I met him at Oxford Street, just before the bus station. He wasn’t exactly a Greek god but he was by far the first boy to hold my stare even after I was caught in the act.

We both jumped on to a bus and it wasn’t by sheer luck that we ended up on the same seat. No, not at all. I skipped four seats and 2 cute boys to go sit by him. You can’t blame me, you really can’t. There was something about him that drew me to him; it was as if he was on a permanent nonzero intrinsic magnetic moment and I was the shiny eager pin jumping on to him.

Dude was as black as a raven bathed in soot! I bet if he took a picture in the dark all you would see was his teeth and eyes. I eased into the seat so quietly it amazed my very own self, for within I was all bubbly and smiley.

After 10 and half minutes (yes! I was checking) of tossing my hair and pretending like I had some important piece of information on my phone, just so Mr. Black-is-beautiful would notice me, I finally gave up and proceeded to start the conversation myself.

“Hi, umm, have we met before? You look kinda familiar”.

I couldn’t believe myself. Really Nana Yaa, really? Is that the best you could do? Have we met before? Arrggh! I wanted the ground to open up. That was super lame! I always diverted to heavy Naija accent in an extremely loud voice whenever a guy used that on me. And here I was, asking the same bloody question!

He smiled, showing off those glorious white teeth.

“Perhaps, but even if we haven’t I’m pretty sure I’ve met you in my dreams”

Dude just redeemed me from my 30 seconds of bimboness. I couldn’t help smiling.

“I’m Joshua and you’re?”

“I’m Nana Yaa, but everybody calls me Naaya”….

And that was how I met Mr. Right

We were complete opposites.  He was the shy-reserved-I’d-rather-sit-on-a-wall-and-read-than-be-out-partying type. I was the fun- exciting-thank-God-it’s-Friday-let’s-party-till-my-mum-runs-my-battery-down-with-her-constant-calling type.

He came from a struggling home; my parents were well to do.

He was a country kind of guy, I was bumping hip hop all day. We were from two very different islands.

I mean, if someone had told me I would date a guy who thought hip hop was ‘unhealthy’ music, I would’ve probably shoved my lace bra up their ass.

But he made me laugh, he made me smile, he made my insides tickle way before his fingers even touched me, he made me sleep on a mat and wake up with 7 mosquito bites the next morning and I still didn’t want to leave his embrace, he made me cry, and then melt in his arms as he kissed my pain away. I called him J, and he called me B. He was mine, just mine.

J’s mother was a bead maker. She made the most beautiful beads ever and thanks to J, I had a wonderful collection. He even named the ones on my waist after himself.

She was always looking for markets to sell in, so it was a very exciting moment for J when he found out his mother had been invited to exhibit her goods at a fair in Togo.

I was happy for him; his mother’s happiness meant a lot to him. I wasn’t excited about the idea of him going along with his mother though.

He would be gone for 7 long days, I’d miss my baby. But I didn’t really have an option.

So he left, with me crying shamefully as if he was leaving for Hawaii and I was stuck in Tuabodom. But he laughed at me and kissed me shamelessly at the bus station.

On the first day I waited anxiously for his call. On the second day I was mad that he hadn’t called. On the third day I was worried sick and couldn’t eat. On the fourth day, I was getting ready to leave the house for his place, to find out if there had been any news when my mother swept down the hall and hugged me furiously. I tried to break free but she wouldn’t let me. She was struggling to talk through her tears; there had been an accident…

It’s been nine months, four days since my baby left. I’m not mourning, I’m waiting.

His mother’s body was brought home for her burial. J’s body was never found.

My baby is not dead; he’s just finding his way back to me.

I mean if he dies I’m supposed to feel it the minute he passes away right? Just like how it happens in the movies. It’s just right that I should.

The only J I feel right now are the ones around my waist.

My baby is not dead, he’s coming home. And I’m waiting….

Just waiting


3 responses to “Waiting…

  1. Naaya, if I take out my hat for you on this, it still won’t be enough. If it is story, I will be more relaxed than should it be a real life. You know how to captivate, entertain, excite and still manage to make us feel morbid.

    This is simply delicious and Ama you are simply toooooooo much. Yeah indeed, you are a grandma. I will be glad to be your student.

    Thumbs, toes and everything up for you dear.

  2. Poetra, you never bore your readers. I love this cos it’s beautiful and it reminds me of a poem i wrote. Keep flying girl!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s