Not just pictures, but where do the promises we make while in love go? Do they vanish, evaporating as the person we made the promises to disappears from our lives? Or do they stay with us as an engulfing wet dream, blocked from unique realization? I think of this a lot because I have also experienced promises that failed.
A few months after my SSCE exams, my parents couldn’t deal with me staying home while waiting for my results. They projected it was only a matter of time before I joined the bad gang on the street and engaged in vices. In their way of taking caution, they called my aunt in Ibadan and asked if I could spend some time with her. Of course, she accepted, and I had only two days to pack my bags and leave.
It was 2007 when the state of the country was nice. It was just a 2-hour journey from Ekiti to Ibadan. In no time, I was at Ibadan garage. My aunt lived in New Bodija, so I had to find the right taxi to take me to her street. While searching for the right taxi, I came across Ngozi. She was a beautiful girl with a low cut, fair complexion. Her whitish eyelids drew me into the innocence of her soul.
Before then, I always second-guessed myself when it came to approaching girls. But on this day, I thought about the worst that could happen: she could reject me, and I would move on as if nothing had happened.
“Hi, sorry, are you familiar with this garage? I’m looking for where to board the bus to New Bodija,” I asked her.
“No, I am also new here. I came to visit my older sister,” she replied in a fluent, accented English voice.
“Oh, we are both new. My name is Bayo. What’s yours?” I asked.
“Ngozi.”
“You must be from anambra, am I right?” I inquired, hoping I was correct.
“No, from Imo,” she chuckled a little.
We chatted about little things, and when we had our fill, I asked for her number.
“How long will you be staying in Ibadan?”
“For three weeks. I was sent to bring my sister food; she’s a student at the University of Ibadan.”
“Ok, that’s great. Can I have your number?”
“091678*****.”
I promised to call her, hoping it was the right number.
When I got to my aunt’s house, she welcomed me happily. It had been eight years since I last saw her. She treated me to a good meal of pounded yam, efo riro, and goat meat. Instantly, I was happy I made the trip.
I was tired that night, so I went straight to bed. The next day, my aunt woke me early and asked me to accompany her to the market to get goods for her shop. It was a good thing escorting her to the market, although I didn’t enjoy it back home. She often took a long time bargaining with sellers. Sometimes, we checked the entire market for the best price, which made me tired. But with my aunt, she didn’t drag negotiations and was quick in decision-making.
We spent all day stocking her shop with the goods we bought and finished late in the evening. It was on our way home that I remembered Ngozi. I felt guilty as I had promised to call her.
When I got home, I immediately pulled out my Nokia phone and called her. It rang the first time without connecting. I tried again, and her beautiful voice answered. I apologized for not calling the day before, and she said it was okay. I asked if she was enjoying the school area with her sister, and she said yes.
We chatted a bit, and I told her I’d call her the next day.
We started checking up on each other through calls and text messages. I found myself spending most of my pocket money on airtime. Iya Mokaila down the street knew me as her regular customer. I was always buying airtime. My calls with Ngozi became frequent, and we started having midnight calls. It was called MTN XtraCool. I only needed to keep at least ₦100 airtime in my balance to call throughout the night, from 12 a.m. to 5 a.m.
This became a daily routine. I often looked forward to these midnight calls. Yet, Ngozi and I never saw each other again. Where her sister stayed was far from my aunt’s home, and I wasn’t at liberty to tell my aunt that I wanted to visit someone.
When Ngozi told me she was going back to Imo, it somehow intensified our communication. We had something to look forward to. We started planning how to meet again. We were both in love.
After four months of constant communication with Ngozi, I got admission into the University of Port Harcourt to study Civil Engineering. It was a heartfelt moment as I needed my space at the time. Among other things the admission would bring, I also envied the fact that Ngozi could travel to my school and stay with me for a while.
Immediately I resumed school, I started making plans for us to meet. We made promises about how to spend our time together—what eateries to visit, what movies to watch, and the moments we would share. We continued our midnight calls.
The thought of our meeting filled me with anticipation, though I was anxious it might not go as planned.
On Monday, when Ngozi was to travel from Imo to Port Harcourt, we discussed the plan the previous night. After my 7 a.m. GST lecture, I called Ngozi, but it didn’t connect.
I dialed again. It still didn’t go through.
I waited a while and tried again, but the operator kept saying the number was switched off.
I couldn’t focus on my next lecture, thinking about the endless possibilities of what could be happening.
Did her phone spoil?
Was she kidnapped?
I tried her number again, but it didn’t connect.
To this day, I keep trying.
Posted Using INLEO
Nice story. I love reading.
Hmmm. What a tragic love story. Almost safe to say it ended before it really began.
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