The Weight of Loss

The beach is splotched with colour. People are everywhere enjoying the day with their loved ones. Some lie on their blankets, under their brightly coloured umbrellas, discussing or reading a book. Children run around playing. A wave of sadness washes over me when two people in swimsuit walk past me. Their hands are locked to each other, their voices loud with laughter. I arch my back to relieve myself of the pain, but not the sac of grief I have carried these few years. I sit on the sand. The tears come in drizzles, wetting the dark, curly hairs on my chest as I remember you. 

I remember that precise moment when you stepped into our class for the first time. Mr. Okoro was busy calculating his life away on the chalkboard, not minding if we understood or not. But our eyes followed your presence and our mouths were shock to silence. I buried my face in my book, not wanting to be caught admiring you. 

During recess, I watched your back as you walked towards the door. I watched as your thin hips swung from left to right. Your stomach bulge was slightly noticeable from behind. I looked at the curly black hair at the nape of your pineapple-juice-coloured neck. Your eyes were deep brown and my goodness, your eyes! Again, I hurriedly buried my head in my book, my heart beating with fear that you had caught me staring at you. 

"Americanah, huh? Is it not a big book for your age?" you said as though you knew my age.

Slowly, like a child caught stealing a piece of meat from the pot, my face rose from the pages, and I said blandly without turning to look at you, "It doesnt matter. I love Chimamanda and her books."

"Hmm" you said, before the silence briefly took over. “I dont like Chimamanda or her books.

"Why?" I scowled. I fisted my palms. “Who doesnt like Chimamanda?”

“Me," you replied. "I think she's just too feminist for my liking."

I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, is that a thing?" 

I think our little argument about Chimamanda was what connected us for in dishing out likes and dislikes and countering and agreeing, we were finding ourselves, not Chimamanda. 

I said something which, I am certain, was not funny, but you guffawed, drawing many creepy eyes to us. While laughing, you propped your right hand against my left shoulder, maybe to steady yourself. Perhaps it was an unconscious move, perhaps you did not even know you touched me, but something ignited in me. It was more than just a moment of shivers running down ones spine, more than just two bodies making brief contact. It was a moment that would linger, a feeling that would seep into our skin like cream, our nostrils like air. 

You pulled your white stockings down and scratched your ankles while holding me. You smelled of strawberry, and I felt like tasting you, your warmth. 

You shut your eyes. "I dont know. But this thing has been itching me."

Let me help you scratch it, I mused. 

"Sorry, what's your name?" You let go.

At this point I was still in doubt if you were one of them, I was only imagining. 

"Moyo," I said. 

"Chike. Nice to meet you." You held out a hand to me. 

I took it. I shook it. “My pleasure," I said. 

I was in a hurry to let go, not to make it look like I was desperate, but you held on longer than necessary, head straightened, eyebrows arched, and eyes fastened on me. A storm gathered in my stomach. Instead of being carried away by your alluring brown eyes, I stared at you, searching for clues, something that was undoubtedly convincing. 

The clue landed on my palm: a flirtatious squeeze. You winked, breaking the eye-contact. Then it became as clear as a beam of light.

                ***

As days grew into weeks, we became inseparable. I came to understand why you disliked Chimamanda and her books. Sitting under the mango tree of your house, in the wake of night, I held your hand which hung limply on your side. You told me everything. 

You said that the, in your words, "recklessness" of the character, Ifemelu, in Chimamanda's Americanah reminded you so much of your mother. I thought bold was a better word, but you shut me up. Your voice was loud and authoritative. Your eyes thinned out and your pupils looked watery. Your lips shook and your cheeks reddened. So I kept shut. Your mother was not bold, you said, in a calm voice, a whisper. She was reckless. 

Pausing halfway, you listened to the satisfactory breath of your father, before you continued. "My mother was mean to my father when he lost his job. She used to be so sweet to him, to me."

I wiped your tears. 

"Then she became a monster. She screamed for every little thing my father did. Everything he did was so wrong to her. Soon, she extended such cruelty to me. Every time she got the chance, she insulted and beat me without cause. If you see my body eh, you will pity me. In fact, see for yourself." You rolled out your shirt, and I saw those thick, black scars on your back. 

My eyes misted.

The grunt of your father from the sitting room gave you a jerk. You hastened into the house, the sounds of your feet like thunder. It would be your fifth time checking on your father in my presence. Since your father suffered a heart attack, two weeks ago, that nearly offed him; I noticed your intense jumpiness. 

"It was nothing. He just coughed." You heaved a deep sigh. 

I touched your lap. “Your father is going to be all right.”

You sighed and ran your finger through on your hair. You looked at my hand on your lap. “I blame my mother for this. My father used to be strong. Since the day my mother slammed the door right at our faces, his body became weak. He suffered a stroke. And now a heart attack. He has become even weaker than I.”

“Weaker than you? What do you mean?" I asked.

You looked at me and looked down again. “He was getting back to himself. He's doing well in his new job. I dont understand this sudden heart attack.”

“Chike, weak how?”

“I have no one else," you looked at me. And you hugged me. “I have no one else.”

                 ***

We had each other. We made up for each others weaknesses. I completed my attire each day with a veil of fear. Yet you came along and tore that veil of bashfulness, letting me share the spotlight with you. You were a dove when it came to helping me learn that seemingly difficult algebra, despite how sluggish my ability to comprehend was. You were nicknamed “hot brains" because of how frequent you won Cowbell Mathematics Competitions and how you came first every term.

I recall the day I broke down and cried like a baby because you gave me half of your prize money so that I could get a pair of brown new sandals because my parents, who were in serious debts, could not afford it. 

"Five thousand, Chike! What will you tell your father if he asks?”

“It's nothing. Just manage it. I will explain to him, dont worry. He will understand.”

             ***

Yet you say your father is all you have. What about the first time we kissed? It was heavenly. We were home alone, in your room, staring at the characters on the TV when suddenly your hands left its position and crawled towards mine. As you drew closer to me, my blood swayed like a turbulent ocean.

We dare not speak. Our body language was enough. Our bodies moved to the thunderous beats of our hearts.

And then that moment where our gaze crossed, your palms cupped my face, and my feet swelled with unruly emotions. Your lips pressed firmly against mine, dragging from side to side. We did not rush the exchange of spittle, of breath, of body heat. 

Before we could realize it and bring our bodies under control, we were far gone. We peeled our clothes from each others body, flung them, and drowned in the river of passion.

                 ***

I still remember vividly the way your face flushed with a smile as you ran towards me after morning assembly to break the news; you called it good news. 

You hugged me. “Good news... finally, I have forgiven my mum." We talked at length on the phone the previous night, you announced. I was mesmerized by your joy. During break, we celebrated this achievement, with biscuits and yoghurt.

                   ***

We had each other, Chike: until we didnt. 

I was in my backyard, helping my mother to peel freshly harvested cassava tubers, when my phone bleated like a goat in my pocket. The sun boiled over our heads. Beads of sweat darted on our faces. 

"This boy, you won't change that rubbish ring tone," my mother said. 

I picked the phone. "What?" I screamed. 

"Who was that?" my mother asked.

But my mind had wandered off. Suddenly I felt a huge hand tap me strongly, bringing me into reality. 

“Chike!" I cried. 

"What happened to him?”

“I have to go and see him.”

I stood. I almost brushed past my father who had just opened the backdoor. 

“Ah, Moyo, ki lo ṣẹlẹ?” my father asked.

 But I said, “Chike! I want to go and see him.” I couldn’t bring myself to explain.

On arrival at your house, I met your father pacing the sitting room, his forefinger in his mouth. "Thank God you are here. Please, come." He led me upstairs to your room. 

You were there, but your body was a shadow. I held your hand. It was so thin and as light as air. Those once beautiful brown eyes were sunken. Your collar bones stuck out, and your skin was so dry and pale. I thought I was staring at a corpse. 

I began to cry. "How? When?” 

You gave your father the accusatory glance. "You told him?"

"I had to. I'm sorry, son. Why didn't you tell him?”

Your words were served in sprinkles. "Hmm... Daddy, please, can you excuse us for a while?” 

"The doctor says I have barely a month to live, you said.”

I shut my eyes and inhaled. I needed oxygen to cool my burning head least my brains exploded. When I opened my eyes, you were crying. I wiped your tears and kissed the back of your palm.

"What's the name of the sickness?”

“Sickle cell anemia," you replied.

A sharp pain like a sword slashed my heart and I came undone. You would try to stop me from crying but I won't oblige until you stretched forward, writhing with pain, the tears snaking down the white patches on your face, and you kissed my lips. Instantly I tasted sadness; it was raw and sour. Unlike before, our lips held on for a short, very short while until you groaned out of contact, and fell with your back to the bed, like a drop of water on a pillow. That instance, I knew death was just by the corner. 

I panicked every time you closed your eyes and kept quiet. Then you would open your eyes and say, "Stop that nonsense. I'm still here, at least for now." It was a joke, your own usual way of creaming every situation good or bad with words that culminated in a hilarious response, trying to make others see the beauty, the light in every tunnel. 

I managed to draw a laugh from a well which seemed dry. “Stop jor, just stop. It's not funny.” 

"And please stop crying, okay? Would you do that for me?”

I nodded, though I wasnt sure if it was in agreement. But, truthfully, I never stopped crying. 

                    ***

I knew the weight of loss, the extent of grief, when you passed on.

The reality of your absence did not dawn on me immediately. At least not during your burial where all and sundry—mostly teachers and students from our school—dressed in black, crying and wearing their sadness about them, came to pay their respect. I wore my own sadness, too. But my lacrimal glands barely summoned a tear.

Your father knelt beside your grave, howling. Men, women, and children drew closer to comfort him. 

No sooner did each one drop his or her farewell and withdrew than a tall, slightly thin woman, skin the colour of the sun, wearing a sunshade and a black patterned gown and her head capped with a hat, sashayed towards your father. She crouched to cuddle him.

And then I sensed she was your mother. 

For a moment she stepped away from him, and started towards me. 

She took away the sunshades, and her brown eyes glowed in the afternoon sun. Then she reached for my hands. 

"I guess you're Moyo?" she said. Her voice sounded almost like yours.

I nodded. 

"He told me so much about you. Thank you for everything. Thank you for loving him better than anyone could have."

          

But slowly, after the burial, I became more aware of your absence in the silence which sat beside me under the mango tree behind our classroom, the same tree we often took shelter during recess, or the loneliness which always followed me home after school.

                 ***

A gust of wind splashes on me. I feel your presence. The sweet smell of strawberry that often steamed from your body caresses my nostrils and wets my taste buds. But it's only a while until you leave with the wind, I think. The smell lingers. Strongly. 

The tears start to stream down my eyes. A hand holds out a handkerchief over my shoulders. I snort before taking it. I wipe my face. Then, instinctively, I draw the handkerchief to examine it, and I'm startled. It is the same handkerchief I gifted you the day you clocked fifteen, the same handkerchief you held onto the night you took your last, jagged breath. Since your body was cold and stiff as your hand held strongly on the handkerchief, and it was utterly absurd severing your hand in a bid to retrieve the piece of fabric, you were buried along with it. 

Turning around, I see no one. A shiver trickles down my spine. A smile runs across my lips. And at this moment, I gradually feel the weight leave me.