Separation.
Looking back, it wasn’t love at first sight. There were no butterflies in my stomach and I didn’t miss a heartbeat when you offered to drive me home that night. When my sister asked who you were, I told her you were a stranger, a random God-sent. She had repeatedly wiggled her eyebrows in amusement and I could do nothing but roll my eyes in chafe.
But like a glacier would melt to a fjord, you managed to thaw my heart and wriggle your way into my system.
When you asked me to move in with you, I told you that living with someone like me won’t be as great as you thought. I was battling OCD and I told you that I had a lot of flaws and I got tired of myself most of the time. I remember telling you to think about it and get back to me which is funny - because I was supposed to be the one to think about it and get back to you. Two days later, you took me out to celebrate my moving in though I hadn’t even given my answer at the time. You were elated and you couldn’t stop doing those outlandish dance moves. You requested that Ababa Nna’s Ego Akokwalam play in the background while you cut the fluffy carrot cake you baked. I guffawed at your choice of music and wondered why someone would be excited to have a live-in partner when he could just live alone. I mean I was going to invade your space, how did you find joy in such discomfort?
It wasn’t long till I started to complain about silly things like the dirt on the bathroom mirror caused by your frequent expectoration when you brush your teeth, or the soap residue after you did the dishes, or the pungent smell after you took off your shoes without airing them, or your overgrown body hair. Remi, I had mentioned to you that I was greatly flawed, and still, you took me in. You adored me and told me nobody is perfect which meant being impeccable wasn’t one of the things you were expecting of me. Your charming nature couldn’t help but make my flaws exquisite.
Four weeks in and I'm standing in front of you, afraid and sweaty while I study your face keenly. I had told you that the generator house needed a thorough cleaning and inquired why you would pour engine oil all over the floor. I remember you raising your voice at me, calling me a psychotic bitch who only knew how to monitor others but herself. You said I was stupid and disgusting and jobless. Your eyes weren’t bloodshot, you weren’t heaving deep sighs or clenching your fists — on the contrary, you were calm, too calm that I wonder why I was quivering at the time. My mother once told me that sometimes, my father used to correct her by shouting at her with love. So I looked at those small brown eyes with tears welling up in mine, wishing deep down that I would see what my mother saw - but I couldn’t find anything. You were angry and you blurted out things you weren’t supposed to say. But I loved you, Remi. I loved you to bits and pieces, and as my father would say, two people in a relationship can’t be equal: there has to be a small person and the bigger person.
I chose to be the bigger person and I forgave you.
You see, I wasn’t scared of you — I didn’t see any reason to be. But when I briefed my mother about that incident, she told me to be careful. Very careful. She questioned why I lived with you, unmarried. I told her it was better than living in a 2-bedroom apartment on the last floor of a 5-storey building where I could drop dead and no one would find out. Of course, I reminded her that you loved and respected me; and I called the incident a mishap, a slip, something that shouldn’t have happened.
I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this on time; to figure out who you really were, what you were truly made of. Now I stare at the mirror and I hate how I made it possible for you to stroll in and dim the light in the halls of my life.
Remi, how dare you? How dare you pull at both my ends so fiercely and conjure the most vibrant visions of love and longing? Again, I loved you, down to bits and the tiniest pieces and I told you I was going to do everything within my power to give you everything you wanted. I assured you that I would get better. I pleaded for your time and patience with me. I worshipped you and placed you at the altar of my being. I said I would stop complaining about the ridiculous things and I would shut my eyes to all your errors. You know since love is blind, I bought a walking stick and told myself you would lead me to bliss.
You didn’t.
Then you slipped again, and again, and again, Remi. I could no longer take it when you didn’t hesitate to smash my head on the kitchen door when I asked why you would leave the wok uncovered. I only wanted to know if maybe you didn’t find its cover or maybe you forgot — like you always do. In fact, I was willing to see reasons with you. I had my mind unfolded to receive whatever stupid reason you had for leaving our food open. I looked for composure fast because I knew I couldn’t afford to raise my voice at you — but I didn’t want to close my eyes to that particular blunder either. You knew how I always gushed about covering meals and my fear of food poisoning. You knew Port Harcourt isn’t a place you make such wacky mistakes.
You didn’t apologize, and I didn’t wait for you to. The biological clock of my body was tilting towards its time of ovulation. I needed you. They say longing has a way of blurring people’s thoughts so being the bigger person wasn’t anything at all. I was used to it, even though I had sworn to myself that you would beg me with every fibre of your being before I would forgive you.
This sounds absurd but life hasn’t stayed the same since the day I decided to leave. Loneliness hasn’t been kind to me either and I know I shouldn’t be grousing because it was a choice I made. I often recollect memories of the unforgettable times we spent, the moments when happiness was a permanent member of our home. And like a cover, the texture of our love put me to sleep sometimes. Other times, they rouse desire like spasms of hunger.
The realization of our separation resulted in my speech disorder. My stomach churns in rue when I think about how much power you had over me. I started stuttering because words started to fail me — they still are. My doctor tells me that I know what to say, the problem is the difficulty saying it. Now, I’m completely uninterested in assembling coherent sentences. I just keep mum and only reply yes or no questions: nod or shake my head where necessary. I fell in love with scarves too. The scars of your chokehold on my neck and my wrists induce tears that reek of dolour; leaving me with red eyes and diaphragms too weak to contract.
I recently took an interest in artworks and paintings. Edvard Munch is slowly becoming my favourite painter. In his drawing called Separation, the young fair-haired woman was looking out to the sea while her hair flows out to the man’s chest as if they are still tied together even though she is leaving him. The man is dressed in black, which portrays the colour of sorrow and despair while he clutches his heart with a bleeding hand.
Just like that man, I really hope you remain miserable.
