Letters from Enugu •

CHAPTER 6 - Two Letters In The Rain

The cement wall behind Mama Ngozi's tomato stall was still there.

Five years ago it was clean. Now it had small cracks and children had drawn chalk hearts with white chalk. Ada traced one heart with her finger. It said ADA + CHIDI in small writing.

She sat.

Chidi sat beside her.

Between them, two Cokes. Cold, sweating in Enugu heat. The caps were already opened, making a soft hiss. Mama Ngozi's tomatoes were red and big behind them, and the market was loud. Women shouting prices, okada horns, children running with pure water, smell of smoked fish and fried akara from Nnenna's side. But their corner, near the cement wall, was quiet. It had always been quiet. At Queens School days, they used to come here after school, sit on this same wall, share one Coke because they had no money for two.

"You remember?" Chidi said, holding his Coke but not drinking yet.

Ada laughed. "I remember you always said one Coke is enough. Save money."

"And you said two Cokes, we are rich," he said.

"We were never rich. We were seventeen and eighteen. We had only school uniform and this wall."

Mama Ngozi shouted from her stall without looking, "If una don finish Coke, buy tomato! Love does not cook soup!"

They both laughed and bought two small baskets. She put the tomatoes at their feet.

Chidi brought out a paper from his pocket. Not yellow like Ada's. White, folded many times, edges soft from being held.

"What is that?" Ada asked.

"My own letter. I wrote it that night you left. After I waited at village square from four in the evening to eight at night with two Cokes. You did not come. I went home and wrote."

He gave it to her.

She opened it slowly.

It said, "Dear Ada, If you are reading this, I waited at the village square from four to eight. You did not come. The Cokes became warm. The rain started. I went to Independence Layout gate and washed my Corolla with bucket. I will keep washing it and waiting. Chidi."

Her eyes filled. "You waited?"

"With two Cokes," he said. "Cold at first, then warm. Like today but opposite. Today cold and you are here."

Ada wiped her eyes with her yellow Ankara. "I went to Lagos. Holy Ghost Park, eight hours bus. Oshodi, one room, hot, no light. I did Virtual Assistant work at night for people in America. I thought Lagos would make me rich. It made me tired and missing you."

"You are back now at Number Twelve Achara Layout, under udala tree," he said. "Your mother keeps everything. She kept your yellow letter five years in tin box with Queens School report card."

Ada nodded. "She said a mother keeps everything, even letters her daughter is too proud to send."

On the cement wall, someone had written with chalk yesterday, not them, "LAND IS NOT LOVE. LETTER IS LOVE." Below it, another writing, "CHIDI CHOOSE ADA."

Chidi saw it and smiled small. "Who wrote that?"

"Mama Ngozi," Ada said. "She knows every gist in Enugu. She sells tomato to your mother, to Chief Eze wife, to Amara mother, to my mother. She heard your mother printed wedding banner without permission for land, three plots at Emene worth nine million. But she also saw you keep my letter in pocket, not land paper."

Chidi took Ada's hand. His hand was warm, Coke cold.

"Tomorrow," he said, "there is meeting at Emene. My mother will bring land papers. Chief Eze will bring Amara, white lace, small bouquet. They will talk about Holy Ghost Cathedral next week Saturday, ten o'clock, reception at Suntaal Event Centre. Photo in black suit."

Ada tightened her hand. "And what will you bring?"

"Yellow letter. Not land paper. I will read your yellow letter aloud. Dear Chidi, If you are reading this, I love you but I am scared we will be poor forever."

She smiled through tears. "And I will bring two Cokes. Cold, sweating, like village square five years ago."

They sat a little more. The two Cokes were finishing. They poured small small, making it last, like they used to.

Mama Ngozi came closer, big arms, wrapper tied high. "Una done? My cement wall na not for love only. For tomatoes too. But today love can stay small."

Ada stood, took chalk from Mama Ngozi's stall, white chalk, big.

She wrote below the other writings, slow, fun, big letters, "ADA + CHIDI = 2 COKES. Tomorrow and forever."

Chidi added below, "LAND IS NOT LOVE. LETTER IS LOVE."

The market women passing read it and said, "Na true."

They left the empty bottles on the cement wall, two empty bottles cold but not sweating anymore, like memory of five years waiting.

They walked to black Toyota, parked near Independence Layout road. Chidi opened door for Ada, yellow Ankara.

He said, "At ten tonight, Independence Layout gate, I will wash Corolla with bucket, polo shirt wet, tired from driving Emene, holding two Cokes. Come?"

Ada said, "I will come with yellow letter. Not new white. Old yellow, written at two seventeen in the morning with kerosene lamp flickering."

He drove slowly, through Ogbete, past Emene road red dust, past transformer at Achara Layout road where cardboard would soon be pasted, Dear Mamas of Enugu, Land is not love, Letter is love, ADA and CHIDI, EMEKA and NNENNA, TWO LETTERS ONE HILL.

But for now, just two Cokes at the cement wall, like five years ago, like now, like future, love that does not need land, only letter and Coke and cement wall behind Mama Ngozi tomato stall where Ada and Chidi used to sit and share two Cokes at Queens School.