Victoria came to me yesterday. She said John had taken a walk; he had sought his other rib elsewhere. He wouldn’t come back. She placed her head on my shoulder and choked on tears, fat balls of water sopping down her lids. She looked so dejected, as though it was the end of life. It had been a relationship full of strong feelings but had faded away like a short lived firework. It had grown rapidly and then dissolved like a fleeting shadow. It was letters written in black ink, left in white envelope – read, torn, and cackling merrily In orange flames.
It was wilted flowers and ashes washed away by the morning dew. It was the mourning silence that engulfed us – broken by the enchanting voice of the phoenix. It was grief, magically turned into song. It was the unspoken words understood between us; the dreams of white gowns, pre-wedding photos, honeymoon and forever with him sojourned with the flood. It was uncertainty and hopelessness creasing her brows, emptiness and void shown in her lens. It was the pitiful way in which she hung her head.
I write this to you Victoria, love will find you again. It will be in the sweet melody of the Nightingale, it will be in white carriages – images in the clouds. It will be warm liquid, softly simmering in the calabash, moving in your veins, pleasantly tingling your fingertips. It would be floo powder – transporting you to another realm. It will be blue flames of fire dancing into life in your heart.
Love will find you again. It will come in form of Adio. He might not have a cute face and wide chest, but he will love you. His voice to you will be pleasant; it would be the deep humming of the Canary telling you his heart craves for you. You will hear it in the rumbling of the sea and the silent movement of the air. He will hold your hands and call you Anike. He will look deep into your eyes and name you Arewa. He will bury his fingers in your hair and find your tongue. He will chop the onions while you add seasoning to the stew.
He won’t call you Lamba because you have decided to keep your body. He won’t pester you for sex as though he’ll die without it; neither will he be reluctant to spend four hours in Lagos traffic to see you. He won’t tell you to aspire less or not get a higher paying job to grease his ego; neither will he ask why you need to buy a car yourself when he can buy it for you. He will know that the world does not revolve round him.
You will walk together in the busy streets of Owode at dusk, the stars reflecting in your skin, holding hands and laughing as you buy roasted corn. You will smile and shake your heads at small small boys in bleached skins and sagging jeans – their yellow and brown boxers raised high beneath red trousers and little girls lurking in the corners, fiddling with their fingers, smiling coyly, glancing around, afraid of being caught. He won’t cheat on you – oh no he won’t. You will find peace in his arms.
Love will find you again. It will be in the eyes of your kids, innocent and mischievous. Their smiles will be charming. Their eyes will be wide – like great glassy orbs sprinkled with light from the setting sun as they run around the pawpaw tree. Their laughter will ring in your ears, it’ll make your chest swell with pride. Your world will be beautiful; it will be coloured with roses, smeared with love and you shall bask in the scents of the Queen of the night. Your kids will see you hold hands, you might think they are little, but they would know; they would understand why daddy looks at mummy that way, they will decipher the unspoken words shared, they will know the reason behind each laughter, they will hear it in the cooing of the trees. They will know that this is how it should be – how deeply a man and woman should fall in love. You will put God first and have a beautiful personal relationship with Him.
Love will find you again, Victoŕia. It will be in old age, with him by your side still holding your hands. It will be your children teasing you as they surround your table and your grandchildren saying “I want to be like Grandma and Grandpa when I grow up”. It will be you in your garden tending to flowers and laughing when you hear that troublesome sheep bleat. It will be in the evening when you sit outside, beneath the stares of the stars, savouring the roses, tasting the evening air, reminiscing about the journey so far, great nostalgia and satisfaction etched in your voices. It will be you listening to old blues again, and laughing heartily, contented. It will be you still holding hands and kissing. It will be on the bed, when you welcome death with open arms and smiling faces. After all death is but another great adventure.
Love will find you again. It will be in beautiful lives, spent in a beautiful world.