The session

‘I keep getting these night mares and a persistent headache,’ you said, letting your eyes roam carelessly. 

‘Hmm… tell me something mister…’ the therapist said clearing his throat.

'No, Dave would do,' you cut in.

‘Ok, Dave. Sorry for that.’ 

‘Yea, Dave,’ you said after him, your gaze straightened at him this time.

He pauses, sips quickly from a ceramic cup of tea, his gaze drifting between the fancy cup and your almost ruffled face—eyebrows like a yard overgrown with tall grasses, dark short lips, spooky and funny looking eyes. He began to smile, revealing tiny, red patches secured between his teeth; they announced themselves briefly. But you refused to smile. Flustered. Maybe my hair is unkempt, you thought. You tried to compose your emotions. 

Hands playing under your sleeves, incoherent thoughts like the chattering of children on the playground, continued to filter in and out of your mind. His eyes were like his—Freddy had big, tender, brown eyes, and his smile was warming; there was something assuring in it the first time you met him at Afghanistan. What would seem to be a simple smile from two people flashed across both ends of the table would birth the dawn of something special.

Both of you chatted over a plate of Japanese sushi. It was your first time taking sushi. You had related it in your letters to your mother, in Nigeria. And many more letters written with excitement. You felt something for him. Something you couldn’t give a profound name to. Maybe you could. Once, you'd felt the same thing for someone else from the past. This thing would try to drive you insane, burn from within like an inferno. This thing would force you to drop by at his shop, to hangout almost every time; both of you laughed about everything, cried when the need arose, and sometimes cuddled. It would force you to wilfully skip some nights at your place, all to be with him. Then this thing would come home with you, try out some of your clothes and shoes and sneak into your bathroom with you. 

Within the volumes of letters delivered home, you didn’t relate this thing to your parents; you were scared they would call you insane, and, probably, mother would refer her pastor to you. They couldn’t understand even if you explained a million times to them. You didn’t want this feeling to end. 

Freddy was not part of the army. He was just a young, Korean man, who worked at a coffee shop, somewhere down town, not too far from the street which you stayed. 

Suddenly you found him in your mind’s eye, roaming about and looking at you with a smirk on his face. 

At the bathroom, you would scrub and scrub as if to get him off your mind. To wash off the memories of that night. But his image, his name is fully engraved in your thoughts. Although unsure, you carried yourself to the coffee shop. Freddy comes over to your table. The brief smile on his face assured you of something, of hope, of a bright future together. You decided not to put on your uniform for many reasons, but more importantly, the wars were burning furiously by the day and dead bodies continued to litter the streets in their numbers—children charred alive, women and men. Buildings and vehicles disfigured by bombs. 

'What do you want here? Don’t you know am busy?' His questions, which almost sounded like whispers, stung like a bee. You wondered if you'd done or said something to annoy him. 

'I came to see you. I was missing you already.'

He dragged you off the chair by the hand, outside to a hidden corner. Then you watch the words just spill off his mouth.

'Listen mister.'

'Its Dave,' the astonishment in your eyes would send a numbness over you. 

‘Look Dave, what we had was nothing. It was just some silly moments together. You of all people should know it’s not possible. We can't be caught together, else you want me dead.'

You didn’t know what to say. You were about to propose to him. It felt normal to you. The first time you felt this kind of thing was for a boy, Musa, from the North. He was with you on camp. He never said much, yet there was always so much bottled within him. He had an almost perfect smile, a warm embrace. Sometimes he was both reticent and garrulous.  

You met at maami market, where he opted to pay for the a bottle of coke and some biscuits you’d bought from the dusty-faced woman who had begun to irritate you with words spewing from her winnowed-mouth. 

The way you continued to ransack your pockets showed evidently that you had no dime to pay for her goods. The goods cost two hundred naira, but your wallet was like a train after all its passengers had highlighted safely to their destinations.

She’d almost began to stare up the crowd, when, suddenly, he arrived the scene to forestall further embarrassment. 

'How much is he’s debt madam?' He inquired, the woman looking stunned. And you're not exempted. 

'Nah only two hundred naira. Two hundred this man no fit pay.'

'It’s alright madam. Here!'

'I’m Musa by the way,' he said extending a hand close to you, firm and soft. 

Then the both of you would become close friends; however, the closeness had begun to raise some dust among the other recruits and the commandant. 

One hot afternoon, while you slouched in bed at the hostel, a boy throwing around dry jokes and the rest of the boys laughing, the commandant called for him. It seemed as if the same air of anxiety which shuffled around him would rush over you too. 

He had returned with sadness saddled on his face, yet he tried to conceal it in a flash of smile. Instantly, you felt something wrong. You could smell it like a putrid carcass. But he didn’t tell. 

The last time you heard from Musa was when he sent a letter, officially inviting you to his wedding to some Aminat. The vigorous military training on camp had come to an end. In the letter, he said he was no longer interested in the army. It came to you as a shock, like a soft blow, which left terrible scars. But you seemed not to be interested in the rest of the contents which the letter bore. You were more interested in the very reason he decided to settle down with her. The reason he chose to give up his dream to become a soldier. Clearly, the letter had failed to state otherwise. Maybe it’d escaped his mind while writing, you’d thought, squinting both eyes as you reach below for the reason(s). Yet it was his decision to keep the reason all to himself. Deep within, you sensed it had something to do with the meeting he had had with the commandant. 

Then the excitements in your letters would begin to drain. You wrote more about scary stuffs—the wars, about death, blood, impoverished children; soon these things would begin to scare you. You waited for replies. But they never came. So you stopped sending letters, only money and a few supplies monthly. You sent letters to Freddy. No replies. Dropped by the shop and his small apartment situated on a dingy street, across yours. He wasn’t there. You were informed by some people that he had moved out completely. 

*

'What do you see when you sleep?' The therapist inquired, squinting both eyes and adjusting the spectacles. 

'Just some scary dead shits. Dead men, women, children. It seemed they were practically all around me man,’ your voice blending in almost like Tupac’.

It had been a year since you'd arrived London. One year, and a lot had happened. 

It was your second appointment with the therapist. You had wanted so much not to go for therapy, but a friend had strongly proposed the idea until it sank within you. 

You’d started to lose your mind; memories of the wars ravaged like a plague. The wars were over for everyone, but for you. The first time you held firmly to the gun, your train of thoughts fluttering disjointedly, people running in fear, bombs flying over heads, only one thing became clear. Survival! It was imperative. Holding the gun in a cocked position, you let the shot fly from the nose against a woman wearing a huge bomb on her body. The bomb was worn over a dark hijab which covered not only her body but her face. You didn’t know what to feel—a sense of victory that you had rescued a whole town from being crushed down by another rebel or sadness that the woman you had killed was someone else's mother. She was probably someone else's wife too. Yet the thought of sadness, which rose like a violent tide, didn’t assail as much as beholding the young boy who sat in a pool of blood beside his dead mother, weeping. 

All the while, he nodded. 

'Tell me something about the war,' he remarked. 

But what does he want to know about the war that he doesn't know already? you thought breezed in. He had forced it out of you the first time you came. You had to wait for hours before his arrival. And when he finally decided to show up, it was already past two, the midday sun rising with gusto, for a meeting scheduled at nine in the morning. 

Why does he keep inquiring the war? Maybe it's all part of his job, you thought again before proceeding. And you would begin to relate everything; you saw yourself repeating the very things you'd said during the first meeting. 

*

Your house felt desolate and the bed room, which seemed to be sitting on its head, smelled of long, old dust. The door to the kitchen was out of place, and the kitchen seemed to be in a dire need of a female touch—dirty plates and cups from three nights ago, a basin heavily ladened in stench. A Giant fungus had started to carve a niche around it. Everything in the house needed a female touch. 

Dusty stacks of news papers laid on a dirty corner. Bottles, wraps, a knife, which laid carelessly on the bare floor, cigarette stumps everywhere. 

Staring at the huge mirror on the wall of the room, you begin to scratch off the pimples on your face with so much urgency. The urge to smoke slithered like a snake almost unnoticed, but you fought strongly until you had complete control. You remembered the warning of the therapist: if you continued to drink and smoke, the process of recovery would be permanently curtailed. 

Stroking the ring on your finger, you recalled the first time the therapist asked if you were married and you said yes. Then no again, leaving the poor man in a pool of confusion. 

Finally, you'd break the news to him. You had been married before to Lizzy, the Italian blonde. You have three kids with her. The court had granted her custody of the children because they deemed you unfit to look after them. That your parents had refused to attend the court wedding; she was not Nigerian and not Igbo. It dawned on you that they had disowned you. That Lizzy's parents, who where both wealthy, had decided not to give their daughter's hand to you in marriage, insisting they wanted to meet with your parents. But Lizzy had vehemently protested. After much plea, they finally conceded. Her mother, not her father, gave her blessings. Her father thought the marriage was a failed plan already. 

You had met her after the war at Athenian groceries, London. There was something about her smile—maybe different from the ones you had seen—that endeared you. 

Something magical. At first, you didn't know if you could go ahead with it. If you were ready for another relationship. You feared this one might shatter your heart again, beyond recognition. This new, strange thing you now felt for a woman, would culminate in marriage. You didn't know how or why it happened, but it did. You probably, felt like Musa, who decided to settle down with Aishat maybe after he was told something by the commandant. There was no reason for your action.

Then the bleak memories would arrive, and you flip through each page like a book engrossed in pain, blood and deaths. Fear and sadness would make you begin to do crazy things. You became violent with her and she feared you would hurt her or the kids. You'd lost your job. You felt miserable.

On one occasion she'd suggested you met her therapist, but you rose angrily, almost stifling the life out of her. She knew If she stayed, you might do worse; so she left with the kids. But you never meant to hurt her. 

The therapy was sailing off smoothly. Your alcohol intake had drastically reduced. Even the smoking. Within a few weeks, you got a new job. You became good friends with your therapist. Some letters had arrived earlier that week, and they were from your mother.

Your father had passed on a month ago. In the letter she said that she was sorry for everything, that your father was too, before he died. He had fought stroke. And your mother wished to see you soon. 

One wintry July evening, your therapist requested to see you. Where you met him was a fine restaurant just across the street next to yours. Sitting in front of him, by a round table covered in plain white muslin was her. Surprised. Utterly speechless. You are elated and scared at the same time. 

You saw in her eyes, a sharp glow, the way they danced, the way the corners of her face were lit up with excitement. Her lips curved in an almost crescent smile. You noticed the way her face is padded with a gentle makeup, which made her face to shimmer beautifully under the brighteness of the lights. But she had stopped putting on makeup the moment things began to fall apart. The way every strand of hair swayed luxuriously in the wind which filtered in through the window. You had so much to say. But you held back, only letting out what was relevant. 

'I'm so sorry Liz. Please forgive me,' you said, sitting next to her. Your therapist makes his way to the bar after you had said thank you to him. 

'How have you been Dave?' She inquired, her gaze seemed unsteady. 

'As you can see, I'm recovering.'

'Yeah you are.'

'What about the kids?' You inquired hastily.

'They are well.'

'Baby please come back. I've never being myself since you left, not once. Please come back Liz. I miss you. I love you.'

Then you waited to see the impact of your words on her. You were hopeful. 

Suddenly she agreed, holding and smooching the center of your palms with her fingers. 

You could no longer contain the excitement. You held onto her, cuddling the way a mother would her baby. Your eyes caught the wedding ring on her finger.

'So you still have it with you?'

'Yeah, I've got it on all these while,' she replied smiling.