Dear Abdullah,
How quickly time has passed! Days have morphed into weeks, weeks into months, and now years since the last time our bodies gnarled into a knot. Isn’t life surprisingly fleeting? Mama would say that a hundred years have seemingly become the new decade. She often wondered how swiftly every 24 hours elapsed and a new day sprouted. Papa would remind her that time is money each time she complained about the clock running too fast. “Ubochi na-agba zi oso.” The day goes by fast, she would mumble to herself, her brows furrowed with bewilderment. I bet you would have argued that the clock isn’t human or robotic enough to change its velocity as it deemed fit, and that it was only her mind tricking her. Haven’t you always loved being practical?
I recall how you would laugh whenever I told you to stop whistling at night, warning you that it would summon the spirits of the dead. You refused to avoid mirrors in the dark, despite the frightening childhood stories I shared with you. “These things aren’t real,” you would say with a scoff. But the superstitious African teenager in me would argue that such incidents had happened to my mother’s cousin’s daughter’s friend and to one of my neighbour’s grandmothers, who was allegedly transfixed by ndị mmụọ (spirits) in the early hours of an Eke market day, as the rumours went.
Time, the elusive thief, has stolen these moments from us, leaving only echoes of our entwined memories. The events of our past, which ran deeper than chance, are now vague, and our bond is deeply buried in its history. Our families were divided by the cracked walls of our homes, the thick accents of languages, and the differences in cultures. Yet, we transcended these boundaries. We covered ourselves in mud as we built sandcastles in the rain. We chased reptiles and plucked fruits from tall trees. We were young, free, and strong. Who were we not to be? We didn’t care about what the world needed. We cared about what made us come alive. Because actually, what our world needed was us.
So, we swam in the depths of Isale Eko’s waters, our laughter echoing off the ancient walls as we splashed like children of Mami waters. We danced to the beats of Oloye’s djembe, our feet stomping out the rhythm on the dusty earth, like Egunguns displaying madness in the flickering torchlight. In the evening, we held hands as we walked to Awolowo Field for Tahfeez Ul Quran, the setting sun casting a golden glow over our entwined fingers. Mama would always warn me to stay away from you, her voice laced with a mixture of fear and sadness. Papa would punish me if he learned I went with you to the Mosque, his stern face a mask for the worries he harboured. But who was I to resist the pull of our love? What agony could compare when love prevailed, when every moment with you was a sweet rebellion against the world’s expectations?
As I sit here by the bank of Isale Eko, again, your words resound through my soul, like whispers of a forgotten melody, echoing with a haunting harmony of passion and longing. In the silence, I hear the cadence of our laughter, the sweet serenade of our dreams, and the gentle rustle of our hearts beating as one. Though time and circumstance have conspired to erase the footprints of our past, your letters remain, a testament to the beauty and brutality of our love. In their creased pages, I find solace, a reminder that our connection was real, that our hearts once beat in tandem, and that the memories we created still linger, like the scent of rain on dry earth. And so, I hold on to these fragments of our history, these tangible threads of our twisted souls, and cherish them, even as the world around me whispers that it’s time to let go.
How do I do this? Tell you that I’m aware of what you think is unknown to me. My vocabulary is failing me, and my guts, which you used to love, has abandoned me. I hear you’ve become a father now — aren’t you? Your sister mentioned that your child bears a striking resemblance to you. Are his eyes as large as yours? Do they hold the same allure? Do they sparkle with the same mischief, the same kindness, the same love? Or are they like his mother’s?
Often, I fantasize about your new family — you, your wife, and child — and then I envision a surreal world where it’s just you and me, under the shelter of the sky, wrapped in the warmth of silent nights. Often, I wipe away tears at the realization of our reality: a tragic distance between two forlorn souls.
Last night, I dreamt about you — not as you are now, but as I remember you. Youthful, grinning, shirtless, and full of life. We were making noodles, but not in mama’s kitchen. It was in the kitchen of the apartment I currently share with my spouse. You said you wanted noodles free of veggies; just plain and bare without interior decorations. I hissed and insisted that I wanted noodles full of veggies; nutritious, and of course, decorative. I said ‘decorative’ with a finger quote. You laughed, your eyes narrowing into a squint with tiny folds of skin etched beside them. I watched as your abdominal muscles tightened and loosened with each variation of your laughter. After much back-and-forth accompanied by bubbly giggles, we proceeded to play tụ̀ mbọ̄ tụ̀ mbọ̄ to decide whose recipe would prevail. I cheated, and we ended up using my recipe.
Even in dreams, you still couldn’t chop onions into tiny, straight slices. I teased you about making gigantic cuts of giant rings. ‘Your wedding ring’, you retorted, and I punched you on the chest. You laughed, saying my fist felt like a baby’s. But dreams being dreams, we were no longer in the kitchen making noodles. We were on the street — the one where I used to live, where roosters crowed in the evening and goats baa’d in the backyard under the trees where we often made out in the dark. In this dream, it was dark, and you went down on me, your tongue full and fleshy, your hands skillful and expressive. For moments that stretched on, our hearts throbbed, bodies grinding against each other, waists spiralling, chests heaving, breaths and gasps and moans intensifying until climax arrived.
This wistful dream of you and me is a lingering lustre of bygone radiance, a bittersweet reminder of life’s forgotten flavours. It transports me to a quaint era, when our love was the sole sanctuary, the only solace we required — until the fragile strands of fate unravelled.
In those days, our mothers were concerned by their suspicions, as were our fathers. Our uncles rolled their eyes, our aunts whispered. Our siblings, both younger and older, were all in their marital homes, having babies and making our parents proud grandmothers and grandfathers. But there we were, smitten with each other’s charm, blossoming in the fervour of a furtive love.
We were growing into eligible adults, and with that, came the weight of expectations. We were no longer kids, and age was catching up with us, they would complain. “Don’t you know time waits for nobody?” Your father had asked. The pressure intensified with every wedding invitation card that reached our homes, every new baby’s arrival, and each new year’s celebration. In the heat of it all, you had promised me, Abdullah, under the heavens and earth, and on your great-grandmother’s grave, and in the name of Allah, never to let go of us until death do us part.
It wasn’t until you broke the news to me that I realized you were, after all, human — not some perfect god on whose pedestal I had placed you. You taught me, in a harsh language, that you were capable of betrayal, of hurting, and shattering hearts when you showed me her picture with shaky, clammy hands.
She’s the one your Chi has designed for you, but she can never be anything like me, you said. You assured me incessantly you didn’t love her, and I wondered what that was supposed to do. Fix the heart you broke into pieces? It didn’t matter whether you loved her or not. It didn’t matter whether the marriage was a sham or not. You left, throwing a decade of us to the wind, that was all that mattered.
Five years have passed since our hearts diverged, yet my inner turmoil persists, a relentless tug-of-war between love and resentment, acceptance and refusal. This ambivalence grips me like a tempest, leaving me torn and frayed. In the wake of your departure, a shadowy figure emerged, a soulmate more possessive than a brother’s bond. His grasp envelops me, a chilling embrace that surpasses your warmth. Morning light reveals his constant presence, lying beside me, exposed and unyielding. As day unfolds, he lingers, a haunting companion to my every step. Night’s darkness brings his tender care, lulling me to tears with a gentle touch. Initially, I did not call him by his name, for his name was a mystery. But therapy’s lens revealed his true form: Depression, the spectre you left in your stead, a constant reminder of love’s abandonment.
When they beheld the shadows shrouding me, my family wove a union to reclaim my destiny. A gentle soul, untainted by the world’s haste, was brought from the village to be my solace. They deemed her the balm for my troubled heart, the antidote to my deepest pain. She would bear me children, and their laughter would revive my withered spirit. Yet, I protested, for I knew the turmoil within me, the abyss of emotions I couldn’t entrust to innocent hearts. But they would not hear me. They saw me as a canvas of flaws, and believed only a woman’s love could restore the beauty they once knew.
Onome is her name, this woman who is to fix me. Her kindness flows like a river, nourishing all but her own parched soul. With dawn’s early light, she rises to prepare my breakfast, her gentle movements a soothing start to the day. She does my laundry, and tends to my every need. As night’s veil descends, she does not hesitate to whisper prayers for me, asking God to make me happy, and to make me touch her. Eight months have passed, yet I remain frozen, unable to reach for her. I want to, but I don’t know how to. I’ve tried watching straight porn to learn a thing or two, but they don’t excite me, not in any way. I tell her I don’t want to rush things, that I want us to take our time, because sex isn’t something to be rushed. She seems to accept this, or maybe not.
I often torment myself over the inadequacy of my feelings for her, because someone as kind as her deserves to be loved. I compel my heart to feel an overwhelming love for her, to love her in all the different ways love is demonstrated to a partner. But ultimately, the culmination of my feelings for her is saddening pity. A glut of infinite remorse. Compunction prickles me each time I lie to her, each time I feign affection to manipulate her emotions. I genuinely care for her. But not in the way she desires. Not how she wants me to. Not how she deserves.
A few weeks ago, Mama called, enquiring as to my whereabouts. Onome had apparently told her about my sporadic presence at home. She repeatedly asked if things were fine between Onome and me, and why I stayed out so late. I wanted to say that work was safer than home, that its demands didn’t signal Onome’s longing for intimacy. But instead, I lied. Traffic. As usual, she brought up my marital obligations. “Time is running out; it’s almost been a year,” she said. Before I could hang up, she asked about you, and my heart began to race, my phone trembling in my hand. “It’s been a while since I heard from him. Is he fine?” Yes, he’s fine, we spoke recently, I lied. I didn’t mention the digital paths I blocked to hide from you, the accounts I erased like sandcastles in the tide, the numbers I changed to escape your persistent calls, or the letters left unanswered like autumn leaves on a forgotten path. And with a final breath, I lied again, “He sends his regards,” before ending the call.
That night, after the call, I did not intend to do it. But my heart raced like a wild animal, and my ribs felt like they were being wrenched apart. I tried to tame the frenzy, to calm the stormy pulse, but it defiled my will. My body’s betrayal ignited a fire of anger — that even in your absence, your name still held sway over me. I slid open the drawer, and my hands trembled as I retrieved the last tangible memory of us. The photograph from my convocation day stared back at me. You were embracing me from behind, your brawny arms wrapped around me, our faces radiant with joy. We weren’t looking at the camera, but into each other’s eyes, revelling in their assurance. As I gazed at the picture, fury and hurt swirled inside me. I couldn’t take it anymore, the pain that gnawed at my heart. So, I reached for a lighter and set the photograph ablaze. The flames consumed us, erasing the smile, the embrace, and the joy. As I watched the ashes fall, I felt a sense of liberation, but also a deep sorrow, knowing that a part of me has been forever lost.
Tomorrow, I will be attending your funeral. Your sister, Aminah, informed me about the tragic event when we coincidentally met at Lagos University Teaching Hospital a few weeks ago. Her eyes, red from crying, revealed a depth of grief as she shared the devastating news. She told me that your body was found on the banks of the Isale Eko river — this same river where we once plunged into the abyss of waters and emerged back to the surface, where we befriended the fishermen and rode alongside them in their canoes, and where our love was consecrated and blessed by Oshun herself, the revered Orisha of fresh waters. This particular river was kind to us; it sheltered our love and protected it from prying eyes. So, how could it take you like a slave?
Aminah assumed that you had taken your own life by drowning, a heartbreaking conclusion that seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulders. I couldn’t reconcile that with the cheerful person I knew — I still can’t. Your cheerfulness and suicide just don’t add up, I said to her. She nodded in agreement.
As we spoke, she revealed that she knew what we were. Her voice cracked as she said, “He missed you…every passing day,” and my heart skipped a beat. The pain in her eyes was palpable as she went on and on about how we were a beacon of hope in the darkness. My legs could no longer support me, and I shivered. She burst into tears.
She wants me to give a eulogy for you. Where do I even begin? I’m still trying to process the news of your passing, and a torrent of emotions is overwhelming me. Is it denial that’s numbing my senses, or anger that’s burning within me? Is it depression that’s shrouding my soul, or grief that’s suffocating me? I’m lost, unable to navigate this raging sea of feelings. But one thing’s certain — this searing pain won’t subside, this gnawing ache at the base of my stomach won’t cease. My chest heaves with every ragged breath, my throat constricts with each strangled sob. Tears stream down my face, soaking the papers in front of me, as I struggle to put into words the anguish that’s tearing me apart. Sobs erupt from my lips, escalating into wails that echo through the emptiness.
At my recent appointment, my therapist urged me to unshackle the emotions I’d been holding captive. ‘Vent, cry, and release all that you’ve bottled up,’ she counselled, her words floating through my mind like a gentle breeze on a summer’s day. And so, I sit here by the bank of Isale Eko — in the presence of Oshun, our patron deity, and surrounded by our longtime fishermen friends — with pen in hand, pouring my heart onto the page, writing this letter to you, even though I know you’ll never read it. It’s a cathartic exercise, a therapeutic release, a desperate attempt to unburden my soul. As I write, tears flow, a deluge of grief, each drop a testament to the pain I’ve been carrying. My hand trembles, my breath catches, and my heart shudders, but still, I write on, unspooling the threads of my sorrow, unravelling the knots of my anguish. In this letter, I find comfort, a haven where I can be vulnerable, confront the core of my despair, and perhaps find a glimmer of healing.
Let this serve as your eulogy, a credo of our journey, and my final tribute to the memory of you.
With love,
Chidubem ❤