Burnt Flower

Faded Ink

As much as I question the essence and antecedents of how lonely and compromising my love life tends to be, I do find my laments unjustified—and perhaps even deserved. For not every picture I tried painting left me guiltless. And I’ve come to realize I might, at some point, have been the agent of my own misfortune—the foundation of my demolition. It is in this light that, during every phase of my life that breaks down at some juncture, I’ve learned to reflect and ponder over my past misdemeanors in relation to my present predicament.

When they say, boys will always be boys, they tend to concentrate only on what is before them, at the expense of the consequences of their fascinations. Everyone needs someone—until they don’t. Which brings the question of a perfect someone. Does that terminology even exist? As far as the eyes can see, people use people to gain closure. However, what is debatable is how far such need and desire can stretch.

When I met Temmy, I wouldn’t say she stole my heart, but she got my attention. She was pretty and carried a certain gracefulness about her. It was as though she was being careful—or rather, too careful. Even Barry Jay seemed to develop a soft spot for her. My intention was just to observe her like any other girl, but my intuition and curiosity took over, especially when I mentioned it to Gbenga, my best friend then. He told me if there was ever a right time to push such luck, it was at that moment. And I couldn’t agree more. We were running headlong into the coming exams, and I didn’t want to risk losing my chance.

I pried her number off our chat group and texted her one day. We got off just fine, and I discovered she wasn’t really that complex to talk to. Before the end of our conversation, I asked if Barry Jay had left her with any nicknames—something he habitually gave everyone that came to the tutorial. She replied in the negative, though I imagined that wouldn’t be far-fetched. Then I inquired if she had been “merged” with anyone—again, another one of his habits. At this, she sent me a laughing sticker and said she couldn’t be merged with anyone, literally or figuratively. She wasn’t interested in such things.

I took my time to read the message, grinning to myself silently. Then I typed: “How about this—by the end of this session, I promise you’d be craving to know what I taste like.” She sent me so many laughing emojis, probably to emphasize how ridiculous it sounded. Then she told me it was a challenge, and she loved a good challenge. Naturally, I didn’t overthink it since I felt we were just messing around—flings and all. But somehow, I felt drawn to her.

So, I called her the next day. She was waiting for me at the other end. Our conversation started off awkward and bland, but the longer we talked, the more I loved it. I got to know so much about her, and I realized she was beginning to trust me with certain personal details. At the end of the conversation, she said she’d like us to have more of this—but physically. I flinched at the thought, but I saw it coming. One way or another, you’ve got to face your fear.

I gave her a location where we could meet and talk: the director’s office. But when that day came, I was too numbed to take any action because Barry and his acolytes of students were gawking inside. I sat beside her, took her phone, opened a racing game, and got stuck in it. She leaned in a bit, perhaps trying to strike up a conversation, but I was too intractable to give in to its necessity—not when we were covered in eyes. I felt her discomfort, but my hands were tied. I just wanted to leave the venue as soon as I placed her phone down.

That night, she told me she was done texting me unless I grew some nerve and made actual contact with her. Things weren’t really going well for me. The next day, I spied on her throughout classes but still couldn’t bring myself to talk to her. I felt really dumb—and perhaps I was.

It went on like this until the last day at the center. I was to have my exam the next day, and that might be the last time I ever saw her again. So I made peace with my fear. Even though I still felt it towering somewhere in the corner of my mind, I pulled her away from her friend, and she came along with me.

When we got outside, I explained that this might really be the last time we ever had any real conversation. Then I confessed to her how much I cared about her and wanted her to be my girl. She gave me a long stare and said she couldn’t—then strode off. If it were the old me, I would have swallowed it hard like a thorn and squeezed my face at the pain. But somehow, I knew she was faking it and only wanted me to try harder. So I made an impulsive move. I ran after her, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.

She only gave me a calm, questioning look. I asked her why? We were at the roadside, and the vehicles passing made the moment feel strangely significant, almost dramatic. She locked eyes with me and said I wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t let it go, so I pleaded that she make me understand—at least that little. Clarity, they say, gives the mind momentary peace. She removed her hands from mine and only said she’d explain later, but not that day. Then she left.

In a way, I grieved, because it felt like she had rejected me, like any other lady I had ever wanted… or needed.

The next day, I packed my bag for Onitsha where I was to write my exam. I stayed at a friend’s, and throughout my stay, I could only think of her. For once, I feared it might affect my examination. I tried to enjoy my stay, but it was ruined without hearing from her. My friend kept inquiring what was wrong with me—but how could I tell him that a girl I dared something close to impossibility with was traumatizing me on the eve of my exam?

That night, I went for a long walk just to clear my head. It didn’t really help; it only made me feel lonelier.

On my examination day, I wrote it with little to no doubt I was going to pass. I came back to the house to pack my belongings, and just then my phone rang. It was her. My heart raced crazily.

I picked up, and she said she was checking on me, wanting to know how I was faring. My mind was a mess.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I don’t know. For one, I know I miss you.”

Her voice couldn’t have been more clear. I almost swallowed my tongue. My brain was screaming different signals: Tell her you’re dying for her. Tell her you can’t do without her. Tell her you’ve never been the same without her. Tell her you love her beyond comprehension, beyond denial.

“For one, I thought I would never hear from you again,” I said.

She gave a short laugh. “Oh, don’t be silly. You’re in my trap now, and there’s nowhere you’re going.”

There was nowhere I’d rather be, actually. We talked awhile about the exam, about Onitsha, about what would happen to us when I got back. At this, she told me to come home in one piece first—then we could decide.

The night I got home, she told me she had finally decided. She wanted me as much as I wanted her. But she added that she’d never forgive me if I hurt her in the littlest way possible. She ended with, “Consider yourself lucky. You have a girl now.”

I imagined myself to be thrilled—crazy with joy, ready to throw a party or burn down a car. But I just took it calmly, like it was nothing, or at least not that superfluous. We talked a lot that night. I pretended to be exhilarated, but deep down, it didn’t really count.

At first, I thought it was because of the pressure and ordeals she had put me through. But we never truly saw eye to eye again, nor did we make any real physical contact. It started with my consistency, and she returned the same energy. But eventually, I couldn’t keep up.

We reached a stage where we had literally talked about almost everything—yet we were still apart. I wanted to keep tabs, but deep down I knew it wouldn’t last. It was a crumbling game. At a point, she became the force trying to keep us together. She was always texting, always calling… but she was still beyond reach.

I, however, resorted to other things—games, movies, and novels. The climax of our breakdown came when I discovered she hadn’t met the cut-off mark for her course at the university, while I did. We quickly deciphered there was no way we were staying together anymore. She planned to transfer to a different school, and that mutilated the romance.

Then one day, while I was preparing for my Post-JAMB, she texted me. She told me she had found some new guy who cared for her and loved her the way she felt she deserved. It didn’t feel like a breakup message to me. It felt like I was unloading a burden—an encumbrance. And I felt no need for guilt or remorse for whatever actions I took afterward.

I wished her well, but somehow it felt like she was crying for help. Like she wanted me to come back for her, fight for her, tell her I still held feelings for her. But I didn’t. In fact, I was relieved.

We never spoke or communicated again after that circumvented event. I promised myself never to engage in a long-distance relationship again. I loathed the idea—because somehow, I still felt responsible. Perhaps if we had had proper physical communication, our little blossoming love wouldn’t have been short-lived.

But what can I say? The way of the heart is undefined, and it cannot always be justified—no matter how pious one is.