Writer's Block - Sarah and Felicia attend a house party

I have writer's block.
It comes about fifty-two times a year and I never know what to do with it.
I write for therapeutic purposes; to express myself, to feel better, let it all out - ugly and broken as the words may fall out.
I'm working on a story, and I knew where this story was headed when I started - or at least I had a rough idea.
But now I don't know what I'm doing with it and I keep avoiding it like it's a child I lied to about buying chocolate. My husband tells me my biggest problem is not setting out a plan - but plans are boring and restrictive; that's my excuse. Plus, two of my favourite authors - Francine Rivers and Chimamanda Adichie - take years to write their books. Do they have plans? If they had plans, why do their stories take years to write? Am I just looking for excuses? Am I more interested in being healed through my writing than in actually creating something that is worth reading?

All this is a prelude to - a short chapter from my (presently) nameless story:

The two-storey house was filled with people, hazy from cigarette and marijuana smoke and boomed with music so loud Sarah felt her chest vibrate. It was about ten at night. She and Sarah had gone to Felicia’s flat in Ikeja, taken a shower and dressed up and then made their way back to the Lagos Island. There was terrible traffic and they had been stuck on Third Mainland Bridge for about an hour. Both women had fallen asleep when the taxi driver pulled up in front of the large, black gates of the house.

            Felicia’s cousin was a plumb mother of two who sold designer watches in Idumota Market. She was clad in a short pink tube dress, her breasts nearly pouring out of it. Her head was full of big golden curls, a glittering tiara placed daintily on top, her skin bright yellow.

            She threw her arms around Felicia and Sarah when she saw them. She smelt of alcohol and perfume.

            “Ke ja aye ori yin o!” Her voice was drowned out by the music. She batted false eyelashes at them. “Drink, eat and be merry! There’s suya and ofada, champagne, Moet. Help yourself!” She giggled shyly and walked off, draping her arms around other guests.

            Felicia and Sarah maneuvered around the living room, headed towards the dining table, which was laced with bottles and plastic cups. They poured themselves four plastic cups of cocktails – a mixture of Vodka, orange juice, Coke and Hennessey – and headed up the stairs. They crossed a narrow hall to the other end of the building and came upon a balcony packed with people which overlooked the empty market below. They leaned over the balcony, looking into the darkness and the distant lights of houses and passing headlights.

            “I want to leave Igwe,” Felicia said.

            Sarah looked at her.

            “He doesn’t pay well,” Felicia continued.

            “Oh,” Sarah said.

            “What do you think?”

            “If you leave, where will you go?”

            Felicia’s shoulder rose and fell. “I don’t know. I want to go to Italy.”

            Sarah’s voice rose a couple of octaves. “For what?”

            “What else? There’s nothing in this country.”

            Sarah shifted on her feet, that familiar sadness rolling inside her. “What will you go and do in Italy?”

            “Make money, of course.”

            “As a prostitute.”

            “Anywhere and anything is better than here. What am I doing here? I’m wasting away.”

            Sarah’s throat felt parched. She gulped the rest of her drink down. Felicia was right. There was nothing here. But she would never think of leaving Nigeria; leaving her family, her parents, her brothers, Kofo, everything. She thought about her father. She hadn’t called him yet.

            “You really want to go?” Sarah asked.

            Felicia nodded.

            “When?”

            “Before the end of the year.” Felicia looked into her plastic cup. “I’m talking to one woman like that. They call her Mama Fancy.”

            “Mama Fancy.”

            Felicia nodded. “Her daughter’s name is Fancy.”

            They laughed. Sarah kept laughing even when Felicia had stopped. She threw her head back and her body rocked with laughter.

            Felicia held her arm. “Sarah, you no dey try at all.”

            “Are you not the one that gave me drink to drink?” Sarah giggled. 

            Felicia took the cup from her and threw it over the balcony. She led Sarah back into the house and, after unsuccessfully finding a vacant seat, they sat down in the hallway, their backs against the wall, their legs pulled up to their chests.

            “If you go, I will miss you,” Sarah said.

            Felicia watched her. “I will miss you too.”

            Sarah leaned her head on Felicia’s shoulder and didn’t know when she fell asleep.