About that night
Everytime it rains, I think about you. I think about that night I met you on my way to night class at the University of Enugu, Nsukka, main campus. You were holding an umbrella and I was soaked, clenching my books like a mother hen covers her chicks, trying to make them not get wet as I hurried along. I hadn't known it was going to rain, and even if I had known, there was nothing I could have done about it. I didn't have the money. Not many students have enough money to feed themselves and buy handouts.
You asked me to join you as you were also going for night class and that's what saved my books. As always, I was more worried about my books which cost a lot, than about catching a cold or dying from hyperglycemia. All those foreign sicknesses were for people who had money, not those of us who drink garri every day because we need to cut down the number of times we ate real food. Everything was about managing yourself and not being a burden on your parents back home who had other children to worry about. When it's only you, you know how to face the world with an empty stomach.
"Hey, good evening. Don’t you think it’s too late to be walking around? Especially as a lone lady?" you said in greeting. I shrugged and thanked you for saving me from the rain. My mother always told me to not engage with strangers I meet on the road at night because they might be spirits. But that night, I didn’t mind walking with a spirit as long as my books were kept dry.
Noticing that I didn’t plan on saying anything, you kept quiet and we walked to the class in silence. Somehow we ended up sitting together and reading all through the night. When it was morning and still raining, you said we could walk together and you didn’t turn back until I was safely inside my hostel. You didn’t mind the fact that I didn’t utter a word all through the night and that you didn’t know my name. The only time I spoke again was when I was about to enter my hostel: "Daalu."
Daalu. Thank you.
Some people say the start of every great story is remarkable. I concur with them, because that night was the start of our story, and it's been twelve years since we first met. Still, that night is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. I remember the clothes you were putting on: a black hoodie and sweatpants. I remember everything; the way you held the umbrella such that your head was hitting the top because I was shorter than you and you wanted the rain to not touch me. The way you said ndo each time the wind blew the rain in our direction. And most especially, the way you didn't seem to mind the fact that you were partly under the umbrella and you were getting soaked.
Not many things strike me as magic as the first time our lips touched and I heard my chi say 'bless you, Chisom. Bless you.' Every time I tell people what I heard, they say I'm exaggerating. They say I'm lying. How did our love get so pure and beautiful that our guardian angels gave their blessings the first time our body joined each other to become one? I wouldn't know. I tell myself not to wonder about it because you wouldn't have wanted me to, so all I do is try to pick all the pieces of us scattered in my memory and glue them together, hoping that one day they'll make a big picture so I can show everyone I come across.
I bless the day we met; bless the day we kissed; blessed the day our body merged to become one; bless the way our love burned bright and smothered the depression we both suffered from before knowing each other.
Remember when I used to tell you that my therapist said to manage my depression I needed drugs? And I didn't have money to afford drugs until I met you and somehow I could cope without drugs? It's been five years since we last saw each other and I'm still coping without drugs. Because I've got you. Because you're always in my dreams and every night when I visit your grave I hear you calling me by the special name only you called me. I hear you, nna.
Ifunanya m. The special one.
I hear you.
People say I should miss you and tear my clothes because of grief, but I don't think so. How do I tell them you're not gone? That you're still here? That every night we still make love while I narrate to you the events of my day? How do I even begin to explain to myself that although it's been five years since we last saw each other, I still see you every night in my room? Am I crazy? Am I seeing things? I don't know, but I don't mind, nna anyi. As long as what I'm seeing is you, I don't mind.
You know, it’s raining now and there’s light and all I’m thinking about is you. About that night. About us. About everything. And, about the accident that took you away.
