Remember when you told her “You will keep this love story for a long time if we’re to do this. “She stored your love story in a tightly lidded purple jar placed carefully in her bedside cupboard. She sometimes opens the jar and peers into it in search of the glittering of your eyes – eyes that mirror the lighting of a thousand fireflies. Most times she hears the whispering of your voice and is reminded of its deep texture – like the rumbling and thundering of the sky before a heavy rainfall. On such moments she hungers for your laughter and soft but firm soothing words of comfort, and its earthy and mellow feel as you sing to her.
Today though, she doesn’t peep into the jar. She sits in a cab heading for the mall, her therapist had told her it was the right thing to do. Heart racing like a thief who just had a near-death experience at the hands of furious market women, she nervously pulls at the fringe of her kimono.
“ I’m happy the sun decided to grace us with its warm face today,” The driver says.
“mhmm,” she replies.
The smell of the car reminds her of you. Of that one time she met with you and your cousin at Mama Chop Life’s bar.
You had insisted she try out the sauced snails which at first she hated but later came to love. While leaving the bar, she had gotten a whiff of your scent and told you, you smelled like fresh rainfall beating the dusty ground after a humid day. You made her dance with you to ‘Lojay’s Monalisa’. The bar’s neon lights cast your shadow over her, like a protective shield, the men in the bar throwing angry glances at you, but your heart swelled with pride, and she felt like the most important lady in the world.
“See how that man is flirting with that lady.”
The driver draws her attention to a couple standing at the entrance of the mall. She says nothing to his persistent friendliness, all she wants is to get to her destination.
You had flirted with her the first day you both met. She thought you were the sort of guy into Internet fraud, who for unknown reasons loved putting on tasteless coloured socks, palm slippers and knickers with oversized polo shirts. But you weren’t dressed like that, instead of dreadlocks, your hair was woven into all-back cornrows, and rather than shorts, you were putting on Jean trousers that weren’t ripped and a white polo shirt with black sandals. You were heavily drunk but still kept on downing cans of black bullets. You mistook her for a tall Urhobo girl, but on closer look decided she was too light-skinned to be Urhobo, she had to be an Igbo girl from Anambra State you concluded. You caught her attention when you told her she was meant to be your wife.
“ Haven’t you heard that the bar isn’t the right place to find a lover?” She asked.
You replied to her, “I believe the saying is, the club isn’t the right place to find a lover. But who cares, I never called you, my lover. I called you, my wife.”
She was amused by your boldness, a boldness she accredited to alcohol. When you demanded her phone number, she gave it to you.”
“Aunty as you fine like mami water so, you sure say I nur go carry umbrella escort you enter the mall?” The driver asks.
Your cousin Emeka had told her the same thing the evening you told her to come to the bar at the Continental Hotel. You both waited for her for two hours. But the moment you saw her, whatever agitation and anger you felt melted away. Emeka could not stop staring at her.
“You be mami water?” He asked.
She blushed and smiled at him.
Remember when you told her,” I want to marry you, I want legal rights to call you, my woman.” Her heart did a series of Zanku dance steps that her feet could never attempt. Despite being worlds and continents apart, she felt close to you. You both made your vows that same day.
It was a normal afternoon for her, she had closed from her work at the advertising agency she worked, aboard a cab on her way home, you video-called her on WhatsApp, while she told you about her day – a co-worker who kept trying to take her on a date, her bosses’ rude behaviour, her envious cubicle partner poke-nosing on what her skin care products and routine entailed and the heavy workload. She talked like a little child on her way back from school unravelling the day’s experience to her parents. When she got home, you told her to exchange vows with you.
“Stop being silly. How can we exchange vows over the phone?” She asked.
“Why not?” You answered.
“So, who’s the officiating minister?
“ Who said we needed one? The Big guy upstairs is enough.”
“Wait! Are you serious? Why are you doing this?” The scepticism in her voice reverberated back to your ears.
“Damn! Woman, you ask too many questions. I’m sinking into depths of emotions for you.”
She exchanged the vows with you, while her heart’s rhythm followed the pattern of yours.
The driver drops her at the second entrance of the mall, and she hurriedly alights.
“Do not forget to rate me a five star on the app,” he calls after her.
She replies with a waving of her hand without looking back.
She heads to the food court where you both had your first real date.
She was meant to travel back to Abuja but cancelled her trip to see you. On your way to the mall, you both played a game of calling each other food names. She got to the mall first and waited for you at the entrance to the door leading to the cinema. You tiptoed behind her and picked her up from the floor. The attention of everyone in the mall was on you both, but you couldn’t care less. She blushed a deep red something you were surprised a Nigerian girl could do. She poked you to drop her down, but you were not fazed, you were enjoying watching her squirm.
Watching the seat where you both sat, she sees a couple laughing and holding hands, the same photographer who had captured that short moment with you, shows the couple a copy of their captured moment.
You had both ordered M&M alongside strawberry and vanilla-flavoured ice cream. She kept playing with her ice cream, so you took a scoop from your bowl and shoved it in her mouth. At that moment, you both looked up to the clicking sound of a camera. The photographer complimented you and showed you the pictures he took of both of you. She declined the pictures, while you asked the photographer to print the copies you needed.
She takes a seat behind the couple and orders the same ice cream flavour you both had. She takes her phone from her purse and tries to call you but you still do not pick up. She watches as the couple kiss; the lump that has threatened to tear open her chest all these months rears its head again fiercer than before.
Almost choking on her emotions, she wishes she had the purple jar with your love in it, it’s all she’s ever wanted.
—
Read – Anonymous Angels – A Short Story by Ali Akawu, Nigeria
Tracy Egbele is a passionate reader, movie buff, and lover of art. She finds joy in consuming books, which she views as portals to exploring various worlds. She is a graduate of Theatre Arts from the University of Benin, Nigeria. Some of her works are published in Oriire, and she has other articles soon to be published in other magazines and websites.
Sometimes all we are left with are memories of those we love or loved. They hold a special place in the crevices of our hearts that nobody can ever touch unless you allow them to!
While reading this story, I remembered how our baby grew wings and this is exactly how we feel till today. Its not easy to embrace but once you do, you hold on tight and cherish every moment you had wiht them.
I love the line where the writer said ‘you can not find a lover in a bar. But who cares! I never called you my lover, I called you my wife.’🥰