It's 5am and I'm teary. Or let's say my tear ducts are putting themselves to use. It's Saturday, the 14th of March, 2020, and as dawn approaches, somewhere in Africa, a special one experiences a new dawn. It's another man down from the singles' shelf.
I'm not usually emotional but today, I'll let my feelings out. I've not still changed. I'm still a verbal mute when it comes to expression of emotions so I'll let the pen be the means to the end.
2020 from 2011 gives about a decade, and that's how long ago we met. A full decade. We've come far bro. We've come far. I can't forget all the nights spent crashing at your place (Did I mention that one of those nights I called in around 11pm, it was because I was alone in the room, and big rats that looked like small rabbits somehow found their way into the room and I couldn't sleep? Wild laugh).
I remember the Amala and leafy soups, the spaghetti, rice and that your unique Yoruba stew, the one that draws water from one's nostrils even in dry weather, the novels and the movies, the nights spent praying and talking about scriptures, the days you'll drag me along, like a baby tied to her mother's wrapper, to the secretariat for night study, and load the room with plenty sachet water bags as though that were the medicine for memory retention, while I'll come bearing biscuits of different kinds like ẹbọ for the gods (belly laugh).
Yeah. And that your laugh. Your throaty laugh, and the way you'll hold your belly and temporary look like Africa's santa having a fit, head thrown back, mouth open and the sound like rapid staccatos and... I'm teary Izzy. I'm teary.😭😭
I miss you bro. I love you nigga. I damn love you. I'm teary both in eyes and nose. I fucking love you bro. I'd give you my special bear hug if I were there today. Get married quick niggie and have more stories for me.
FYI, I'm still that crazy little tiny wizard that's gentle in the soul. I'm trying hard not to lose myself. The self that you were able to see. The self whose door you broke. I stopped wishing a long time ago but this one time, I'll make a wish. That life grants us chance to relive old memories, or better put, create new memories.
And as you be declared husband and wife, "May the groom now kiss the bride!" I hope you don't swallow her lips. Just give her a kiss.
Much love from your crazy little gentle bro. Our two know sey I no gentle.
Emmy!
---------------------------------------------------------
ẹbọ - a Yoruba word for sacrifice.
This letter is for keeps.
YOU ARE READING
Bedroom Whispers
Non-FictionThe bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were co...
