That Thing Called Love

The first picture we took together

     So some months ago, I got out of my first relationship of two and a half years. No, it was not an ugly break up though our relationship did have some intensely ugly moments. We cried and kissed each other good bye. He simply moved to pursue his dreams and I simply stayed to complete my education and graduate from college. I fell of the last person I ever expected to fall for. But we understood each other. We had our own smiles and quotes. We acted like children that had their own secret friendship that no one else could be a part of. And we loved each other protectively and fiercely. The sacrifices we gave for one another can not be counted. But unfortunately, he had to move. I am not going to talk about our negatives, just know that they existed.

     I gave him everything good I had in me and left myself with nothing. He threw his carefully guarded emotions at my feet and sacrificed so much for the both of us. We exhausted ourselves in our love. We became adults together but we needed to know what it is like to be adults apart. We are both experiencing this new found freedom so foreign independently. Of course we miss each other. We don't say it because we do not need to. I never thought I would find a relationship like this. Yes, I was one of those girls who would spend long, lonely nights not wanting to be alone. Wanting to be held, yearning for those tender kisses and comforting arms. I got it all. I remember the first time I saw him. He had just got done lifting weights outside his house and damn, he looked good. I paid him no mind though. Weeks later, I ran into him. Or rather, he stopped me in the mall. And he said my name. Sweet baby Jesus! Not only did this man remember my name, but he said it right! And so it began. I swear I did not like this man at first. He was interesting but his ideals on women disgusted me (that changed lol). But there was something about him. Despite his rough edges, he was a gentleman and his laugh....... I would be over at his house at 10pm, we would talk until 7am and I would doze off. I would wake up later to find him curled at the foot of his bed, keeping his distance while I sprawled my entire body all around.

      He fell for me when I would wear sweatpants, t-shirts and flip-flops (slippas) everywhere. He fell for me before I knew how to dress to impress, how to even wear heels and not stumble. And I was with him hopping fences and running to catch buses, walking miles in the cold (seriously, we walked in winter) and in the sun. He stayed with me when I discovered my passion in life and I stayed with him when he finally got a job, got himself into college again and became man enough to even adopt his younger brother. He was my Primal Man, and I was his Jungle Love (yup, that's how I created my other bigger blog). He was swift to judge men who looked at me, and I was the jealous banshee who made sure that no woman liked him lol. Neither of us had anything to worry about. I developed his slang which I still use on a daily basis and every now and then, he would break out in an attempted Nigerian accent. I fell in love with Jay-Z because of him and sometimes I would catch him singing some D'banj.
      He was my first true love, my best friend and probably the closest person I had to family. What we will become in the future, only distance and time can tell. We might drift apart and become strangers as most do but whatever the outcome, I am ready. I feel as if I have gone through the one experience I have always dreamt about. I finally know what it is like to fall in and out of love and my God, what an amazing feeling that is.

Charred and Forsaken

     Each year in Aba never went without a riot of some sort. I always remembered the Muslim/Christian clashes. My father would describe the bodies of Christian men, women, and children that had been slaughtered up North and stuffed into trains and sent back home. I would see the pictures myself in the newspapers. Bodies literally spilling out of the trains. Bloated and blank. And so it would begin. Christians would start killings of their own. I'm sure most Muslims were easy to pick out. Their dress, tribal markings and thick accents could not be hidden easily and swiftly enough. I remember walking out of my compound during a time like this and watching a crowd of people brutally beat a man to the ground. I remember seeing our neighborhood young cobbler, a small boy watching. I remember wishing that he would not stand around like that because he was Muslim and could get killed. My father told me to stay indoors after that because he was afraid people might mistake me for a Northerner because of some of my facial features.

Random pic.

     I do remember the burnt bodies.You could smell them a mile away. You could spot the massive vultures forming their ritual circles in the sky. I remember taking about this to my friends in the States and they were horrfied. I would be amused by their faces, each one looking upon my own as though expecting to see some sort of mental damage caused by the what I have witnessed. But let me tell you something, there is none. I have never tossed and turned at night, rolling in nightmares of death. The amount of death I have witnessed is nothing compared to what most have seen. These were not bodies of my friends and relatives. I had a Nigerian professor here in the States who says he still has nightmares involving the religious murders of his extended family and his flight from home. So I am fortunate.

random pic.

     Death is not something that we......well, at least I was shielded from as a child. I remember passing bodies on my way to school and I would hold my breath, and press my face upon the glass. I would strain my eyes for a better glimpse of the corpse. Usually the victims were those who had not been able to get away from the angry mob fast enough. Those who had perhaps stolen a purse and had been chased down. They became victims of Jungle Justice, justice by the people. I would arrive at school and my peers would be just as excited as I.

     "Did you see the body by Brass Junction!" one would exclaim. Never a question.

     "It didn't have a head!"

     "I think they cut it off before he died!"

     "No! It was after!"

     "The vultures were already eating him!"

     Morning conversation. Forgotten by noon.

     Now that I am older, I have grown less apathetic towards the matter. As I scroll over my memories, I no longer see simple, blackened bodies. I see people. I still feel no emotion towards them. No pity, no anger, no sadness. But I now recognize them as people who had loved ones. And I feel pity, anger and sadness for those who could still recognize their beloved despite the stench and decay. With all honesty, these emotions are fleeting and soon to be forgotten. But by doing so nonetheless, I feel as if I have paid my respects to the dead that I so blatantly gazed upon.