OYAH!

The day I met you was evil, the harsh rain and the cloud filled with thunder storms that screamed havoc, and there you were under the rain; staring at pieces of paper scattered under your gaze, I should have known you were trouble, all that staring under this evil rain that everyone ran from.

I often wonder what was written on those papers.

’what was so special about those papers’?

‘What made you embrace the sting of the rain’?

‘Did you hope to share this paper with your neighbors’? And yet there I stood with you staring at the papers watching as they melt into the waters.

You never talked about the papers or what was written on them, I did ask a couple of times because I thought the way we met was unique; under the rain. We didn’t sing to each other that day but it was unique. You never answered, you did stare at me, smile and say

“let the papers rest”

I itched to tell you that God has not forgiven Satan for disobeying him or that Mallam Musa, your nosy neighbor still goes around town screaming that his children look nothing like him even though he was never married; but you were a man that only opened your mouth twice a day and I didn’t want your last speech to me on that lovely evening to be ‘let the papers rest’.

The day I met your mother was nerve wracking, with my palms sweating and my forehead beaming with sweat, I searched for an ’I like this girl you brought home’ outfit, as I stared at the heap of crop tops on the floor, I wondered why I had so much. That evening, your mother laughed, ate and spoke loudly but she never looked at me even when you introduced me as a ‘friend’. She stared at you and returned to talking about her ’ Umuada’ and how all the women in her previous meetings were useless. As we drove home in your Nissan Navara with Nelly Uchendu’s Love Nwantiti playing on the stereo, I stared at you, watching you drive smoothly till you asked what my problem was. I had no problems, it was you who only spoke twice a day that had problems.

“your mother hates me, she didn’t even look at me ” I said, you sighed, you told me your mother would eventually get used to me. She didn’t.

Your mother called on a Sunday evening while you were out watching a football match, as I answered, the silence that followed was deafening and terrifying; I greeted your mother, she sighed loudly and asked if you were home. When I said no and tried to tell her where you were, she hung up.

I itched to tell you what had happened while you were away but your swollen eyes, heavy breathing and low shoulders made me quiet, your were angry and hearing your mother’s name from my mouth was going to be the perfect reason to release all that pent up energy.

That night, you screamed and grunted as you laid on top of me, crushing my breast with each thrust; whatsoever had happened at that viewing center was fully expressed on my body, it were as if my body was your canvas, you the artist drawing feverishly and with each stroke painful. I didn’t scream or grunt with you, still I laid like a dead fish till you came to a halt.

The day you disappeared was terrific, I had bought your favorite meal ’Ukwa and smoked fish’ from your favorite spot, I had asked the old lady who was charred from all that smoke used to create the delicious smoked fish you loved to add an extra fish; I could feel the burning eyes of the short man standing besides me as I selected all the best pieces of smoked fish. If only he knew about the beautiful thing I was sharing my life with me. As I walked briskly to your apartment, my heart flipped over and over, I thought of the best way to tell you about this beautiful thing sharing my life with me; maybe I would tell you as you were eating or in the middle of intercourse or as we showered.

I knocked repeatedly at your wooden door, I called your phone until a lady with a shrill voice told me your number was switched off. I looked towards your neighbor’s door, that neighbor you hated because you firmly believe he wants to sleep with you; as I walked towards the door, I feared you would see me and that you would stare at me till I melt away in shame for talking to this man you hate so much, but I knocked because you weren’t opening your door. When I asked about you, your neighbor said you moved out yesterday.

I can’t count the number of times, I have knocked at your door, you have a new roommate now; you have always said you wanted a roommate because the rent was too much, this new roommate brings men over all the time, each time I visit, a different man opens your door.

The woman with the shrill voice still tells me your number is switched off, today she said it’s not in existence. How am I going to tell you about this big news that breath and grow with each oxygen I inhale?

I wonder if you are like those papers under the rain the day I met you.

* Umuada- of Igbo people across the Eastern part of Nigeria, Umu loosely translates to people and ada which means the first daughter, it is an association of indigenous women who are influential and powerful.

Ukwa- African breadfruit.