"Mismatched Socks", Short Story by Sophia Obianamma Ofuokwu

"Mismatched Socks: A story of self-doubt, connection, and the depths of vulnerability. The protagonist, Uche, feels out of place in a bustling bar.

"Mismatched Socks: A story of self-doubt, connection, and the depths of vulnerability. The protagonist, Uche, feels out of place in a bustling bar, as he fights with his insecurities. His encounter with Chizaram, a woman as uniquely mismatched as his socks, brings an unexpected connection, gently bringing him out of his shell. The work portrays the beauty of accepting imperfections and embracing fleeting, transformative moments in life."

Mismatched Socks

The lights here remind me of that lone night in my room when it had just rained and the clock was striking twelve and a rainbow appeared on my walls. It was from the moon’s glare on the stones on my headboard, but I did not want to listen to science that day; I wanted to believe in magic and beauty and things out of the ordinary, so I watched that rainbow and felt the child in me come out to play.

These strobes remind me of that night when I watched those colours and cried and laughed and sighed, because something is wrong with me that I do not know how to fix.

The barman slides me my drink with a wink, his signature move and marketing strategy. Everyone asks after the ‘nice bartender’—it doesn’t matter that he makes the worst drinks. Maybe I should employ his strategy—smile at everyone, talk about how beautiful the weather is even when the rain clouds are as black as the devil’s behind, ask about their second daughter’s baby. Maybe then I wouldn’t be at a bar nursing a cold glass of tasteless poison, and wishing someone would just talk to me. Someone who is not the barman—the guy does too much, and it’s all about baby steps.

Two girls walk in, a dichotomy of styles, and effortlessly pull every gaze towards them. The taller one is wickedly beautiful and has on a black velvety dress that falls over her slight curves like worshipping fingers. Soft, revering. Her heels come to a sharp end at the toes. Aren't those what they call stilettos? Or are stilettos just shoes with long-ass heels? Whatever they’re called, the sharp ends look like knives whose ends I would not mind dying at. Her gaze skims over everyone, eyes perfectly bored yet alert. She holds her head high, self-assuredly, as she moves her lithe body through the crowd. It parts for her, pliant under her wicked gaze; she knows the effect she has on people and understands just how to wield her power. 

In a different world, I would’ve walked up to her and initiated a conversation, but in this world, my tongue would twist until it is a pretty knot, my palms would produce the Mediterranean Sea, and my bladder would suddenly distend with whatever fluid appears in the bladder of cowards when they try to be anything but. There are guys who would talk about wigs and periods and politics in one breath and smile at her and not sweat their brains out. Guys who wouldn’t automatically believe she is playing some sick game by talking to them.

I grab my drink and bring it to my lips, watching the lady in black as she finds a booth. The burn manages to dislodge the lump in my throat and I readily swallow it. One more minute with my thoughts and I would be unredeemable tonight.

“You’re wearing mismatched socks.”

I wonder who the poor guy is, and take a surreptitious glance in the direction of the voice. 

“Jesus!” For a split second, my voice is louder than the music and I feel everyone’s gaze on me.

The girl just shrugs and smiles at me like she did not almost give me a heart attack. After a tense staredown, she leans in and whispers, “I’ve actually heard that quite a lot. Strange. I didn’t know Jesus was a total queen.”

She leans back and offers a hand. “I’m Chizaram. Nice to meet you.”

I offer mine and she grips it in a handshake firmer than she looks.

“Uche.”

“Uchenna, Uchechukwu, Uchendu?”

“Just Uche.”

“Okay, Just Uche. I like your socks.”

What?

I glance down and immediately tense. Purple and red. Purple and red! How did this happen? Do I even have purple socks? Did everyone see this? They must think I’m a clown. Someone snickers somewhere to my right and I glance up. They’re looking this way. They’re laughing at me. She clears her throat and my gaze returns to her.

“It was a mistake.” She looks taken aback by my tone. Even I can hear the bite.

“Oh? I think it’s nice.”

I bark out a laugh and it sounds as bitter as it tastes. “Come off it, Chizaram. You came here to mock me and you’ve done that, so please leave.” Her tall friend must’ve put her up to it. Maybe she saw me ogling her.

She cocks her head and watches me for a second, then signals the barman.

“How far, Jesse? The usual, abeg.” His smile mirrors hers as he gets to work.

She sits there, legs bouncing and fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the counter. She gives off a sort of energy. Not exactly nervous: animated. Like I would feel a buzz if I reached out and touched her arm. I clench my glass.

‘What are you? A pervert?’

Her hair is dreaded, with plastic cowries clipped to the end of each strand. It frames her round face like a halo. Her body is all soft curves, and when she bounces her legs, her skin moves long after she has stopped moving it. She is the colour mocha, but she becomes a canvas of colours when the strobe lights fall on her. She looks like a rainbow in the night sky.

I swallow another mouthful of my drink and clear my throat. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Her head snaps towards me and she blinks thrice, like she is just remembering I exist. “Oh? Oh, it’s alright. Don’t sweat it.”

“No, I mean it. I was unnecessarily rude, and I apologise.”

“Is there ever a time to be necessarily rude?”

She grabs her drinks and gestures towards her feet. “I wore mismatched socks too, so I meant it when I said I liked yours.”

She dances away, her ankara gown swishing against her body and her bright pink and yellow giraffe stockings holding my gaze. When I look up, her tall friend is watching me and my mouth goes dry.

I should leave. I should get up and slink away from this loud place. I will do it so casually, no one notices. I glance at my feet. Maybe I should pull the socks off first, attract less attention. But if I tried, I would look weird.

‘Not like you ever look normal.’

I roll my eyes then focus on my drink. Two gulps left for me to call it a night. A horrible night, but a night away from my room nonetheless. I take a gulp and enjoy the heat seeping into my body from my throat. One more, and I would walk out like a normal person. Two guys leave, looking sure of themselves and uncaring that I am watching them. I don’t know how they do it.

I empty my glass and kiss my teeth, shifting forward in my seat. Anytime now. I take a chance and look around. Someone is celebrating her birthday, her giggles drowning the birthday song her friends are singing to her. I feel a pinprick in my eyes, and suck my teeth to get rid of the pain. I got a wish from Zenith Bank on my birthday. Everyone else is busy just ‘being’ and I know they don’t care about an awkward man sitting alone with an empty glass, but when I look away, back to the glass before me, I feel their stares. Heavy and judgmental.

“Count to five, Uche. One… two… three…” 

I shuffle to the edge of my seat, heart in throat. 

“Four… five…” I move, such that my right leg just touches the floor, and make the mistake of looking back. Her eyes are on me, and her head is cocked in that annoying manner that deceives me into believing she is remotely interested in something about me. Maybe my socks. She does seem strange; moving around so confidently with a shock of cowries and ugly mismatched socks.

I look away and leap out of my seat, but I misjudge the jump and land awkwardly on my left foot. Jesse raises a brow.

I hiss and stalk out the room, ready to go home and bury myself in blankets and regrets. This is why I hate going out. I would remember the barman’s look for hours, I will replay my encounter with Chizaram, obsess over what I could’ve done differently. Maybe worn matching socks for one, or tried to have a decent conversation with the one person who actually tried to talk to me. Why did I snap at her? Why do I do this to people? To myself?

“You look really stiff.” I don’t jump because I expected her.

“Paint me surprised.” My wry tone belies the thumping of my heart. She is swaying where she stands, watching me from under her ring of cowries. We stand a few feet from the wide doors, close enough to be bathed in the lights and the music, far enough to not need to shout above them. Or just close enough to each other—this one does not know about personal space.

 “Why are you talking to me?”

She shrugs. “Because I want you to loosen up. Let’s go dance.”

“You want to help me?”

“I can’t even help myself.” I give her a slow once-over. No lies detected. “You look sad.”

Now, it is my turn to shrug. “I guess that’s because I am a sad man.”

She mirrors my stance for a few seconds, then shudders, like standing still is an unnatural concept. The shudder becomes a slight tremor, until she is just vibrating. Like earlier when she sat next to me, but more urgent. Her eyes leave me and find the welcoming bar, glinting at the sound of the bass.

“Let’s dance.”

“I don’t dance,” I reply, but even as I say it, I know she would ask again.

“Okay.” We stare at each other for minutes, I at her increasingly animated body that reminds me of the me of last year, she at my stoic façade.

“It’s Uchechukwu.”

Her face lights up in the prettiest smile I have ever seen as her eyes find mine. “Your name is beautiful.” She sucks in a breath, then, “Hey, we should dance”.

I let out a loud laugh because, of course. Of course, the only person who would want to talk to me is someone just as weird. Someone whose brain is a mesh of mismatched wires. When I was a teenager, I read about people like her and worried myself to death imagining what it would be like to have a child on the continuum. 

I let out a laugh because she is shaking from the effort to deny an impulse, exactly like when I went cold turkey, but different, because you can’t exactly go cold turkey on your mind. Somehow, I am fine with this. With her—animated.

“What will happen if we don’t dance now?”

She scrunches her face. “Nothing. I just want to dance.”

And though I don’t believe her, I know she believes herself. I know if I were to tell her about my problems, and how dancing won’t solve them, won’t magically make me better, she would nod and agree, and ask if skydiving would help.

I know the science behind why she acts the way she acts, or at least I think I do, and the science behind why I stay up at night crippled by my thoughts.

But as she stares expectantly at me, somewhere within her midnight eyes, I see a rainbow and I let myself believe in magic. Just for tonight. I let her pull me into the hall, then watch as her body swallows the lights and returns them brighter, more daring. I watch her body make magic, and I abandon my limbs to the music in hopes I might make magic too. One yellow sock, one pink sock. One purple sock, one red sock. Somehow, I know after tonight, the strangest combinations would always remind me of magic. Of this woman in mismatched socks, her body a canvas for a lone rainbow on a dark night.

Writer

Sophia Obianamma Ofuokwu writes stories about people with skin like hers and who sound like her. She leans into the horror and family genres and has a soft spot for sad stories. She dissects the human condition in her stories and does not shy away from controversial topics. 

Sophia has a deep-seated interest in people and nature—products of the beauty that is the cosmos and hopes to retain her wild imaginings and appreciation for life for as long as she lives. She likes to think she has a good sense of humour, albeit a dark one, and a presence that can light up the room, but that could as well be her version of staring into the river and admiring her features.

When she’s not writing blog posts on her website, soowrites.com, Sophia can be found reading, watching YouTubes, or posing as a midwife.