Today, my eyes will no more shed tears for you, not for now.
I stand before your
grave. My heart had stopped beating. I feel a sudden sweep of fatigue, I am not
even sure what day it is. I will visit you more often here, and we will get to
talk more. Even though I won’t hear you respond, but I will still come with different
scented rose bouquets. Your mother says she will be buried by your side
I want to lie down on the grave and close my eyes. I want to vanish with you, wherever you will be. I can feel the breath high and shallow in my chest. I want to cry, but there are no more tears in my eyes.
I remember sitting in the back of the Jeep as the taxi man takes me back to Lagos.
I can’t still believe you’re a ghost. It sounds like something I’d read in a book.
Titilope hugged me and whispered, “We will leave for America, me and the boys. You will visit us when you come too?” She was excited.
I smile and nod. I hug your mother, and wave calmly at your father. He waved back at me. Your father has a strong face, a square jaw, thick bushy eyebrows. He is a big man, tall, not fat, but bulky. His shoulders are broad like yours, his chest wide like yours.
My voice sounds thin, off balance, as I try to read the note in the envelop.
‘OWN A COMPANY, RUN SEVERAL BUSINESSES, JUST LIKE DANGOTE…’ was written boldly with a blue ink.
My heart fell when I saw the amount of money that was written in on a cheque. My life was about to change, and I don’t know what I would tell the world— how I made this money.
The men who will come to me will not make it to my heart anymore. The prophet lied. You were not my husband, you didn’t even exist Dada. You didn’t exist, yet I miss you. You can’t miss someone who doesn’t exist, but I miss you.
It is difficult to explain. Maybe when my heart heals, I will tell you. But soon, when I join you, we will take trips to the mountains, and we will have babies together. Titilope and the boys will not be with us. And if you left a child in my womb, I will keep it. It will remind me of you. Of memories I wouldn’t want to let go. Of a lonely house in the midst of trees in America. Of your couch; of your bed. The child will remind me of everything you made of me.
I will go home to my mother, I won’t tell her one word about you.
I think about how sad you must be, and it makes my heart ache. I close my eyes, and think of you again, and again.
|Chapter 1||Chapter 2||Chapter 3||Chapter 4||Chapter 5||Chapter 6||Chapter 7||Chapter 8||Chapter 9||Chapter 10||Chapter 11||Chapter 12||Chapter 13||Chapter 14||Chapter 15||Chapter 16||Chapter 17||Chapter 18|