Love, Lost and Found

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The sun was warm when she stepped out of her apartment. She was becoming used to the balmy harmattan air. She had missed it, if she was being honest. Seven years in Canada had exposed her to a lot of things, but there were things you never forget, no matter how long you stayed passive and how much you tried to deny it. The broken skin and the chilly weather felt like winter redux. She missed Canada as well, and got through the day by reminding herself why she chose this – the life she ran away from in the beginning.

One of the things she had learned over the years was that they were things one had no control over, no matter how much they tried. Another thing was that you can't possibly run away from your origin. Everything had come rushing back when she stepped out of the airport. The noise, the smells. One thing was certain - she missed Lagos. She missed the people.

The first step towards her homecoming was taken eight months ago. She couldn't postpone anymore. Before this, she was completely unaware. The reply under the photo she posted on Instagram sounded like the ones she got every other day. She had never been a photo person. She would write and share her poems but she made an exception that day. There was something goofy about the tone of the reply. Everything started then. The texts, the video calls. For the first time after a long time, she felt the much talked about butterflies in her stomach and she didn't want it to end. So she gambled. And she wouldn't say she won.

Before she left the country, she never really looked at men. Yes, she knew they existed and she liked them but she didn't pay attention. She would bury herself in her work and writings when she wasn't studying. She was always too busy to go on a date. So it was a new experience for her, what she was feeling. She worried about what to wear, the proper things to say. But he made it seem so easy, even before they met.

She had rented the apartment for only three weeks. A friend had helped arrange it before she flew in. She wanted to do it and get everything over with before it expired. But she had spent the first fifteen days wallowing. She felt helpless and ungrateful. She loved him. She really did. Not that he believed her anymore. She didn't blame him. She couldn't. He gave her everything, she knew that and she was sorry she couldn't return it. Not the way he wanted.

The first one year was a beautiful one. She had helped him process his temporary visa. She had worried that the connection might not be there when they met in person but it all worked out fine. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. Then he decided to stay back and apply for a work permit. It took some time but he got it. For the first time in her life she felt alive. She was so happy and comfortable that she didn't realise when things changed. He noticed first and even when he told her about it, she didn't believe him. But she did now. Now, she felt like she took everything from him and gave nothing in return.

It was a fifteen minutes drive to his house. He had offered she stayed over while they tried to sort things out – not on a romantic level since they both knew it was over – and see if they could remain friends, but she declined. She needed time to process her thoughts. She didn't regret anything that happened, not her love with him nor the one she found when with him. Call her selfish but she had been oblivious half of her life to understand what she wanted at first. Everything was clear now. She loved someone else. She loved a girl. She had no reason to ask him to stay when he decided to leave.

She had hoped that seeing him again would change something, anything. But it didn't. I can't stay friends after all. I still love you too much to try, he had said. She only shrugged and left. Maybe she had lied to herself. Maybe the reason she came back wasn't to break up in person because she felt she owned him that. She was really here because she missed home.

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When I began writing this. I had a romantic story in mind. Like a happily ever after kinda stuff. But it took this turn and I let it. I can't remember the last time I finished a story the way I initially wanted. I let my fingers do what they want now. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I haven't really been one to draft a guild line for a story. Not sure if that's good or bad.

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