Obi’m,

Last night I dreamt of you. You were driving some kind of truck, I forget the model, but it looked like a cross between an SUV and a convertible. By the time I got to you, you already had four passengers; my younger sister – the one I didn’t get the chance to introduce to you before she left us – rode shotgun, and behind her sat three children who looked like siblings, their ages ranging from two to ten. The smallest had to be carried by the eldest on his lap to prevent my hips hanging out of the side of the vehicle – and no, I haven’t added more weight to that side. Well, maybe just a little, I wouldn’t want to full ground yakata according to you, so it’s still 42 inches, just as you liked it.

In the dream, the moon seemed to be twinning with me, looking like she was about to become fully distended in a day or two, and there were a number of stars glittering at random in the indigo sky. I got into the vehicle and asked where you were all headed at that time of night. The children told me there was some commemorative event going on nearby which would end before dawn. And you confirmed that you had gotten permission from their mother to take them there and give them a fun lesson in patriotism.

You looked into the backseat briefly and smiled as the young ones took turns naming different acts that they understood to be patriotic and then explained why they thought each one was significant. I smiled behind your back when the children finished their chants about loyalty to their nation. Amused, I wondered if the young patriots fully understood what it meant to pledge to be faithful, loyal and honest, and to serve the land with all their strength, to defend unity and uphold her honor – such heavy promises that glide off the lips of many the way sieved honey pours smoothly into steel cutlery. It was very on-brand for you to still have a deep sense of allegiance to your country, the one you always said you would be proud to die for, but in the dream I wondered when you had had the time to train these young minions in your beliefs.

As you turned to look at the speaking children one more time, I longed to touch the inviting crinkle in the corner of your eye, then run my hands on the imaginary line on both sides of your face, from your temples to your chin. I thought of how I would pause at your lips, where I’d trace your upper lip with my forefinger, lingering on your cupid’s bow for just long enough to feel your warm breath as you exhaled once, twice, and again. 

I smiled, suddenly realizing how much I also wanted to sculpt your jawline underneath the luxuriant dark hair with a smattering of grey, growing from ear to ear. My hands would play in that hair until I found the cleft in your chin, and then have you bless me with your full-toothed smile that made a few friends call you Teddy Matthew, after Pendergrass, the R&B crooner you introduced me to. Whenever you smiled that smile, it set your eyes aglow and drew me into the crevice of laughter lines and the delicious curve of your lips. But I did none of the things my fingers were itching to do, not in front of the children. And definitely not in the presence of Eme, my younger sister.

Isn’t it amazing that you met Eme over there? I remember how she had expressed her suspicions about you after I told her about our turbulent first meeting at that Third Force Rally. She didn’t think a headstrong activist was a good fit for her sister, and I don’t blame her for taking that stance in the early days of our friendship. If I wasn’t complaining about how you and your comrades talked like only your side had all the answers to Nigeria’s problems, I was speaking against the audacious way your team faced off with the security officials who were always trying to disrupt our town hall meetings. Gradually, our heated phone arguments gave way to more relaxed friendly banter, and in time I realized that those months of busting Eme’s eardrums with rants about you were the beginnings of concern for your safety. My sister was first to notice the change, and she teased me about the smiles that seemed to be permanently plastered on my face when we had those long conversations. She was away at school the times you visited me, so, I looked forward to the day I would finally get the opportunity to introduce you both. I remember how we had walked through the National Archives in Enugu, a ghost of what should hold the records of our culture, art, history and lineage. In that space, anger seized my voice temporarily as I took in the poorly preserved documents and artefacts that represented the raw materials of our nation’s heritage. That day you said you wanted me to get a sense of what drove you over the edge when you thought about the disservice of successive rulers, from decades of military rule all the way into democratic civilian rule. 

‘How will the children of tomorrow learn about who we are and how we have progressed if the government continues to neglect spaces like this?’ I knew the question didn’t need a response, so, I was not surprised when you swore to never stop speaking against the corruption and bad governance that was destroying our land.

That day you asked me, and I agreed to be your partner in love and arms if necessary. I was excited to return to Uyo with you, so that Eme could finally meet you, my boyfriend-turned-fiancé. Eme had told me she was heading home that morning, having successfully defended her final undergraduate project. But that evening was not to end in smiles for me. My little sister was not home, and when we eventually got to see her, only a shell was left for us to identify in the morgue. Eme became a memory too heavy for my family to speak of in the past tense, one too present to be forgotten. Isn’t it amazing that even though an ill-fated crash on the Benin-Asaba expressway deprived you of that meeting, you both have now met yonder and even came together to visit me last night.

The youngest child on last night’s visit was a charmer, she was double dimpled with a few molars yet to come in. When I asked, she told me her name Akwaugo, means precious one. Her older siblings helped to supply the full Igbo meaning by telling me about the eagle’s eggs and how they are deemed precious because it was very rare to come across its eggs. You seemed happy that they were doing so well with their native language. I rolled the name in my mouth a few times, stroking it with my tongue back and forth, and feeling an expanding crack of joy as the charming little Princess nodded her corn-rowed hair every time I said it right.

I asked how you have been, and you said fine, looking at me through the rearview mirror. When you asked me the same question in return, we both smiled, and I could swear it was at a shared memory. You know that memory of you asking me a similar question over the phone, those days when you would say, ‘Babe, how now? Is everything alright – are the things that are cool, cool and those that are hot, hot?’ Oh, how I giggled like a schoolgirl when the implied meaning of the questions hit me back then, you were always a naughty one. As we smiled at each other in the rear view, I also imagined that you remembered my usual response to those questions – ‘Yes, my fridge is working fine, and my stove is also in good condition; of course, pending when PHCN restores power and the gas company refills my gas.’ Those are unforgettable days.

 Obi’m, as your gaze returned to the darkening road, I remembered another conversation where I had reported how I attended a seminar in school where we learnt about the benefits of early cancer detection. We had all been happy when the organizers offered the women in attendance free breast exams and a pap smear at a subsidized fee. They had set up 4 testing tables in one half of the assembly hall, with each unit partially cordoned off by screens. As I waited for my turn, one of many rotating fans in the hall blew a determined breeze at the edge of one of the screens, and from there, my eyes caught a glimpse of a female nurse handling somebody’s breasts. It reminded me of the times I used to make fufu for my late grandma. Fresh off the fire and still white, I would turn the hot fufu into a metal tray and dip my hands in cold water before kneading the meal thoroughly until the dough got a uniform color and consistency. That day, I had quickly told the nurse that I didn’t need the breast exam as I had just done mine the week before, fresh after my period, while the breasts were still tender.

‘You lied to her!’ You had teased me as I relayed the story to you, and I laughed, knowing that the gleam in your eyes meant you were distinctly happy that I had saved your mini-melons from the kneading I had seen other women endure. 

But truthfully, when I laughed back then what I thought of was the breast exams we jointly did after my monthlies. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but of course I couldn’t have told the nurse that during the exams we rarely ever finished with one orb before your lips would replace your hands, mimicking the latter’s circular motion, less technical and greedier until, filled with hunger your tongue would flick over the tautened and darkened nipples in a cool greeting which would cause a moan before your lips encircled areola and more. Warm and cool things only began to agree as much when your lips and hands were on duty. 

Partners in love and arms, when we pledged this to each other, some friends and relatives thought we were being a bit dramatic, but we didn’t flinch. Even on those nights when we returned from protests, bruised and sore from being teargassed and then running for our lives. Like the day we realized that our peaceful demonstration had been derailed by area boys paid to sabotage our hard work. I had watched in amazement as several young men stepped out from within the crowd chanting a different tune, brandishing pieces of wood, and other weapons. The chaos was immediate, the screams frenzied, but you were undeterred, demanding that they stop any form of violence as we were only making peaceful demands. Your words and defiance seemed to infuriate the boys further, and before long, they threatened the original protesters with knives and broken bottles, throwing stones at people and breaking into stores on either side of the road. By the time you eventually agreed to run with me, I was grateful that those hoodlums had only succeeded in stabbing your arm, not your chest or neck.

And when months later, a few of the more prominent members of the Third Force’ – which had developed into a subset of the opposition party – were targeted, you came home and wept in my arms for the first time. A car taking Senator Mabogunje’s family to the airport exploded with his wife and three children inside. You were inconsolable, and I held on to you, confused and broken, unable to comfort you. We had gone to the Mabogunje residence together twice, and I saw how the children ran to you even when their mother tried to hold them back. You were stern, but loved children and played with them like their chuckles gave you life, the children were your mumu button as we say. Now that I am writing this, I realize that the children in the car with you last night were the Mabogunje children. I’m smiling as this piece falls in place. 

My love, when I asked how you were in the dream, what I really meant to say was ‘how are things on that side? Is life difficult? Do you have friends there? Are there activities over there to keep you happily engaged? With no wicked people in governance to keep the activism and advocacy going, do you ever get bored? Or is life over there filled with other kinds of work and activity that bring you some joy and fulfilment?’ 

And when you asked how I was, my response should probably have been this:

‘I’m keeping well, considering the circumstance.’ I would also have wanted to add, ‘In the first few months, my heart ached for you like your presence was the very engine that helped it beat and pump blood around my body. These days, I think I’m coping better, still madly in love with you, and waiting eagerly for our daughter.’

I know she’ll be dogged in whatever pursuit she sets her heart on. I know she will also be passionate and patriotic, and right now I am glad I listened to your comrades when they came that night a month after you disappeared, a week after your body was found in that deserted hill, in faraway Obudu. Without allowing me time to gather our things, they had bundled me into a car with a stern warning not to return until real change comes to Nigeria. Things are as you had always feared they would be. Your principal was never allowed to exercise his mandate, a few more of your colleagues also turned up dead, and tales of woe continue to filter to me from home. Zeb and Su’ur have been ever so supportive, sending encouragement and anonymous financial help to me even in this strange land with its stranger languages. The air here is dry, and I miss the rains in Uyo and the beaches of Ibeno and Lagos – the places you loved to relax with me when you were not busy with work. Still, I am grateful for the kind people around me. Who knew Su’ur’s in-laws would be so warm and accommodating? Your people were on to something when they said Nwanne di na mba. These strangers in a faraway land have surely become my sisters and brothers, adopting me as their family member despite my obvious struggle to make their country my home.

Obi’m, my eyes have not dried of tears, but my heart is no longer heavy, and for this I have you to thank; for the many nights you came to me and stroked my back and massaged my feet and whispered calming words that helped me fall asleep. I had wanted to name our daughter Idongesit because she continues to be my source of comfort. But after tonight’s dream, I decided that the lovely Angel did not nod at me for nothing each time I pronounced her name aright. She will indeed be Akwaugo, my precious little one.

The Ob/Gyn says there’s a possibility our daughter may be born by cesarean. I am prepared, if it comes to that, so long as our treasure will be fine. My appointment is in two days. Thank you for the communion in my sleep, journey well, lover, be assured that we are fine, and will continue to be. Till we meet again.

Yours,

Nkem.

Photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash