You know how it's a freaking sunny day in March and you miss the rainy season; or on a wet day in September, you wished the dry season was upon you? Passenger's "Let Her Go" hits me with that feeling all the time. And the flashbacks are nostalgic enough to leave me in tears, barring whether they are for joy or sadness.
I remember them days when my only companions were my laptop and my phone. The laptop which saved me from insanity. She which filled my every moment with work, letting me caress her with ten all the time. She was petite and light, that she could pass for a damsel with a lithe frame. Easy to carry, with a lasting battery. And then the phone which connected me with the all-time love of my life, my momma. There were days when waking up in Monrovia amounted to self-hate. Like, why couldn't I just wake up to the aroma of mummy's akara or puff puff? And indeed like Passenger said, I hated the roads -- whenever I had to up and travel to work through the crevices and arteries of some of West Africa's pristine and uncharted forests, because I missed home.
There were days also, when the rains would not stop falling and I would first bask in the warmth of my bed, sneak out to the varenda with the lads to crack old wily jokes, listen to BBC works service, talk about Liberia and our various futures which were punctuated here and there with near misses and triumphs. Days of orange sunsets by the sea, brought caresses from the sands that washed up recaptives who came to colonize a people, termed barbarians by distant cousins who had tasted the bile and guile of America.
And so, when Passenger says "...know you love her when you let her go", I giggle at the prospects of returning to Monrovia soon, to bask in the beauty that are her beaches and the shenanigans that glorify her slums, business districts and her living quarters of Congotown, Old Road and the Red Lights of Paynesville. Oh, and of the times when I planned and thought I would fall in love with you all over again on the beach. Because, yeah, I admit it that now and then, I think of when we were together. When for reasons I can't explain now, we had undiluted banter, chatter and laughter. You weren't all bad afterall. And I wasn't a saint either. But to treat me like a stranger surely feels so rough. No?
I thought I loved you so much, because what I thought you were, would not let me breathe. And I was cool with intoxicating me with you.
Ah, I told myself you were right for me, but you screwed me over and I can't even count how many times you did that with whomever you chose for the ritual. But being in love with my idea of you, was such an ache, and I still remember. Now, I am addicted to a certain kind of sadness, one which reeks of how I let myself down, how I could have stopped us both from hurting as much as we did, and how I have built a high hedge.
Like I have always done when love gets sour, I build friendships or acquaintances. But, you cut me off. I really wanted us to make out like it never happened and that we were nothing; because we got to that point where we didn't need each others' love no more. Alas, you were eager to move on and heal that pain, by running to the same things which had brought hurt in the first place. Now, you're just somebody that I used to know.
But, I know that in letting you go, I love you enough. Enough to let you find what brings you happyness. Sail on, I've gotta catch up with Monrovia now!
