Foreign Soil, Fierce Soul

Chapter 2 – Mr. Hopson’s POV

I knew Maya wasn’t going to be thrilled about the news I hit her with, but I needed to move on. It’s not like I murdered her mom or anything. I know this sounds insensitive, but that’s the truth! Anita and I met at Tiny Bubbles Mobile Bar one gloomy evening. A bar I once avoided became a second home to me. I guess life has a way of hitting you real hard. We both ordered the same drink, which was pretty fascinating, and that is where our love story began. I found out that she also lost her husband 3 years ago to a ghastly fire accident in their home back in Lagos, causing her to move far away just to heal and find a new sense of purpose for herself. I’m not the type of man that anyone would label as perfect. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I’ve made my share of mistakes- some minor, others that linger in my mind every single night. Now in my late forties, my face bears the marks of sorrow and countless sleepless nights. My once well-groomed beard has become uneven, flecked with gray, and my eyes, which used to shine with ambition, now reflect a weight that only loss can inflict.

I used to take pride in being a lecturer, enjoying the respect I earned from students for my keen intellect and strong viewpoints. However, after Emily’s passing, I lost my sense of purpose. Books began to stack up on my desk, papers remained ungraded, and the bottle turned into my closest friend. I can tell that Maya views me differently now—less as the inspiring father she once knew, and more as a man who is struggling to stay afloat in his own despair.

Beneath all my imperfections, I’m simply a man yearning for stability—similar to a toddler clutching his beloved blanket, though my blanket remains in tatters. I make attempts to mend things, even if I end up hurrying or coming across as a self-centered fool. I used to stand tall, broad-shouldered—well, I did—until grief began to weigh down on me like an uninvited wedding guest, causing me to hunch. My voice is deep and occasionally rough, but interestingly, when I speak about Emily, it transforms into a gentle, almost bashful tone, as if I’m secretly a large teddy bear concealed within a tough-guy facade.

I’m fully aware of my shortcomings. I recognize that I drink too much, and I know that loneliness has influenced my decisions. But I also understand that life doesn’t pause for anyone. Anita entered my life like a flicker of light in the darkness, and for the first time in many years, I felt a spark of life return.

Perhaps it’s selfish, but I truly believe that Maya deserves to see me happy, even if she doesn’t grasp it just yet. One could say our love started as trauma bonding, but before we knew it, we were going on a couple of dates and even professing our love to each other!

Yes, it’s sudden, and I know you might be judging me right now for moving on too quickly, but it’s really been a tough decision, and Maya needs a mother figure to look up to during her teenage years. Besides, Anita is not far from the family because she says she was my wife, Emily’s childhood friend.

Although Emily didn’t really make mention of it, it’s hard to resist her sweet voice and mesmerizing body. When I shared my intentions to marry Anita with Maya, I prepared myself for her anger. Indeed, she was upset, but underneath that frustration, I noticed something deeper—fear. Fear of losing me entirely, fear of being forgotten, fear of seeing her mother’s memory diminish. I wish I could reassure her that Emily will always remain a part of us, that Anita’s presence doesn’t erase her. Yet, words can be awkward, and at times, they struggle to connect our hearts.

Even though it's late at night, when I'm left alone with my thoughts and the whiskey has faded enough for clarity to emerge, I occasionally ponder whether Maya perceives something I'm too eager to deny. I shove the thought aside, burying it deep beneath my desire to feel complete once more.

For the alternative—that I could be making the gravest error of my life, that I might be inviting something perilous into our home, that Anita may not be who she claims to be—is far too frightening to consider, but then again, life is not always perfect from the onset. We cannot be happy forever. A little gloom here and there adds up to make our lives here on Earth worth the experience.

Thus, I opt to believe. I opt to hope. I opt to disregard the faint voice in the back of my mind that murmurs that Emily never spoke of Anita because Anita never played a role in her life at all.

And in just two weeks, Anita will be my wife. It's absurd, I know, but I can't watch this gold mine just slip through my hands. Did I tell you that she makes the best jollof there is? She says it's called Nigerian jollof. The process looks somewhat strange to me, but it always turns out perfect, just like she is.