LETTER TO STRANGER

The night I wrote to you, I was trying not to cry.

It was 11:47 p.m., and somewhere outside my bedroom window, a generator was making the kind of noise that could drive a patient person mad. A neighbour's television played faintly through the wall. My phone lay beside me, its screen dark, and the only light in my room came from the small lamp on my study table.

I had been staring at a blank page for almost an hour.

I didn't know what I wanted to write. I only knew that if I didn't let the words out, I might spend another night pretending I was fine.

And I was tired of pretending.

My name is Chidera Okafor. I was twenty-two that year, old enough for people to expect me to have my life figured out, but young enough to be told I didn't understand how life worked whenever I complained.

My mother thought I worried too much.

My friends thought I was strong.

And the people who barely knew me thought I was happy.

The truth was that I had become very good at making people comfortable with a version of me that didn't exist.

I could laugh at a joke when my chest felt heavy. I could tell someone, "I'm fine, don't worry," and even make my voice sound convincing. I could listen to other people's problems for hours, offering advice I couldn't follow in my own life.

But when the day ended and everyone went back to their homes, I was left with the one person I could never lie to.

Myself.

That evening had been particularly difficult.

Earlier, my mother had called to ask when I was going to stop disappointing myself.

She hadn't used those exact words, of course. Mothers rarely need to say the cruelest things directly. Sometimes, they simply ask questions that make you feel as though every decision you've made has been a mistake.

"When will you settle down, Chidera?" she'd asked. "Your mates are moving forward. Some are getting married. Some are building their careers. What exactly are you waiting for?"

I had held the phone against my ear and watched a line of ants crawl along the wall.

"I'm trying, Mum."

"Everybody is trying. Trying is not the same as making progress."

I wanted to tell her that I was tired. That I was afraid of becoming someone who looked successful to the world but felt like a stranger to herself. That some mornings, getting out of bed felt like an achievement nobody would ever congratulate me for.

Instead, I said, "I understand."

Because that was what I always said when I didn't know how to explain my pain without sounding ungrateful.

After the call ended, I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time.

Then I opened my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and stopped at a name I couldn't bring myself to call.

There were people who loved me. I knew that.

But there was a difference between being loved and feeling understood, and I had begun to fear that nobody in my life knew how to reach the part of me that needed help.

I didn't want someone to tell me to be strong.

I didn't want advice about patience, prayer, or how things could be worse.

I wanted someone who could listen without turning my feelings into a lesson.

Someone who wouldn't remind me of all the reasons I should be grateful before allowing me to admit that I was hurting.

For once, I wanted to speak without having to defend the way I felt.

That was why I opened my laptop.

I created a blank document and typed three words.

Dear Stranger,

I stared at them.

Then I laughed softly at myself.

Who was I writing to? A person who didn't exist? Someone who might never read a single word? Was I so lonely that I had started writing letters to imaginary people?

Perhaps.

But the strange thing about loneliness is that it doesn't always mean you have nobody around you. Sometimes, it means you have spent so long hiding your real feelings that even the people closest to you have no idea how far away you are.

I placed my fingers on the keyboard.

And I began.

Dear Stranger,

I don't know your name, and I don't know what your face looks like. I don't know whether you're reading this somewhere in Lagos, Abuja, London, or in a small room like mine, wondering how everyone else seems to know what they're doing with their lives.

I don't know if you're happy.

I don't know if someone has ever made you feel like you were too much to love, too difficult to understand, or too ordinary to be chosen.

But if you have ever smiled at someone while wishing they would notice you weren't okay, then perhaps you will understand why I'm writing this.

Today, someone asked me what was wrong with my life.

I wanted to tell them that nothing was wrong with my life in a way they could easily understand. I had a roof over my head. I had food to eat. I had people who cared about me.

And yet, I felt like I was slowly disappearing inside a life I was supposed to be grateful for.

Does that make me a bad person?

I hope not.

I think I'm just tired of being the girl who always says she's fine.

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up feeling better. Maybe one day, I'll understand why some seasons of life feel like standing in a crowded room and still being unable to find a hand to hold.

Until then, I suppose I'll keep writing.

Not because I expect you to answer, but because tonight, I need to believe that somewhere in this world, there is someone who might understand.

Yours,

Chidera.

When I finished, I read the letter twice.

Then I did something I hadn't done in weeks.

I cried.

Not the kind of crying that comes with loud sobs or dramatic declarations. Just quiet tears that slipped down my face while I sat in the same position, afraid that if I moved, I might lose the little peace I'd found.

I wiped my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt and saved the document.

I should have closed my laptop and gone to bed.

Instead, I found myself wondering what it would feel like if someone actually read it.

Not my mother. Not my friends. Not someone who already knew my history and had decided what kind of person I was before I finished speaking.

A stranger.

Someone with no expectations of me.

Someone who could meet me first through my words.

The thought stayed with me long after midnight.

Eventually, I printed the letter. I didn't know why. Perhaps seeing the words on paper made them feel more real, as though I had finally given my feelings a place to exist outside my own head.

I folded the pages and placed them inside an old notebook.

Then I switched off the lamp.

For the first time that night, I felt a little lighter.

I had no idea that by the following afternoon, my private words would no longer belong only to me.

---

The next morning, Lagos woke up the way it always did—with impatience.

Horns blared along the road. Traders called out to passing customers. A woman across the street argued with a bus conductor about her change, while the smell of akara and freshly baked bread drifted through the open window.

I stood in front of my mirror, struggling to decide whether my blouse looked better tucked in or left loose.

My phone vibrated on the dressing table.

A message from my best friend, Amara.

AMARA: Please tell me you're not planning to spend another Saturday indoors.

I smiled.

ME: Good morning to you too.

AMARA: Chidera.

ME: Amara.

AMARA: I'm serious. You're becoming a professional at avoiding life.

I stared at the message longer than necessary.

She wasn't entirely wrong.

ME: I have things to do.

AMARA: Like what?

I glanced at the notebook on my bed.

ME: Things.

Three dots appeared immediately.

AMARA: That's not an answer. Get dressed. We're meeting at the café near the bookshop at twelve.

ME: You didn't ask if I'm free.

AMARA: Because I know you. If I ask, you'll say no. Twelve o'clock. Don't annoy me.

I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

Amara had been my friend long enough to recognise when I was withdrawing from the world. She didn't always understand why I did it, but she never let me disappear completely.

I sent her a simple Fine and put my phone away.

Before leaving, I opened my notebook to check that the letter was still inside.

It was.

I slipped the notebook into my bag, picked up my keys, and locked the door behind me.

I thought it was an ordinary Saturday.

I thought the hardest part of my day would be pretending to Amara that everything was fine.

I was wrong.

---

The café was busier than I expected.

Amara was already seated near the window when I arrived, wearing a blue dress and the satisfied expression of someone who had successfully dragged a reluctant friend out of the house.

"You look tired," she said as I sat down.

"Good afternoon to you too."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Good afternoon."

She rolled her eyes and pushed a menu towards me.

"Order something before I start asking questions."

"You're already asking questions."

"Then order quickly."

I laughed.

For the next twenty minutes, we talked about ordinary things—an argument she'd had with her landlord, a colleague who seemed incapable of minding her own business, and a wedding invitation she'd received from someone she barely remembered.

It felt good to laugh without forcing it.

For a little while, I forgot about the previous night.

Then my phone rang.

It was my mother.

I glanced at the screen and declined the call.

Amara noticed.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes."

She gave me a look.

I sighed. "I'll call her later."

"Chidera, you know you can tell me when something is bothering you, right?"

I looked at her.

"I know."

"Do you?"

I wanted to answer honestly. I wanted to tell her that I sometimes feared being a burden to the people I loved, that I didn't know how to ask for comfort without feeling ashamed of needing it.

But the words stayed where they were.

Instead, I reached for my bag.

"I need to get something from my notebook."

I unzipped it and began searching.

My purse was there. My keys. A packet of tissues. My notebook.

But the folded letter wasn't.

I stopped moving.

I checked the front pocket.

Then the main compartment.

Then the small space between my purse and the notebook.

Nothing.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

"What is it?" Amara asked.

"My letter."

"What letter?"

I looked at her, my heart beginning to race.

"The one I wrote last night. I printed it and put it inside my notebook."

"Maybe it's at home."

"No. I checked before leaving."

I searched again, faster this time, as though the letter might magically appear if I looked hard enough.

It didn't.

I tried to remember the journey from my bedroom to the café. Had I taken it out? Had I dropped it while paying for transport? Had someone picked it up without knowing what it was?

My thoughts crowded together.

It was only a few pages of paper.

But those pages contained things I had never said aloud.

They contained the parts of me I had spent years hiding.

"Chidera," Amara said gently, "it's a letter. Maybe someone will find it and throw it away."

I looked at her.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

She didn't reply.

I couldn't explain why the thought of a stranger reading my letter frightened me so much. It wasn't simply embarrassment. It was the fear of being seen without having any control over what someone saw.

I had written those words for an imaginary person.

I hadn't meant for the real world to find them.

I paid for my drink with trembling fingers and spent the rest of the afternoon pretending I wasn't thinking about the missing pages.

By the time I returned home, I had convinced myself that the letter was gone forever.

I checked the floor near my door. I searched my bedroom. I emptied my bag onto the bed.

Nothing.

Eventually, I sat down and pressed my palms against my eyes.

"Please," I whispered to nobody in particular. "Let whoever finds it leave it alone."

My phone rang.

An unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

Something made me answer.

"Hello?"

For a moment, there was silence.

Then a man's voice came through the phone.

"Good evening. Am I speaking with Chidera Okafor?"

My fingers tightened around the phone.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Adrian."

I didn't know anyone called Adrian.

"How did you get my number?"

Another pause.

"I found something that belongs to you."

My heart began to pound.

"What did you find?"

"I think it's a letter."

I stopped breathing for a moment.

He continued, his voice quieter now.

"I wasn't planning to read it. But your name was on the last page, and I thought I should find a way to return it."

I swallowed.

"Did you read it?"

Silence.

Then he said, "Yes."

My eyes closed.

Of all the people in Lagos, of all the strangers who might have picked up those pages, one had read the words I had written when I thought nobody would ever see them.

I didn't know whether to feel angry or afraid.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked.

"Because there's something I need to tell you."

I stood up.

"What?"

He exhaled slowly.

"Your letter said you wanted someone who would listen without turning your feelings into a lesson."

My throat tightened.

"Yes."

"I think I understand why you wrote that."

I gripped the edge of my table.

"You don't know anything about me."

"You're right," he said. "I don't."

For some reason, that answer unsettled me more than any attempt to pretend otherwise.

Then he added, "But there's one thing you wrote that I can't stop thinking about."

I waited.

His next words came so quietly that I almost missed them.

You wrote that you wanted to believe someone in this world might understand."

He paused.

"I think I've been waiting for someone to write those words for a very long time."

I couldn't speak.

Outside my window, a car horn sounded. Somewhere down the street, a child laughed. The world continued as though nothing had changed.

But something had.

A stranger had read my letter.

And somehow, from the other end of a phone call, he had made me feel both exposed and less alone.

"How do I know you're not just saying what I want to hear?" I whispered.

"You don't," Adrian replied. "Not yet."

There was something honest about that answer. He wasn't promising to save me. He wasn't claiming to understand every part of me after reading a few pages.

He was simply admitting that I didn't know him.

And he didn't know me.

Not yet.

"I can return your letter," he said. "If you'd prefer never to speak to me again, I'll respect that."

I looked at the notebook on my bed.

For the first time since I had lost the letter, I felt something other than fear.

Curiosity.

"Where did you find it?" I asked.

"Outside a bookshop in Victoria Island."

I frowned.

I hadn't been to a bookshop in Victoria Island.

Then I remembered passing one on the way to the café. I'd stopped briefly to check a display in the window.

Perhaps the letter had slipped from my bag there.

"How do you know it's mine?" I asked.

"Your name is on it."

"That doesn't mean you can call me."

"No," he said. "It doesn't. I'm sorry if I've crossed a line."

I didn't expect the apology.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then I asked the question I had been trying not to ask.

"What did you think of it?"

Adrian took a breath.

"I thought the person who wrote it must be very tired."

My eyes burned.

He continued.

"Not lazy. Not weak. Just tired of having to explain why she's hurting before anyone takes her seriously."

I sat down slowly.

Nobody had ever described my feelings that way.

Not my mother. Not my friends. Not even me.

I pressed my lips together, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You don't know me," I repeated.

"I know."

"Then don't act like you do."

"I won't."

Another silence followed.

This time, I didn't rush to fill it.

Finally, Adrian said, "Would you like to meet so I can return your letter?"

Every sensible part of me wanted to say no.

I didn't know this man. I didn't know how he had found my number, what he wanted, or whether I could trust him.

A stranger was still a stranger, no matter how carefully he spoke.

"Could you just leave it somewhere?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Somewhere public."

"That's fine."

"And don't read it again."

"I won't."

I hesitated.

"Tomorrow," I said at last. "At the bookshop where you found it. In the afternoon."

"All right."

"And Adrian?"

"Yes?"

"If you've kept a copy of that letter—"

"I haven't."

"You'd better be telling the truth."

"I am."

I ended the call before he could say anything else.

For several minutes, I sat completely still.

Then I opened my laptop and stared at the blank document where the letter had begun the night before.

I had written to someone who didn't exist.

Now a man I had never met had read my most private thoughts, called me by name, and asked to return the only letter I had ever been brave enough to write.

I should have deleted the document.

I should have blocked the number.

I should have told Amara everything and let her talk me out of meeting him.

Instead, I opened a new page.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then I typed:

Dear Stranger,

I think I may have found you.

And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to know what tomorrow would bring.