African American Male Portrait
She stopped answering my calls. At first her phone would ring continuously while I sat on the edge of my seat listening to her caller tune and expecting her voice to wade through the melody but it never did.
The caller tune eventually got replaced by a robotic, monotonous voice telling me the number I was trying to call was not available.
Some nights, I swear I could sense a weariness in the robotic voice as if it was tired of repeating “the number you are trying to call is not available” over and over again.
She had not been on Facebook and her other social media accounts in a long while and in between sending her messages on all the accounts, I had dug deep into her archives and learnt a bit about her online history, like the day she joined Facebook; April 3rd, 2009.
Her first twitter post on December 16 2011 which was a simple but mystifying question “why am I here?” Her Google plus account which she opened but never used describing herself in the profile info as a chocolate addict and obsessed with babies. And that’s truly who she was, she had big feelings about the little things.
One evening after work, while nursing a beer with Stanley, my old friend, I fumblingly told him that I’d been trying to communicate with her.
His eyes grew wide, startled.
“That’s crazy,” he said, his right hand holding the glass of beer paused halfway to his mouth.
“It’s almost a year, you should move on.”
I nodded nonchalantly.
“And I know it’s not really our thing down here but perhaps you should consider seeing a shrink or something”, he continued.
“I will”, I replied, hastily drinking the last glass of beer, “by the way did you hear what the president said about last night’s bomb blast in Maiduguri, ridiculous isn’t it?” I asked, effectively changing the subject.
Nothing could hold Stanley’s mind as strongly as news issues.
I discovered the psychiatrist by chance two weeks after my conversation with Stanley. She was a small, forty-ish, pleasant looking woman who was part of a delegation that came for an interview with the daily star, a newspaper I worked with. The delegation was seeking public funding for an Accident and Emergency (A&E) service building that individuals at acute risk of suicide could freely walk into. I still did not believe in seeing a shrink, but I figured it would not hurt to get some professional opinion.
The psychiatrists office was a stone throw from my place of work and on the day of my appointment, I slipped out during a lull in work activities and headed to her office. After the first awkward moments, she asked about my health, whether I was sleeping all right or had anxieties. When she had finished asking the questions from the book she had in front of her, she leaned back in her chair, looked at me directly and said, “Well, what about the girl?”
“What about her?” I reply, silently chiding myself for the scorn in my reply.
That didn’t seem to upset the woman at all. “Okay”, she said in a soothing voice. “What’s going on?”
I unfolded my arms, and exhaled. “Everyone wants me to move on but it’s the hardest thing ever because she was my life. She is still my life. Nobody, not even my mother, understood me like she did. When I see something funny, she’s the first person I want to share it. When something sad happens, she’s the only one whose words can make me feel better and it kills me that I can’t hear that voice again.”
There was a silent moment, and when the woman spoke again, it was almost a whisper, “Healing is often a long and arduous process but one step that makes it easier is acceptance”
“What exactly am I supposed to accept?”
My question was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I answered, and it was one of the head of departments asking me to come to his office for some urgent reason.
I explained to the psychiatrist that I had to leave, and she suggested we meet again, “to walk through the trauma of your loss”, she said as she walked me to the door. I said I’d think about it but didn’t make an appointment.
After work that day I drove home and took the long route which passed through her house. I knew she was no longer there, but I slowed down while I drove past her gate. in the old times, she would have burst out clutching her bags and entered the car blessing me with a smile and her signature lemony/limey fragrance.
“How was your day?” She’d ask
“It just began,” I’d reply with a smile.
There were days too when she blessed me with the silent treatment and I say blessed because even on our worst days when the tempest of the human condition raged silently on the surface, I knew deep within her was a soul that had so much love that the only way it could pour it out was through a storm. Those days are all a memory now, still vivid but slowly eroding with the passing of time.
Its 2:00am and I can’t sleep. I turn on the radio and sift through countless stations, some so distant that the voices speaking or the music playing fade away somewhere into the night. I settle for what seems to be a music request show. The anchor, a caramel voiced lady, calls out a number for those who want to call in. On impulse, I grab my phone and dial. I’m surprised when I get a busy dial tune, it makes me wonder how many people are awake by this time in the city.
I try the number again and it rings for a while and just as I’m thinking of dropping the call i hear the pick-up beep and her voice floods into my ear.
“Helooooo, thanks for calling kiss FM, what’s your name and where are you calling from?”
“I’m Leye, calling from yaba”, I reply
“Welcome Leye, what song do you want me to play for you and who are you dedicating the song to”
I close my eyes and try to think of a song, I open my eyes and it hits the clock.
“Time after time by Cyndi Lauper”
“Oh niiiice, so who are you dedicating it to?”
“Chioma”
“Is today her birthday or is today a special celebration for her?”
“Not really, just because”
“Okayyyyy where is Chioma?”
“She’s not here”
“But where is she?”
I hang up on her. I’m not sure she’ll understand. Nobody does. I go to the window and stare outside. The city is speaking a language of empty streets, moonlight kissed rooftops and the roaring whisper that all silent nights have. The world is a scary and beautiful place at 2:00am and all I want to do is dance with a girl separated by time and space, but its hard dancing with a memory, and it’s even harder being in a relationship with someone who is six feet under.