Veekhy’s note: Hey guys, it’s been a while, I hope you missed me? Well; there was an unplanned interruption that hindered my ability to use WhatsApp or even blog, but this is me beating through the storm today (in heroic voice). Lol, it’s not that deep, my smart phone got bad really.
Been a while I posted a short story here and I’ve decided to be more intentional about that. I’d love your sincere critique on these short stories and poems as the plan is to grow. Enjoy.
She read the letter one more time before lights out.
It contained nothing spectacular; “How are you?” spawn in many words. Yet, it was enough. Not glamorous in itself but a symbolic representation of what could be, what she wanted to be. The fact that it had come from Zibaye, her childhood friend from whom she first learnt her loud language of love.
It was a pity, that she didn’t know how to be gentle about this thing, the art of shuffling your admiration, like a pack of cards that’d be finally put to rest in its box.
He was the ocean; free spirited, calm and soothing on your feet and slowly you move, without really knowing that you are moving until one day you wake up smiling at a meaningless letter addressed to you from a different school.
One time when they were in primary 4, Mr Lekan, the teacher looked at Zibaye’s note and said with admiration “your handwriting is like an adult’s”. This was the sole motivation that spurred Ada for the next couple of days on an operation “I must write like Zibaye”.
“Ada, when did your handwriting become so bad?” was not the response she envisioned at the beginning of this adventure, but that was the feedback that made her put a stop to this worthy ambition.
She placed the letter in her note-book and opened it often with a smile, straightening the creased ends.
She had somehow managed to erase the fact that she was not the only one who got a letter from him though…that she was asked to give the second letter to Nancy, his other friend in her school.
How did she suppress the little discomfort she felt that there was another letter, especially since his letter was supposed to be a reply to the one she sent through her friend, Tolani.
To be honest, his letter was a bit disappointing, it didn’t look like he had put in as much of an effort as she had in her letter to him, or was it just her?
It was this “nothingness” that she cello-taped when split signs appeared at the middle due to repeated unfolding.
When her note-book was stolen, she went beserk, stomping through every ss2 dormitoryroom repeating “Who took my Maths note?” when what she really meant was“I am looking for my letter”.
Now she was here, having paid the price of sleepless study nights to get a seat at the annual science quiz competition at Zibaye’s school.
It was in her head, the conversation they would have, the smiles and all the catching up that would ensue.
She was not sure why she needed to see him, but now she was here, two-persons away, tongue-tied and sick in the belly.
Then like a trance, it all came back, the countless “help me say hi to him” and “give Zibaye this letter for me” .
She had to face the truth:
That she was not Nancy, the girl he really loved.
So she turned to face him, then walked away without a word.
Ps: On love, heartbreak and walking away