One has a responsibility to clean up one's space and make it

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the dusty blinds of a small apartment, painting slanted lines of gold across stacks of books, papers, and half-finished cups of coffee. The room was alive with disorder—a kind of chaos that carried the smell of ink, memory, and fatigue. Outside, the city hummed, a distant orchestra of traffic, voices, and rainfall threatening to begin.

Jack stood by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the street below, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. Jeeny knelt on the floor, picking up books, folding papers, her movements calm but intentional, as though each act of order was a form of prayer.

The quote, written on a scrap of paper, lay between them on the table, beside a cold cup of tea:

“One has a responsibility to clean up one's space and make it livable as far as one's own resources go. That includes not only material resources, but psychological resources...” — Wole Soyinka

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “It’s easy for a man like Soyinka to say that. ‘Clean up your space,’ he says—as if life were a desk you could just tidy up. But what if your mess isn’t physical? What if it’s the kind that lives in your head, like a storm that won’t end?”

Jeeny: (without looking up) “That’s exactly the kind he meant, Jack. The psychological one. The clutter you feed every day by saying it can’t be cleaned.”

Jack: “So what, you light a candle, say a mantra, and suddenly your soul’s spotless? You can’t wipe away grief or file down regret like old receipts.”

Host: The rain began to fall, softly, tapping the glass like gentle fingers. Jeeny paused, her hands resting on a pile of notebooks, her eyes turning toward Jack. There was tiredness in her gaze, but also tender defiance.

Jeeny: “You always think it’s about being spotless, don’t you? It’s not. It’s about being livable. Cleaning your space isn’t about erasing the pain—it’s about making room for it to breathe, without choking you.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “That sounds poetic, but it’s just wishful thinking. Some people’s minds are ruins, Jeeny. You can’t just move furniture around in the wreckage and call it home.”

Jeeny: (stands, facing him now) “And yet we do. Every day. We sweep, we fold, we organize, not because we believe the chaos will go away—but because we refuse to let it own us. That’s the difference.”

Host: A silence stretched between them. The sound of rain grew stronger, washing the windows, blurring the city lights into liquid gold. Jack turned from the window, his expression hard, but his eyes weary—as if her words had brushed against something fragile in him.

Jack: “You think I don’t try? I’ve been cleaning my head for years, Jeeny. Throwing out memories, burning what hurts, burying what won’t go away. But every time I think it’s done, it all comes back—like the dust that always settles again.”

Jeeny: “Because you’re trying to erase instead of arrange. You can’t scrub out the past, Jack—you have to give it a shelf. Let it sit, but not spill. The responsibility isn’t to be clean—it’s to be conscious.”

Jack: (coldly) “You make it sound so easy. As if awareness is a broom.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that works.”

Host: The light flickered as a bus passed, its headlamps cutting through the rain. The room shifted with it—the shadows long, the air thick with thought. Jack put out his cigarette, the smoke curling upward like a ghost refusing to leave.

He walked to the table, picked up the paper with Soyinka’s words, and read it aloud, slower this time, as if each word were a weight he had to carry.

Jack: “‘One has a responsibility… to make it livable… as far as one’s own resources go.’” (He lowers the paper.) “That’s the part that gets me. As far as one’s own resources go. What if they’re gone? What if the tank’s empty, and all that’s left is the will to survive the next hour?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s still a resource. The will is the broom, Jack. The smallest effort counts. Even a thought like ‘I’ll try again tomorrow’—that’s part of the cleaning.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re trying to rescue everyone.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “No. Just remind them they can rescue themselves.”

Host: The rain grew gentle again, a whispering rhythm on the roof. The clock on the wall ticked, steady and indifferent. Jeeny moved to the bookshelf, straightening a few volumes, dusting their spines with the edge of her sleeve.

Jack watched her, his brows furrowed, as if seeing her for the first time—not as a dreamer, but as someone who had made peace with imperfection.

Jack: “So you think it’s all about discipline—just showing up, even when you don’t want to?”

Jeeny: “It’s about devotion. The commitment of time and a portion of your mind, even when your heart resists. That’s what Soyinka meant. It’s not about liking it—it’s about doing it. Responsibility isn’t feeling—it’s action.”

Jack: “But where does it end? When do you know your space—your soul—is finally clean?”

Jeeny: “Never. Because it’s alive. It’s a garden, not a museum. You don’t polish it—you tend it.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips—the kind that carries both hope and weariness. The smell of rain-soaked air drifted through the open window, cooling the room. Jack sank into the chair, running his hand through his hair, his voice softer now.

Jack: “You make it sound… sacred. Like cleaning your life is a spiritual ritual.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every sweep, every small choice to put something right—even inside your head—is an offering. It’s how you tell the world, ‘I’m still here. I’m still trying to make this place livable.’”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, we drown in what we ignore.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sound of dripping water echoed from the balcony, like the last beats of a retreating heart. The room, now quiet, felt newer somehow—not clean, but breathing.

Jack looked around, his eyes tracing the mess, the books, the unmade bed—and for the first time, he didn’t see failure. He saw life, unfolding, unfinished, and still his.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about perfection, but presence.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. To clean is to acknowledge that you care—that this space, this mind, this moment, is worth saving.”

Jack: “Even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The light dimmed to amber, the clouds parting to reveal a thin strip of sunset. It spilled through the window, warming their faces, turning the dust in the air into golden motes that danced like tiny spirits.

The room was still the same—cluttered, imperfect, but somehow alive again.

Host: And in that quiet, beneath the fading light, they both understood what Soyinka had meant—that responsibility isn’t about cleaning up to please the world, but to make space for it—to build livability not from perfection, but from participation.

And as the last rays of sunlight touched their faces, Jack reached for the broom, smiling faintly.

For the first time, it wasn’t a chore. It was an act of grace.