It is timely that you and I finally meet here in the city I played football as a lanky boy, grazing my knees on the gravel roads, hoping to become the next Samuel Eto’o. I fondly remember the sweet taste of Mummy Pierre’s delicious koki beans from her corner shop on Church Street.
I once stood naked on these streets, dancing to the rhythms of Makossa, jiggling my small waist and legs to each beat. Cameroon would forever remain the country that keeps giving, gifting me its lights, laughter, food and now, your love.
“Oh, God! It is you.” You say, your hands stroking your arms like you always do when you are scared. It reminds me of your vlog to Seychelles and how scared you were, unsure of how to navigate the waters.
I had lain in my room, holding my phone close to my eyes, wishing I could wrap my hands around you. Two years of long texts and silent calls, hearing you breathe, staring at you through the cold screen of my phone, relying on just words to convey the love in my heart and the ache in my body.
I pictured us here together, our backs against the sands of Musango beach in Limbe, gazing at the stars, your head on my heart, our legs entangled as we breathed together in sync.
I would be free to kiss the tiny moles scattered around your thighs; your tiny imperfections, and kiss away all the pain I see in your eyes. I would be able to save you.
“Mafo, my queen. I am Menkam.” I say, pushing the heavy doors of the hotel room.
“You are Menkam?” You say, your nostrils widening to twice their size. “I thought your name was Henry.”
I must admit that I had lived through this day countless times, dreaming of your reaction to my name to realize it had been me who gifted you an expense paid trip to Cameroon.
I imagine how you might pause just as you used to do and fall into my arms. I would spin you around, and we would declare our love and get married.
I have always been fueled with strong desires to possess you and lay claims to your body. I could already hear the celebrations, the playful banter of haggling over your bride price and the loud celebration as I pick the veiled you from a group of other women – a celebration of our beautiful tradition, a perfect end to our love story.
“Yes Askia, it is me. I promised I would come back to you, my love.”
That moment, I watched you jumping, your hands swinging as you reached for your phone, your face contorted as you screamed, and I could see fear in your eyes; not love.
Now, I am reminded of the brief time I spent locked up because of our love. You still fail to see that my feelings for you are special, sacred.
How often do people meet their soulmates, sharing the same Bamileke heritage in the busy streets of Lagos? It almost never happens. We were blessed, kissed by serendipity.
“Oh God nooooo…” You cry. “Get away from me, please. I am begging you.”
“I still love you,” I say, walking towards you, the rug of the hotel room soft under my feet.
You run towards the door frantically, pulling the handle.
“It is locked, my love. Regardless of your betrayal, I still love you,” I say.
I have buried the pain I felt after hearing your testimony and how I stalked you and broke into your home that had caused me to be locked up for six months in a dark cell.
“This time, things will be different. I promise. You will learn to love me,” I say as I pull the custom ropes I had bought from the convenience store.
Cameroon would be our chance to be happy.
Read – What Happened to the Mind? A Short Story by Ujunwa Onyekachi Paul, Nigeria
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Amara, your story is so beautiful, my darling. The use of words is everything. And mehn, this kind toxic love, ehn. Well done dear.