The Journals of Art (Otito Sosan)

May 2016
  Today is Holy Ghost Service, I suppose I could lie and say I'm enthralled, excited and bouncing on the balls of my feet. But I've decided in here, I'm going to be veritably honest. 
  In here, in this journals where mother's machinations are ineffective and father's ghost cannot haunt me, I think I can finally begin to be myself.
  My name is Otito Sosan,  but I prefer to go by the name Art, besides my mother's consternation. At times I believe it is precisely because of it. Art isn't short for Arthur which I wish could have been my middle name (the real thing is much, much worse). Neither do I bear it because I am some undiscovered prodigy whose artworks and paintings make words inadequate. (I've been told my stick-people look constipated and suffer from some postural defects).
  My name is Art, because it is what Mola used to call me when we were still friends. When my behavior and habits still had some explainable position within normal social conventions. When my friends existed out of my mind and off the pages of books and were corporeal. When I wasn't referred to in whispers, (by everyone) that weren't really whispers as certifiably insane. Everyone but Uncle Dola.
  Uncle Dola is mother's only sibling, her elder brother. I like Uncle Dola, I actually do. He's one of the very few people in this world that I think are good. I know a lot of great people but Uncle Dola is rare in my world. He is a good man. Most people assume this is because he's a pastor. But then again most people are shallow. I like Uncle Dola and I ordinarily wouldn't mind going to HGS with him, but Mola is home.
  Mola, who was my sun, moon and stars tied up in a bow that seemed to make her brilliance increase exponentially. Mola, who has always seemed to have her feet firmly planted on earth, ( the impressions her feet left ought to be deep due to the weight on one hand of her ego and on the other, her ability to impact) and hands firmly fisted on the very threshold of the celestial. Mola, who is short, had unkept hair that only managed to look manageable on Sundays and preferred shorts to skirts, much to Uncle Dola's consternation. Mola had eyes that whispered they had seen a lot and a mouth that curves into quick smiles and  that was probably more secure than, (let's face it people) most government headquarters. Mola had something else too in those hands that were nimbler than  a pianist's and had been almost anywhere (barring the gutter, eww). She had my heart and six years ago that was a perfectly reasonable place for it to be. But then again six years ago, Mola was still Mola.
  Mola is the orphaned daughter of Uncle Dola's old best friend and his wife who had also been the best friend of Uncle Dola's wife - Aunty Dieko. Their ship name is Diola, (I swear some people just have all the luck). Why did I just write that? It's completely irrelevant. I'm not going to scratch it out because it's only going to make this rough. I HATE rough work.
  So, Mola was adopted upon the death of her parents by my uncle and aunt in response to their wishes. They've taken Mola in over the years and raised her as though she were their own. It probably helps that they have three grown sons and must have perfected the art of parenting over the years. And up to six years ago we were so close that some people wonder if we had once been Siamese twins.
Six years ago, Mola got accepted at St. Anne's, the vanguard all-girls' boarding school that was more selective than most Ivy League universities. She was escatic. I was escatic. Her mum, grandmother, great grandmother had all gone there and it had been her greatest wish to graduate from St. Anne's.
To state the obvious, St. Anne's changed Mola. By her first break, she had become something of a recluse, the quiet, silent brooding type. As well as secretive, perpetually grumpy and utterly devoid of any warmth or cheer. The whys and the hows were off limits, Aunty Dieko said. I knew she knew whatever crucible Mola had emerged from but I was warned off. Mola would only talk when she was ready, anyone who knew Mola knew this. So I gave her space and time. Six years of it. And yet Mola did not deem me  worthy of ought but the basic pleasantries.
  I just wrote 'ought', Shakespeare must be rubbing off on me. Mrs. Leaf will be proud. (Mrs. Leaf is my British expatriate English teacher).
So today is Holy Ghost Service and I am anything but excited to be spending more time with an ever widening chasm between me and the person for whom I would trade anything.
  Kill me now.