Someone you love
Static amber glow reflected on the windows on the west side of the room. Orode took a moment to stare at the golden streaks as they lit up the night. The carton of papers she’d come back for laid at her feet. They were the last tangible evidence of a three-year run. She’d held on to them for almost 12 months, with the hope that the tide would, someday, turn and she would not have to do what she was about to. Well, two months ago that hope fizzled out. The news of his changed status caused it.
She half carried, half dragged the carton out of the room, into the hallway, down the stairs and out of the house. Outside the compound, a small fire burned brightly. Two children from the neighbourhood danced around it, using it for whatever game had them chuckling and running at each other. As long as they weren’t too close to its heat and light, it was fine.
The fire seemed slightly bigger than when she’d left it minutes ago. She’d chucked at least seven dozen cards into it. Valentine, Christmas, Easter, and mushy emotional cards Tanorak had given to her in 36 months, his signature scrawny handwriting imprinted on the bottom of all of them — All my love, Tanorak.
For someone who preferred calls to emails, letters or any other written material, his cards came a close second to the countless emails he had sent. Even the most emotional ones had a line or two written by him:
Was thinking of you when I saw this.
Miss you more than you can imagine.
I love you more today than yesterday but certainly not as much as tomorrow.
She couldn’t forget a particularly long paragraph about his favourite musician and a song of his which brought memories of her whenever he listened to it.
And he’d ended their relationship via email.
How uncouth!
How unexpected!
How heartbreaking!
It had been the last thing on her mind when she clicked open his mail last June. A small smile played on her lips as she waited for the words to load; it had been a slow day at the office.
Funny how the breakup line had jumped at her like a spotlight on a darkened stage: I don’t think I can do this long distance anymore…
Via email?
Who did that?
Had he suddenly lost his ability to speak? Forgotten where his phone was located?
Twice daily, they had been talking for almost two years.
Since she moved to Lagos. Since she began her NYSC. And he sent a breakup mail?! No guts to call and tell her? Hide behind the cold, impersonal print. How spineless!
Through rapidly blurring sight, Orode read the damning message twice, the shock taking its time to ebb. Convinced that she hadn’t misinterpreted anything he’d written, she returned to her inbox, logged out and pulled up the page she’d been working on before her break. As she stared sightlessly at it, she delicately blinked away her tears, biting down hard on her lower lip, and praying none of her colleagues in the open-plan office had observed the moment.
Was this her fault?
She remembered her reluctance towards visa applications for both the UK and Canadian Embassies. A year ago, he’d moved to Toronto, requesting a transfer by his office. They had survived Norway and Kazakhstan; the third city had not been the charm.
She remembered the argument that had ensued between them.
She remembered the telephone call after both embassies rejected her applications.
‘You need to appeal,’ he’d stated, his tone dulled with disappointment.
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‘No, no, I’m not going to do that. For what?’ She countered. ‘Don’t they have the right to deny me?’
‘Yes, but you can…’ He stopped short. ‘Don’t you want us to be together?’
‘How can you even ask that?! Of course, I do!’
‘You have a funny way of showing it, Sunshine.’ His tone was dry now.
‘Because I don’t want to appeal their decisions?’
‘Because you’ve been fighting this coming abroad since I brought it up!’ He fairly yelled abruptly.
Because you know what to do, she replied inwardly, but don’t want to do it.
She kept quiet.
He blew out a breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry for losing it, babe. I just think there’s …’
Orode heaved a sigh.
He’d made her introduce him formally to her mom. Even bought the older woman a bejewelled, golden wristwatch.
Everyone in her family knew of him, and he’d become quite comfortable in their midst. It was what he’d wanted — to be accepted. Ditto her uncle’s family in Lagos.
From all indications, their relationship was moving in an obvious direction.
‘I don’t want to ask you over the phone,’ he’d said once during their nightly call.
She’d giggled softly, thrilled that the thought had not only crossed his mind but also the right approach to such an important occasion. ‘I won’t answer you if you do.’
So where was this coming from? This push to join him overseas without performing the required ceremonies? Maybe not all but some of them.
She dropped the carton a few yards away from the fire, scooped a handful of emails, and stepped closer, the blast of heat intensifying.
She began to toss them in small batches, watching the greedy flames consume them before releasing more.
As white turned to ash black, her three-year-old relationship flashed in the finger of the flames.
His visits — four times annually or more — had been the highlights of her year. She hadn’t really cared for his gifts or the places and people they visited together. All she’d wanted was to be with him.
His calls. Until a month to his bombshell mail, they never ran out of things to say to each other. Admittedly, the calls were shorter — she’d be at the office — and less private — she’d be in the sitting room of her uncle’s house. But they made that communication work.
His emails — another twist in their favour. Upon starting her very first corporate role, she’d created a personal mailing address and usually saw his emails minutes after they were sent. They exchanged many paragraphed missives and silly one-liners.
For three years, her love life had followed a pattern; she’d fallen into a routine, had had eyes for no other man, and had anticipated the change when they’d finally be together. No longer separated by a flight or two.
Not once had she thought she’d be torching reminders…
Hot tears stung her eyes, the leftovers she’d restrained months ago. She didn’t try to blink them away. Instead, she stooped, heaved the carton suddenly and tipped its contents into the fire all at once, almost dousing it with the deluge of papers.
One year later, she still ached for him.
Terribly.
