What do you do when you realise you haven’t experienced a summer the way it deserves to be enjoyed? Summer isn’t a thing where I live; rainy or dry are the seasons in Nigeria consecutively. Far above and far below the equator, summer recovers its meaning. A stint in a city northeast of Moscow offered a glimpse into the concept of summer, though I fear I did little justice to my first summer experience. Perhaps I owe an apology to myself.
Indeed, you do. You didn’t grab Ivanovo’s beautiful atmosphere by the collar and relished every minute with gusto by accomplishing all your sidequests. You didn’t take advantage of every opportunity it presented to check things off your bucket list. The greenery, its beautiful churches with captivating domes, its aesthetically pleasing historical buildings, its numerous parks, and shimmering waters that seem to twinkle and come alive at night. You didn’t experience it like we should have; let me tell you.
Days spent wearing overalls and flip-flops, with your hair in a huge bun, don't count. Why couldn't you wear shorts, buy the prettiest coveralls or swimsuit you could find, and head to the nearest beach? Going to that river at the end of the woods that looked like something out of Enid Blyton’s The Enchanted Wood, with a two-forked deserted path and perfectly carved wooden toadstools arranged in a circle somewhere in its middle, doesn't count either, because you never took a swim in the water. After all, although you love to see bodies of water and admire how smooth and silky they are, you're always scared of what could be in the riverbed. A whirlpool? A tangle of seaweed that could be poisonous? A huge hole waiting for something to swallow? Yes, fear is the best preventive measure. All you did was walk all the paths that led to the water, trace its banks, and sit on the immovable wooden lounge chair so you could look at the picturesque houses, which would've given Wisteria Lane a run for its money, beyond the river, which had different people in them, living their own unique, sweet little lives. Daydreaming doesn't count.
Going to the park alone doesn't count either because all you did was take pictures, write drafts of would-be articles, and daydream some more whilst seated on the blue bench facing the canal that had swings you wanted to try on its other side. Still, you didn't crave it enough to walk across the bridge for fear of getting lost. So, yeah, that doesn't count either.
What counts? Getting lost unexpectedly and ending up in a different city, where you see one of the most beautiful places you couldn't have imagined existed. Sitting at the bus stop, waiting for the right bus back home, and looking down into the valley where a house peeks through the trees it is surrounded by, and realizing what a beautiful day it was and how lovely it is to enjoy doing absolutely nothing but having the best time.
The picnics you had indoors with your coursemates also count. Meals shopped for and made with love set up on the blue wool blanket in the middle of the room in anticipation of an evening filled with games, laughs, screams, heartfelt toasts, and unexpected spilled secrets. The long walks you all took when in search of something. To the supermarket for groceries, to the mall to shop and get lost, to the bank to change currencies, to the church because that's what Sundays are for, to the farmer's market for pork, and to museums where everything is so intriguing and lifelike.
Cooking together counts—local dishes made with foreign, yet familiar ingredients. Fried rice made in the tiniest of pots, deep-fried chicken in a borrowed frigideira, one of the things that brought you in contact with your Bissau-Guinean neighbors who only spoke Portuguese, and tasty soups that never fail to satisfy while making you nostalgic about home. Huddling together to make quick, decadent brownies and golden brown chinchins, staying up late and chatting into the early hours of dawn about series, current events, anything and everything because our big, fat meat pies were baking in lent ovens, and what's better than munching on freshly baked pastries in good company?
What's a summer without a little semblance of budding romance? Blasé? No? Maybe? How do you know something is something when you don't understand the language with which it comes? It's in the trickle of admirers, one asking for a late-night stroll, another for a quick drive, another for belief in the honesty of what he feels, all in a language you're still struggling to learn. Like I said, fear is the best preventive measure. Your heart doesn't break if it's not in stock. You don't crave something if you've never smelled it or even acknowledged its existence. You don't miss something you've never had. I say this because what if you experience a whirlwind romance that ends when the weather or season changes, or a love that doesn't survive continents apart, and the toll of time? So, you stick to declining respectfully but firmly, focus on your readings and writings, and your worries and strollings, because what better partner can one have except oneself.
Listening to Samara Joy's buttery voice. The hum of approaching heavy rain. Clear puddles on clean concrete floors. Long road trips in good company. Listening to music in a moving vehicle, as the landscape becomes a blur of greens and blues. Taking endless walks that never fail to unclutter your mind. Visiting your favorite relatives in different cities. Spending holidays cooped up in the community library, reading to my heart's content, and discovering the Pacesetters series in my uncle's study/library. Birds chirping early in the morning. Just like Maria in The Sound of Music listed a few of her favorite things, these are a few things that evoke the feeling of summer for me.
Adéṣẹwà Adésànyà is a writer from Nigeria whose interests lie in the intersection of gender, culture, literature, and feminism. Profoundly learned about the Russian language, she believes literature is a powerful tool for driving social change. She spends most of her free time writing, reading African literature, and taking pictures of plants.