BEHIND THE CURTAINS

Dear Esiri,

Growing up had been the hardest part of my life. When I hear people talk about their childhood, I wince because mine is anything but memorable. No mother to tell me bedtime stories or sing me lullabies or tuck a blanket around me while I slept. No father to sternly warn me: “Read your books and pass your exams, so you will become a Wole Soyinka in future” and “No girlfriend till you turn eighteen!” No brothers to have silly arguments or engage in arm-wrestling with. No sisters with whom to play hide-and-seek or ludo. No uncles to take me on tours around Port Harcourt, Calabar and Abuja, during the school holidays. No aunties to take me to Shoprite or buy me T-shirts and jeans for Christmas. No cousins to play football or go to parties with. No grandpa to tell me stories about the Nigerian civil war and how he had to trek to the farm every day, since there were no cars then. No grandma to tell me how she used to wake up as early as 3 or 4 a.m. to go to the stream to fetch water. Growing up, it was just me against the world.

I usually spent my solitary moments wondering. Wondering how I came into existence. I have no reminiscences whatsoever of belonging to a family. I just woke up to the consciousness of living in the slums of Lagos, doing all kinds of menial jobs in the day to keep body and soul together, and sleeping in motor parks or half-finished buildings at night. All through my boyhood days, I never really felt a sense of belonging. Maybe I do not belong to this place; maybe I found my way to earth by accident. I felt unwelcome wherever I went. Everyone was always shouting at me (it didn’t matter if I did something wrong or not). Everyone always had a reason or another to dislike me. Sometimes my wanderings took me to school environments, where I’d see parents drop off their children. On some occasions, I’d see a mother fondly giving her little daughter a kiss on her forehead, or a father giving his son money for snacks. And I would feel that red-hot craving to belong to a family. But it was only a wish. A wish that would never grow into reality. I felt like a remote island. Until you walked into my life.

Esiri, do you remember when we met at the restaurant, where you offered to pay for the food I had bought? Do you remember the “I-can’t-believe-it” look in my eyes? I was not accustomed to receiving kind gestures from anyone; talk more of an absolute stranger. Do you remember the evenings when we would take a stroll across the streets of Abeokuta, hand in hand, talking and laughing amidst annoying stares of passers-by? Do you remember those moments in church when you would cast a stern look at me if you caught me gazing at another girl? Do you remember when we both went swimming on your 23^rd birthday and how scared you were because you thought the water would swallow you? It’s really amazing that so much has happened just in the space of five months.

Esiri, it’s been only a week since I last saw you, but it seems like the entire twenty-seven years of my existence. What haven’t I missed about you? I’ve missed your smile, the quintessence of beauty. I’ve missed your teases- you never ceased making fun of my bulging eyes and my potbelly. I’ve missed your laughter- you always laughed at my jokes, whether or not they were actually funny. I’ve missed watching you dance, especially the way you wriggled your hips. I’ve missed your cooking, even though you burnt food too often. And my! When we kissed, the world stood still. But I swear I did not miss the sex. I wish it never happened.

We’d agreed it would be a no-sex relationship from the beginning. And everything had gone according to plan, until Faruk’s birthday party. We had both been drunk- and it happened. The sex. And weeks later, you told me you were pregnant. My mind was in a whirl, since I did not have the capability to handle the responsibilities of a father yet, and the thought of abortion scared the hell out of me. Well, I had to settle for the latter, which I presumed to be the lesser evil. You badly wanted to keep the baby, I know you did. But you didn’t want to get me upset, so you agreed to have an abortion. Looking back now, I wish the reverse had happened. Maybe I wouldn’t be in a police cell and you wouldn’t be dead from post-abortion complications.

Esiri, I had to make a report to a police station, where I accepted responsibility for your demise. Hopefully, the court will rule me guilty and sentence me to death. But if not, I’ll find another way to escape this harsh reality. I’m so sorry everything had to end this way, like ice melted by the sun. This wasn’t what I had anticipated in the least. Having you beside me had been such a sweet relief from the agonies of lonesomeness, which I had been through. I thought I was going to have you next to me forever. I thought I had been compensated for having a bleak childhood. I thought we were going to walk down the aisle, have kids, and be happy. But you left my life just as quickly as you had come in. Well, I believe, in a short time, we will meet again in afterlife and be together once more. Maybe spirits do not kiss or cuddle each other. Maybe they don’t go swimming or visit the cinema. But just seeing you again, is all I crave. Esiri, you are not just a friend or lover to me. You are family. And nothing, not even death can come between us.

Forever yours,

Akintunde.