A Letter to Remember (Episode 4)
Tade read Tabitha’s letter on the bus due for Ibadan. His eyeballs grew bigger and the nerves on his forehead stood up. He clenched hard to his Infinix phone as he read the last lines in Tabitha’s mail: “anyway, I am pregnant. I just want you to know that your baby has found a home in my womb.”
And softly, anger mixed with sorrow built a well of undefined complexities in his mind. He stuttered a bit, trying to speak with his neighbour on the luxurious bus but he burst into tears instead.
He was weak after all, though he was running away from what he truly desired. He looked out of the window, trying to savour the cloud of rains that was building up in the sky. It was late May and it was a time mangoe littered the floor. It was a time almond had a voice among wide and blooming flowers. It was a time that Tade couldn’t pick up the broken pieces of his service year. Those broken pieces hit him like the pestle of rain that now flooded the road home.
Even as he fantasized about his mother and her “stranger” remarks, he compared it with Tabitha’s gentle mail “I am pregnant. I just want you to know that your baby has found a home in my womb.” He created images upon images of how life could be a burden of bondage. He clenched his fist, hit the seat in front of him and began to pour down his thoughts on his phone notepad.
You stunned me with the last part of your mail. You hid the most important thing about us and without a second thought, you are taking my child to Kaduna. You know I love you. Loving you is a fact. Loving you is a road with thorns. It is a road I wished away from my thoughts but Umuahia has a way of giving us faith.
It has a way of putting joy in our heart and then it asked us to forget about our fears, about our differences and it makes us climb up the zenith of passion and then my child found a home in your stomach. Perhaps our relationship isn’t over yet and I am going to find you.
I am going to ignite the burning passion again, just give me some time. You aren’t a stranger. And I regret saying that to you, I regret even listening to my mother but I just have to meet her at least for now. I tell her my story, I need to tell her our story and the joy of picking broken memories under the Udala Tree.
I am ashamed of myself, I am ashamed of calling you. And I am scared of calling your name. Writing to you is just an escape from facing shock on your face.
I am not fake, Tabitha. I understand how memory, promise and love form a tri-path to our home.
Send your address to me, for I will come to you soon.