopeless romantic. I would fantasize about him riding into my office on a horse to save me from the tedium and boredom of working as a bank teller for the rest of the day.

He appeared to me again in my dream last night.. This time, I was sad to be awakened in my room. Normally, my room with its dull green walls and pale white ceilings filled me with pride, knowing how long I had saved to be able to move out of my aunt’s house, where I served as cleaner, cook, and handywoman. but not today. I have just been transported from the dream world where I had been getting a private performance by Rasta to one where I can barely afford rent. To add to it, I get a message from Ojo, my boyfriend of 6 months, asking for yet another loan to fund another "business" when he hasn’t paid me back the hundred thousand I borrowed from my ajo for his polish-making business that crashed 3 weeks later.

Most mornings I get up energized and do 30 squats and sit-ups because Chioma from marketing promised me that sit-ups and squats helped her hourglass figure. Maybe if I can get some curves, I'll finally get that marketing promotion at the bank where I work. After my exercise, I pick out my clothes. As a teller, I am restricted to a navy blue branded polo shirt with a black pencil skirt, but I like to dress up by pinning a brooch to my breast or using my fire red lipstick that has "MACK" boldly written on it. I always have it in the side zip of my work bag. only because the lipstick is absorbed by my full Kpomo lips with every passing minute. By the time I take my scheduled bathroom break at 11, there might be nothing left on my lips. What it lacks in durability, it more than makes up for in brightness.

I tried to forget about the dream, but Rasta's songs stayed with me. My downstairs neighbor was singing "champagne" as he washed his okada this morning. The taxi driver then decided on a radio station that was playing the same song I heard Chidi play after toggling the dial and using it as an excuse to rub on my thighs. I dismissed all of those as coincidences until Chioma's phone started ringing, and it was his song "Running Away," which had just been released the week before.

I wonder if he’s having these dreams too. If he's also looking for me but is stumped because he doesn't know where to begin, We’ve never met; I've only seen him once in a mall and only recognized him because Tolani pointed him out as the guy who sang the song we’d been vibing to in the Uber. And even then I only looked back and said, "Oh." I didn't know which one was Rasta till I went home and watched his videos. I wasn't a big fan at the time, so I didn't care to store the memory in my special memory place. I am a fan now because I can’t not be a fan of the man of my dreams.

I considered sending him a message several times, but deciding on a social media platform is difficult enough without having to come up with a message that he will be inclined to respond to. "Hi, you don’t know me, but I’ve seen you on TV, once in The Palms, and several times in my dreams; are you dreaming of me too?" Then I'd send him photos from every angle possible because I'm not sure which side of me he sees in his dreams. I don’t know if I’m the only one getting stalker vibes from that message. Plus, I imagine he gets a lot of messages from girls talking about him being in their dreams and whatnot.

I believe that dreams have power—that they contain a hidden message from the gods, whether it's God, Superman, or Ala, as I experienced when I had multiple dreams about my high school best friend. I wanted to reach out, but I had no idea what to say or where to begin. We hadn't spoken in the 15 years since we graduated from high school. I later found out she had been suffering from chronic depression and even had to be taken to a white-garment church for deliverance. They found her sipping sniper from her mug on a hot August afternoon, like she was sipping hot Lipton tea. I heard that the only reason she was caught was because they thought she must have had malaria. Only malaria + could make you feel cold on such a day, with sweat dripping from the nape of their necks to their ass cracks.

I hear the whipping worked, and she hasn’t held a mug since. She now walks around looking angry enough to beat anyone who crosses her, as opposed to the sad, morose face she’d been wearing for the months leading up to the sniper incident. They say that’s better—angry people seldom commit suicide.

Back to Rasta I have decided to use Twitter as a medium to send my message. Everyone is serious on Twitter. Unlike Instagram, where everyone is in full ashawo mode, going to Instagram to view his pictures and videos has become my favorite past time. I see him everywhere now. I see his beardless chin in Daddy Tinu's face, his upturned nose in Biodun the POS agent, who comes every evening at 3:30 p.m. on the dot, and almost his full head of hair in Dada Onye ara, who has lived at Abe Bridge since its completion more than two years ago.I had to rebuke the last one because my dearest Rasta can't have any similarities with that madman.

I have decided to use Twitter to deliver my message. Everyone is serious on Twitter. Unlike Instagram, where everyone is in full ashawo mode, this should make him realize the gravity of the situation. "Hi Rasta, my name is Folake, and you are the man of my dreams."