Who Has A Heart To Lend Me?(A Short Story)

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Dear E, today, I disobeyed those doctors and ran. Eminem’s angry songs blared high through my headphone as I hit the asphalt running, tearing into the morning chill, the harmattan fog hanging menacingly in front. I wanted to cuss you as I ran but I couldn’t, so I let Eminem do all the talking into my head. I found myself in his voice. Every “fuck you,” “pussy,” “piece of shit” and “bitch” uttered were mine, not his. I could never bring my lips to paint you with vulgar words. It was relieving to have Eminem lend me his lips.

I ran towards the park, past a chubby girl who might be trying to lose some weight just to impress some boy. I pitied her. I may be wrong though. But these were the kind of things we did together, always making opinions about people and laughing over it.

Do you remember the night we attended that poetry event, when we analyzed the performance of each poet and found them below par? Days later, when we tasted that scenario again and I said we were just being haters, do you remember how you said “No, we are not haters. We were just having our fun?” Fun is how I remember our time together. This is why your absence is still a sticky lump of bitterness in my throat.

I think I might have aggravated my condition today as I ran. When Eminem’s “Kim” came through my headphone, I increased my pace. It is hard to stay at one strata of pace when you have a fully grown man shouting—due to anger—into your head. It is hard not to be lost in his pain. So, I ran faster and faster until I felt a sharp pain in my heart. I stopped and bent over, supporting myself with my hands against my knees until I felt better.

I’m sitting at the park now, under that particular tree from which I saw you for the first time. The morning is still young and walking with a foggy gait. I’m not sure you still remember the first day we met. You were never good at keeping memories—they were always far from you like an estranged lover. I always did the keeping but I want to lose myself to that deficiency of yours and stop keeping memories—they now haunt me like abortion guilt.

That day, you held the air still with your walk. You sprouted onto the horizon with your towering height and my heart leaped inches to catch up. Your bright grey eyes were watery, like you were in tears. You looked so young. I knew I was older. I stopped you and asked what was the problem. You said “nothing.” I didn’t want to push further but by some funny bluffs of fate, you sat with me. It was on Valentine’s Day.

We talked and your name was Erica. I got to know that you were a poet. I wanted to tell you that I wrote but I’ve always been afraid to be known in that manner. What if I’m not good enough and I never get to write any book? What then?

Series of Facebook and WhatsApp messages went either way of the divide. Series of dates saw us seated on the sofas of some fancy restaurants, engaging in laughters that reeked of happiness. Feelings were made known, hearts found their homes.

I became lost in your beauty—how I loved your nose, thinly outstretched like cedar. It ached my heart to tell you that, for beauties such as yours aren’t meant to be voiced. They are to be inhaled, allowed to fill the blood stream. Your words were colourful butterflies—how could anyone be so good at choosing words? And when I finally told you about my inability to write good stories, you said, “give it time. Creativity is a child. Don’t tell it to walk before crawling.”

There are things you never knew about me, that I never wanted to tell you. But since you’re gone, you should know this: I am dying.

The doctor says the hole in my heart is growing bigger. My heart is capable of failing anytime. I have had atrial septal defect—it’s funny how bad things end up with sexy names—since I was a kid. Back then, the doctors said it was fifty-fifty. It could grow wider or smaller. I was advised against exercises that were capable of accelerating my heartbeat. I stopped running. I stopped playing football. My Ma said her God would never let me die.

I need a heart transplant now. But my family is not rich, my elusive salary can’t pay for it, and who has a heart to lend me?

When you came along, you filled that chasm in my heart and I decided to love you with this faulty heart of mine. If you were me and your heart threatened you with failure, wouldn’t you let it love? I loved you with all of it, for that was the only thing it was now good for. But you left.

I’m breathing the last air we once shared at the very spot we first met, and having my heart pump out all the blood that drives the memory of you inside me. It’s been two weeks since you left. I’m going through the last batch of our conversation on WhatsApp before you blocked me. I read it daily and it still feels like a bad joke. Your number can’t be reached. I just want to ask why you left.

Today is Valentine’s Day again, and I’m here to remember you. Of what use is my heart now if it can’t love you?

You have left me a huge chunk of yourself. I have bottled it into this letter. I hope the memory of you fades with every word I write down. I hope I find you again, just to return these last pieces of you.