Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
She Was My First Love (-̩̩̩-̩̩̩_-̩̩̩-̩̩̩)
Even though the forces of nature sometimes destroy the beauty of the world, we still appreciate the times that we were happy and thank God for giving us the good old memories to muse over and merry in.
In retrospect….
The age was seven and the class was primary Four.
3 Significant things, difficult to forget happened that year. It was the first and only time I topped the class, it was the first and only time I won a prize and it was the first and only time I had an almost perfect friend and lost her.
Her name was Obasa.
She was my classmate, new in the school, Ebony-like in complexion and I thought she had behavioural problems because she was really slow with everything she did, both academically, in movement and in speech. Everyone in class saw her as a ‘dollard’ who could not comprehend a thing and struggled to be a step ahead of the least. I didn’t see her that way.
Maybe I was biased. Why shouldn’t I be? She was beautiful and always had that look in her eyes like the looks I saw in the eyes of the hollywood actresses. She reminded me of the movie ‘ANNIE’ whenever I looked at her.
My likeness for Obasa grew and I was always happy going to school every morning. My mum thought I had suddenly fallen in love with school. It wasn’t school mum, it was Obasa.
I shared my biscuits with her on one of her lonely breaks and from that day, we became friends. Only then did I discover she wasn’t the ‘isi aki’ everyone thought she was. We grew from class mates to friends and from friends to close friends. She neglected the girls when they called her ‘spoilt’ for preffering the company of the opposite sex during break and I neglected the boys when they called me ‘woman wrapper’ for choosing her instead of playing ‘police and thief’ with them.
Soon, my Obasa began to bloom academically, proving my instincts right and proving the other pupils wrong. She must have needed time to settle in properly which I guess was the reason for her initial poor scores. I liked her even more after her breakthrough.
We used to walk home together, holding her younger ones and sharing tales we wouldn’t tell the others at school.
She became my best friend as we fondly called it back then. We shared biscuits, talked about things appropriate for our ages, and sometimes, I resisted the urge to do those things I saw people do in movies to her. Yea, I resisted the urge to kiss her.
During the Christmas holidays, I volunteered to follow my aunty whenever she was going to the market because I knew we would always pass her house along the route. I used to peep in and wave if I saw her but if not, I’ll just go to the market feeling the pains of an unfulfilled mission.
This I did until she travelled to her village to spend the new year. I waited patiently. Built up my courage and rehearsed a scene on how I’ll kiss her when she returns. I didn’t know much about love, I was too young to know but the feelings I had for her was next to love if it wasn’t love.
Then…
The day of resumption… Three days…. One week…. Two weeks…. Absence.
Then an OBITYARY… *sigh*
Her ebony-lit face, smiling in black and white with her mother and siblings. The siblings I used to hold. It was her, involved in a ghastly motor accident, burnt beyond recognition. Number plates, tooth and other little clues were used to identify them.
Her family was wiped and I couldn’t hold back as hot tears filled my eyes. I knew what death was at seven and it meant I’ll never see her or her little ones again. I’ll never get to kiss her.
And I went to school everyday, looking at her vacant seat, wishing she could come back so that we can walk home together like we always did but it never happened. I walked home alone, lonely and sad. Memories of our three months old friendship flooded my head each time I walked home and tears were forced to fall sometimes.
Back to present…
That is how I remember it. Thanks to childhood innocence, I wasn’t depressed for so long even though my academic performance that term was a little below my usual performance and I lost that zeal for school that mummy loved. I still remember her every now and then. Even till this day, the memories flood back sometimes and each time I remember her, I feel happy for the opportunity to have had that kind of friend. Soft spoken and strong, intelligent and wonderful and lest I forget, beautiful.
"She was my first love"
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Caught In-between Two Women | part 1
All of a sudden, there was a lump in my throat.
Tears gathered in my eyes as I watched sandra cry, threatening to reveal the turmoil I felt inside. I swallowed hard as I fought the urge to put my arm around her shoulders and comfort her. I dug my fingers into the back of my chair till they hurt, willing myself to remain seated. It was better to let her cry, to leave her to settle this on her own.
It hurt me even deeper to see her hurt so. The sight of tears wracking her body, throwing her lean frame to and fro like a leaf before the wind,would haunt me for years to come. The sound of her crying would wake me from my sleep, stabbing at my heart in an endless rhetoric: “What If?”
I met her my first day on campus, January 12 2010. I was sitting in coca cola spot, sipping a bottle of Coke while I waited for my food after a very hard day after trying to pay my acceptance fee. It was half an hour since I placed my order, and I was becoming angry at being kept waiting. I stood up to ask the waiter what the issue was, and then I saw her. She had beautiful hair, neatly combed and fit into a loose bun that bounced with her every step. She had dancing eyes, here this moment and there the next, leading you on and on till you fell under her trance. Her voice had a singsong quality: strong, yet alluring. She was beautiful. I sat down again.
She asked if she could sit with me. I mumbled something un-intelligent in response. I was lost already. She tried to make small talk. I stammered in-coherently. I had not beheld such beauty so closely before.
I was suddenly clumsy. I spilled my drink. I set the glass down hastily. She reached over and steadied it. Our fingers brushed for a brief second. It was done. I was taken.
The meal passed in a blur. I offered to walk her to her hostel. She laughed, deeply, throwing her head back and swaying her neck from side to side before responding that I needed no permission. I swear there was a twinkle in her eyes when she said that. I walked with her to Medical hostel. We sat at the common room and talked for an hour. When she stood to leave for her room, I offered my hand for a shake – hoping to feel the velvet of her touch again. She brushed it aside, and hugged me instead. I almost died.
We became best friends, inseparable. We would walk to class together, sit together, and return together. I attended classes for courses I was not registered for – just so I could be with her. I joined the fellowship of her choice against the will of my friends. I spent my breaks with my Aunt in Lagos so I could visit her at home every day. We would talk about her plans for the future, argue about how many children she should have, and plan her vacations ten years ahead. Friends and family referred to us as ‘5’ and ‘6’, and most of our acquaintances assumed, wrongly, that we were in a relationship. This went on for a year there about.
Then I asked her to be my girlfriend.
She pretended not to hear the first time. I waited a week, and asked again. We were sitting under one of the tree in campus 3. We had gone there to pray, but somehow her head had ended up on my laps – my arms around her as I said the words. She laughed, rocking from side to side within my embrace – and said: “We are best friends. Is that not enough?”
I pressed harder, but she would not budge. I tried every trick in the book. I sent her flowers. I read her poems that seemed to bore her to death. I bought her Fossil watches and Louis Vuitton bags. I told her how much I loved her. I told her it was not enough to be best friends: that I wanted to grow old with her; I wanted to die lying in her arms; I wanted to share everything with her. And she would just smile. This went on for a another year. I became confused. She would not say a yes, or a no. I was lost. I had been so certain all I needed to do to ‘formalize’ our relationship was just ask. Now, I had become the laughing stock of my friends. After all, how many guys ‘chased girl for two years? I prayed. I sang. I fasted. I thought. I dyed my hair. I got a new perfume. I changed bathing soaps. Nothing changed; well, maybe something did – my grades fell, alongside my self-confidence.
And then I met ‘cynthia…
Tears gathered in my eyes as I watched sandra cry, threatening to reveal the turmoil I felt inside. I swallowed hard as I fought the urge to put my arm around her shoulders and comfort her. I dug my fingers into the back of my chair till they hurt, willing myself to remain seated. It was better to let her cry, to leave her to settle this on her own.
It hurt me even deeper to see her hurt so. The sight of tears wracking her body, throwing her lean frame to and fro like a leaf before the wind,would haunt me for years to come. The sound of her crying would wake me from my sleep, stabbing at my heart in an endless rhetoric: “What If?”
I met her my first day on campus, January 12 2010. I was sitting in coca cola spot, sipping a bottle of Coke while I waited for my food after a very hard day after trying to pay my acceptance fee. It was half an hour since I placed my order, and I was becoming angry at being kept waiting. I stood up to ask the waiter what the issue was, and then I saw her. She had beautiful hair, neatly combed and fit into a loose bun that bounced with her every step. She had dancing eyes, here this moment and there the next, leading you on and on till you fell under her trance. Her voice had a singsong quality: strong, yet alluring. She was beautiful. I sat down again.
She asked if she could sit with me. I mumbled something un-intelligent in response. I was lost already. She tried to make small talk. I stammered in-coherently. I had not beheld such beauty so closely before.
I was suddenly clumsy. I spilled my drink. I set the glass down hastily. She reached over and steadied it. Our fingers brushed for a brief second. It was done. I was taken.
The meal passed in a blur. I offered to walk her to her hostel. She laughed, deeply, throwing her head back and swaying her neck from side to side before responding that I needed no permission. I swear there was a twinkle in her eyes when she said that. I walked with her to Medical hostel. We sat at the common room and talked for an hour. When she stood to leave for her room, I offered my hand for a shake – hoping to feel the velvet of her touch again. She brushed it aside, and hugged me instead. I almost died.
We became best friends, inseparable. We would walk to class together, sit together, and return together. I attended classes for courses I was not registered for – just so I could be with her. I joined the fellowship of her choice against the will of my friends. I spent my breaks with my Aunt in Lagos so I could visit her at home every day. We would talk about her plans for the future, argue about how many children she should have, and plan her vacations ten years ahead. Friends and family referred to us as ‘5’ and ‘6’, and most of our acquaintances assumed, wrongly, that we were in a relationship. This went on for a year there about.
Then I asked her to be my girlfriend.
She pretended not to hear the first time. I waited a week, and asked again. We were sitting under one of the tree in campus 3. We had gone there to pray, but somehow her head had ended up on my laps – my arms around her as I said the words. She laughed, rocking from side to side within my embrace – and said: “We are best friends. Is that not enough?”
I pressed harder, but she would not budge. I tried every trick in the book. I sent her flowers. I read her poems that seemed to bore her to death. I bought her Fossil watches and Louis Vuitton bags. I told her how much I loved her. I told her it was not enough to be best friends: that I wanted to grow old with her; I wanted to die lying in her arms; I wanted to share everything with her. And she would just smile. This went on for a another year. I became confused. She would not say a yes, or a no. I was lost. I had been so certain all I needed to do to ‘formalize’ our relationship was just ask. Now, I had become the laughing stock of my friends. After all, how many guys ‘chased girl for two years? I prayed. I sang. I fasted. I thought. I dyed my hair. I got a new perfume. I changed bathing soaps. Nothing changed; well, maybe something did – my grades fell, alongside my self-confidence.
And then I met ‘cynthia…
That Love That Wont Die
Yeah Yeah...I know. Been a while right? School ish an a lot more other complicated things going on in my life right now has made me lost my mojo. So I Came home for the weekend and I think I'm getting it back. Enjoy........
That Love That Won't Die
It all started at a GiG organised by our school SUG. And by the time I had fallen in love, I didn't even know that I had fallen-into-love. I tried to fight off the feeling. This emotion was alien to my nature. I had never felt anyone feel this way about me before, and now I felt this way, about her.
It was sweet at first. We'd pick a garden and curdle our legs beneath the big old trees. Under the shade, no one could see us. We were buried in each others eyes.
But when the tough times came, we had it rough. Countless times, she saying " Bye, I'm going. I'm gone".
She always came back, not to apologise but to wade through the spheres of my chest and whisper " Don't know why, but I can't leave".
We were spirits and our bodies were mere shells. So, in times of passion, we tore through the walls of our flesh. Bleeding in love every crevice of our bodies.
We were magnetic. Each time I pulled away, a stronger force drew me closer. I did not have a mind of my own, and neither did she.
Our love was a soft violin, a soft hand dilly dangling on the strings of purity that melted our souls into one. We never existed. We lived in a monologue, a "to be or not to be" moment in time. She was perfect for me and I for her. We were too perfect to be mortals. So we died.
That Love That Won't Die
It all started at a GiG organised by our school SUG. And by the time I had fallen in love, I didn't even know that I had fallen-into-love. I tried to fight off the feeling. This emotion was alien to my nature. I had never felt anyone feel this way about me before, and now I felt this way, about her.
It was sweet at first. We'd pick a garden and curdle our legs beneath the big old trees. Under the shade, no one could see us. We were buried in each others eyes.
But when the tough times came, we had it rough. Countless times, she saying " Bye, I'm going. I'm gone".
She always came back, not to apologise but to wade through the spheres of my chest and whisper " Don't know why, but I can't leave".
We were spirits and our bodies were mere shells. So, in times of passion, we tore through the walls of our flesh. Bleeding in love every crevice of our bodies.
We were magnetic. Each time I pulled away, a stronger force drew me closer. I did not have a mind of my own, and neither did she.
Our love was a soft violin, a soft hand dilly dangling on the strings of purity that melted our souls into one. We never existed. We lived in a monologue, a "to be or not to be" moment in time. She was perfect for me and I for her. We were too perfect to be mortals. So we died.
