Love is the Sea Chasing Land

Joshua Omena
Aug 9, 2017 · 4 min read

When you said you loved me, I felt like running — running away from you. But I stood still and listened to your soft words; they felt like water on sand.

You kept staring at me, waiting for a response. I knew we would get to that point. I saw your smiles getting warmer every day and you took my jokes as the funniest things on earth. You became careful whenever you held my hands and you started avoiding my eyes.

I knew when it started.

We meet in a garden every weekend to laugh, talk about everything and read poems. Words means a lot to us and in a way defines us. We are everything we tell ourselves — call ourselves. Friends on some days, strangers on others.

The day you told me about Ifeanyi — your brother that was special. And how you learnt strength from his daily struggles and small victories. You cried and I hugged you longer than normal. I felt something familiar.

And on another day, when I asked you about the poem you read on the day it started, you looked at me like I stepped on your heart. I think I knew why you did not talk — maybe it was still fresh. Or maybe I did not know you as I thought I did.

I remember when I was sick and you sat by my bedside at the university hospital. I told you about Funmi and how she kissed my roommate in my first year while I was dating her. I told you about father — how he left my mother and I. And how I have done almost everything to survive and breathe in a world where my mother sold her body so that I can be something more than a bastard. I told you that worse things have happened to me than the malaria the doctor said I had. I laid on the bed - vulnerable, open and naked.
"You are strong" you said and softly rubbed the back of my hand in silence. I knew you felt something when I looked at your face — and I had seen that look before.

Like when I saw you after church. You wore pink wedges with lips to match and a black gown fitted to your skin. You glowed bright — black always made you look fairer. This was the second time I was seeing you. I had not known your name then.
"Kachi" you said when I asked what I could call you. But I was already your friend on Facebook and I knew your full name was Onyekachi.
I had read every one of your stories online and analysed every poem you shared on Facebook. I always thought I saw pieces of you in those words. I was curious about everything — why you wrote about pain, about water as the voice of God. I wanted to know why you said you were a broken pot crawling to a riverbank. Or maybe I already knew why.
I walked you to the hostel that day and when I read you a poem I wrote while in church — something about the wind as inaudible whispers we feel when we think we are alone — you looked at me like you felt something.

The last time we went to the garden behind the faculty of arts, we read poems to each other as usual. But the words were very unusual and there was a lot of silence — like gaps and invisible spaces between us. Like we were afraid. I knew we will get here; I saw it coming before you said it.

This was when it started

It was a reading and discussion event on campus, and I was late. So I quickly sat on the first available sit I saw in the lecture theater. Art events don’t draw crowds so we were a bit more than fifty people listening, asking questions and discussing the work of quite a prolific poet. A girl sat by my side and she kept adjusting her glasses all through the program.
Before the second round of reading and discussions commenced, a student was called to read a poem. It was you. You said that you were a city of sunflowers with petals of yellow that sang of joy and strength . You said you became a sad song and a dirge of the war you fought when you had your petals opened without your permission. It seemed your eyes were on my face as you said those words and I felt everything — those words became scenes of a rose torn by thorns, bleeding through her thighs and trying to remain the same.

At the end of the reading, I went to the stands at the back of the hall to buy the guest author’s newest book. You sat by the tables with your head buried in your phone — on Facebook to be precise. You raised your head and caught my stare. And I became curious about why we felt that way — pulled into each other. I said nothing to you and left the hall without buying the book.


Yesterday, in the garden, when you said you loved me, I felt like running — running away from you. But I stood still and listened to your soft words; they felt like water on dry sand.
Home were the arms of old aches and memories of pains. When you said you loved me, you built a house with your mouth. And I stood still and watched your words become family and a familiar embrace.

"I love you too"

Joshua Omena

Written by

Poet. Copywriter. Amateur photographer. Daydreamer. Night-crawler.

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