by Abraham Isaac Oluwatimilehin

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This is me staring at you, wide-eyed, the first time we met. I find this photograph weird for a number of reasons. There’s Doyin, at the beginning of what would blossom into the most important and beautiful friendship in my life till date. There’s Michael. I don’t call him that to his face. He really does look handsome here; always have, always will. There’s Sesebo, I wonder where he is now. There’s mom, yes, my mom. She looks pretty here. The kind of pretty that I like her to be. Domineering and protective as ever. I look on, a little frustrated, as she dishes out instructions like she always does whenever I travel. I don’t think she is excited much about my travel company. She didn’t expect there to be so many girls <chuckles>. She soon leaves and we soon leave for OAU, IFE.

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This is me talking to you for the first time in months, sometime in late 2012. I had nearly forgotten about you, to be honest. Then, Doyin brings you up. She says that she saw you in a perfect Ankara gown, styled to fit snugly around your frame and that I’d be really stupid to pass you up. It was the first time she called me stupid so it struck a chord in my psyche. In this picture, I’m lying on my new 7 footer bed {the number of times I had to chide mom into changing the old one to accommodate my ever-increasing height} and carefully choosing my words. We would talk about anything and everything ranging from preparations for UTME to science and biology and all the stupidest things that I was interested in for being interested’s sake. You were bored, no doubt about that, but you listened. I’m still thankful for that.

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Do you remember this picture? Our first and only date. It was all five hundred thousand and one shades of awkward. I was dressed awkwardly and the fact that you looked excellent was awkward. You did not seem to mind and that made it more awkward. I popped the awkward question and your reply was all the more awkward. In retrospect, it was the right one. I felt horrible though. I suddenly became awkwardly aware of myself and my surroundings and could not wait for the date to end. It must have been very awkward for you. The first day of 2013. Do you remember? You should. Eventful? Yes. Model dating experience? Not so much.

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We’re taking one of those long walks again. They really were long. Boy! Did we joke? We blabbed and joked and talked about what not. This picture is special though. Mid-March 2013, I asked again and you said yes. The sheepish look on my face says it all. I was stunned beyond measure. I stood rooted to a point and had this funny weak feeling in my legs. You just hugged me, smiled and said goodnight. One of the more genuine “holy shit” moments of my life. I ran all the way home, ate a double dinner and told Doyin. She seemed genuinely pleased about it. She had always fancied us together and if Doyin thinks something is a good idea, it most definitely is.

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Another photograph of another walk. This one sticks out for all the sweet and painful reasons. Our walk is interrupted by he-who-must-not-be-named and I am hurt by it. The calm on my face in this picture is masking a world of hurt and jealousy as you and him walk on ahead. I smile and busy myself with some music and humming, waiting for him to disappear from my personal space. He does and I smile and wave at him, wishing my hand was a machine gun of sorts. You begin to apologize but I just smile and say that I understand. You are genuinely pleased and shocked by it so much that you call me later that night and tell me how impressed you are with my calm and maturity- the ultimate salute to my life.

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Late 2013. This is a sad photograph. The irony of it is that I was feeling conceited and satisfied in it. I had begun to take you granted and abuse the beauty that was what we had. Doyin was not too pleased with that. In reality, she was not pleased at all. The scowl on her face as I hung up on you over the phone says it all. I felt good about it though. I felt good about myself as well. The cracks were obvious at this time and I was too lazy to try and taper them. In retrospect, I learnt three extremely valuable lessons from this picture.

1) If I feel good about something, anything, it is most likely to be a bad idea.

2) It is a horrible thing to do, taking people for granted. It reeks of an inferiority complex, involves chewing off the happiness of others to fill yours and very nearly always comes back to bite you in the end.

3) If Doyin feels bad about something, anything, it is a bad idea without a doubt.

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The picture is muddled with moisture. It’s not tears, you know I don’t cry much. It’s from getting a sweaty palm whenever I look at it. Poetic justice. There’s a well and I’m standing behind it, leather-bucket in hand. My phone rings and I reach for it. You call it quits with me and promise me that we’d remain as friendly as is humanly possible. The bucket is in the well already and it is perhaps a miracle that I am not. The call ends and I immediately call Doyin to inform her about the latest tragedy in my life. No “I-told-you-so”, no “serves-you-right”, no “you-had-it-coming”; just words of soothe and calm. Best bestest friend ever she is.

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This is me, last week. Tired, lab-coat clad and walking away from the daily wringer that the college of medicine is. Nice, proper, frustrated medical student photograph (Dr. Ebito would be so proud). I make a little withdrawal from the bank and while foolishly counting the money to make sure I had not been shortchanged by a machine programmed to be as accurate as is possible, a pretty lady walks up to me and playfully asks for one of the notes. She looks uncannily like you. The same wide, cheery smile. The same sharp darting eyes that seem to wander in and out of focus every second with a dreamy appeal. I am intrigued by her boldness and offer her the note which she politely refuses and asks for my name instead. I tell her and return the favour. She smiles and replies, “Motunde”. I nod, manage a smile and walk away.

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This entry was submitted as part of the Nigerian Voices competition organized by YNaija.com.

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