Lonesome Dreams - Let Her Go

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!

I'M NOT CHEATING ON YOU

She told me about Chimamanda's book, Americanah that she was reading. The part where the lad traveled to school and left his girl in the care of his friend. We both laughed over skype, knowing fully well what transpired next, even though I had not read the book. In truth, she was talking to me, but I was too dumb to realize the logic. For she was already long gone in to the arms of another man. It was in March. It still froze. My judgment was beclouded with love - that ghost - to realize that the cold would send her into the bed of another. Lucky chap. Maybe a lonely Briton. Perhaps a lout.

Things were still rosy, even though I had raised eyebrows at the Facebook chat she had screengrabed and shared with me. The 'unknown' admirer. And then there was the birthday gift. Little did I know that the gifts were given in December, barely a few months after she had left for Wales. These two were tell-tale signs that Deola had left me. But I was still being stupid. We talked alot about the thickness of her winter jacket, the shop where she could get groceries from Nigeria, her coursework and the laptop I was saving up to get her. I hated for her to go to her friend's place first before we could skype. The privacy was non-existent.

I, Dimka Bernard was still love struck, and tied to the 'faithfulness' stake while she rode day and night by his side to school, then to the opera, the beach and even his bed. We argued over the email I had received from an anonymous person about spotting her and the Briton kissing on Bangor's streets. She chided me that it was a moment for my trust for her to be tested, "I am not cheating on you. People who know you online, see me interact with friends and course mates, and they freak out". I agreed. Though I was going through a rough patch, I was focused on her. She had just one year to spend in Wales and hopefully I will grow up to be that man who was right for her. I had swore, she'll be my last bus stop, so I invested every emotional resource I could muster. I was such a fool for love. A big one indeed.

I have now ended up in a pool of my own tears, with rage, anger, regrets, hate and grief as mates. For Deola riled me up to quarrel with her over my‪#‎WomanCrushWednesday‬ post on instagram of Bolanle Olukanni. Though Bolanle and I were good friends on snapchat, it was only on twitter that we grew our friendship. She was engaged to the father of her two year old son. I was secretly - which Deola hated with everything - in a relationship. And while in angst, she said she was walking away from what we shared.

Such silly jokes I thought. "How can you even break up with me on whatsapp? So I set about lending a car to drive to MMIA2 to pick her up in August when she was returning with her Masters. But she walked out of the "Arrivals" door, arm locked with a lad who had a moustache and an air about him that reeked of moral decline. She saw me and paused in shock. I gathered my now wobbly legs and dashed out into the milling crowd, half lost, half in rage as my chest to the left began to ache

HABIBI AND A DOZEN SMILES

He peeps from the hole between his seat and the window, smiles at me, and then automatically expects a response. I touch the cape of my hat, smile back and ask his name.

“Habibi.”

Habibi, four (as he said he were), is probably not flying for the first time (if you also factor in the number of times, he’s ran around the neighborhood, mimicking a bird in flight). I rambled around at him about what I was doing when I was four – playing ball, flying kites, 'riding tyres', learning Hausa, counting planes and swans that fly past above. “Your generation is quite blessed”, I murmured to Habibi; and he replies in Hausa.

“inna jin tsoro.”

He’s scared. The plane begins lift off. That's the part you feel your eye rolling, and pressure building in your ears. My friend, who’s buckled besides me, knows that feeling so much. She complains of not bringing her pair of earpiece along.

Habibi closes his eyes and smiles.

As the plane has stabilizes in flight, he opens his eyes and looks out the window. 1, 2, 3…10, 12; Habibi is counting the cars he can see down below. He smiles, and tells me in Hausa; “ga motochi.”  He points at cars he can see from nigh. When asked how many he could count, he smiles and replies:

“one hund-i-red.”

Habibi’s family is headed to Owerri. From appearance, you know they are of North-Eastern descent. I didn’t find time to count how many they were, as my attention was divided between my friend and the book I was attempting to read. I bumped into her, a little before I boarded the plane. She just won’t stop asking what I was going to Owerri to do, and my response of “I’m going to tweet” was not satisfactory.

I kept comparing a four year old me, and Habibi. His meekness spread a smile across my face, and told myself, my generation is blessed too.

Habibi keeps peering through the window, and each time he did, I followed suite, not out of curiosity, but for the fact that each time I have the luxury of flying, I learn again, the concepts of Geography.

An ardent student from primary school, it wasn’t any mistake when my Geography teacher in secondary school said in class, that I was going to study Geography at the university. What transpired between him and I in my fist of anger, is a story for another day.

Today, I’m a trained geographer, no professional certifications, no work experience in the field, but every time, I’m amazed by the depth of learning I get when I go high up in the skies –flying or mountaineering . Today, I was opportuned to peek out just when we were flying above Lokoja. I could see in the background, the slow winding River Niger, it’s ox-bow lakes and the small islands formed here and there within it.

I’m always left amazed by the power of nature every time, whether it’s the desert formations in Niger, Mali, Libya or Tunisia; the River Sasandra or San Pedro in Cote d'Ivoire, the River Niger or the thick forests of central West Africa; I’m more than amazed by the power of nature, the creation of God, and by the level of learning I get when I behold.

Flashes of classroom instruction overcome me, and then I see myself going through my Gho, Cho &; Leong textbook, which formed the foundation upon which all of my understanding of geography is built.

As the cumulus clouds thicken and our view is obstructed, Habibi shuts his window, and returns to life in the plane. My ears are giving way to the pressure in the cabin, and I quickly dive in to my pocket for my earpiece, archiving that experience for another day in a bid to try and enjoy the flight to Owerri.

We got to Owerri in time, and Habibi remained my companion as we approached the arrival lobby. Habibi was dragging his luggage on wheels, and offered to carry my strap-on bag, which weighed almost double his weight. He said it in a way that humored me, and I erupted in laughter. His guardian looked our way, and smiled. Habibi must be the Sanguine of the lot, and his guardian must have thought, “Habibi has met his type.”

Fates had to separate us as he had to wait for the rest of the family to get their luggage, and I had to catch my taxi taking me to Owerri.

I murmured to him a prayer, “God bless thee child”, and he just characteristically smiled on!