Don’t cry for me Amelina,

The truth is I never lost you,

All through our wild nights,

And the deafening silence,

I kept my promise,

Don’t keep the distance.

***

There is a story my mother would tell me when I was a boy about a carpet merchant that worked in Awarra.

One morning on a busy market day, the tradesman spotted Bahk - the spirit of death - walking towards him. It was believed a touch from Bahk, would send you to the realms of the dead.

Bahk seeing that he had been recognized, rushed towards the merchant, shoving and pushing aside the people, desperate to get a hold of him.

“Wait! I have something to tell you!”

Believing that he was damned to his death, the merchant ran away to the coastal town of Chazira. Later on that night, the trader bumped into Bahk for yet another time. Having accepted his fate, he asked;

“I see that today, you have chosen me great spirit. I have accepted my fate. It seems I have lived my last. One thing bothers me though, why didn’t you take me earlier in Awarra?”

“I was not there to take you, I was trying to warn you of our appointment on this very day, but here in Chazira.”

***

I breathe in deeply through my nose, hold it in, then exhale slowly out through my mouth. My eyes are shut but I’m conscious of everything around me. I can feel my body resting in my chair albeit my shoulders are a little bit tense. My hands are flat on the desk, comfortably placed on either side of my laptop. They are still but excessively sweaty. I feel my feet flat on the floor and the sensation of soft fabric on my skin in sweatpants. I clearly picture the baggy blue t-shirt I’m wearing, on it are the words, “From Damari, with love”. This thought makes my shoulders relax.

My room is a mess. Sheets hanging loosely on the left side of the bed, dirty, smelly, and wrinkled. There’s an ever-growing mountain of clothes at the corner, piling up like an abandoned trash site. The stench of the stale half-eaten tilapia on my plate is so nauseating that my nose twitches frequently. The banana peels from last week have already turned black and sticky. Right next to the wall, is a whiskey stain and glass shards right below. On the nightstand, my bible is open - been on that very page for a week or two - I’m not sure. There are cigarette butts littered over it with ashes staining the holy book; making me feel damned. The porridge on my desk must be cold by now, I took the last sip from the mug roughly thirty minutes ago. At this moment in my life, nothing matters.

I take another deep breath through my nose and out through my mouth.

I must have been sitting like this for a while; of late I’ve been horrible with time. Just yesterday, my boss was keen to remind me.

“You have been showing up late to work for two weeks now. That’s it, I want your desk cleared in an hour!”

(I got it cleared in ten.)

I’m now present, eyes blankly staring at the laptop screensaver which has been running a slideshow for what must be an hour now, or two. There’s no need to switch it on - the image movement is therapeutic.

There are pictures of Tibetan monks playing soccer in the fields, a child holding a crayon over a history book in a grand library, ran-down houses juxtaposed in beautiful flower fields, and pictures of old men wrestling in the mud.

I chuckle a little at the philosophical image of a beggar buying a new rain-resistant mat.

There is no rush in switching on the laptop because once its battery dies, it’ll stay dead for a while. I’m sure of this because of the high-tone beep that is my electricity meter. It has been annoying me for an hour or two now. It only beeps when the billing meter is at zero.

It might be a bright day outside, but my curtains are drawn, so it might be a dead night. It could be a beautiful morning or a gloomy evening, there is no way I can tell.

I used to know it was six-thirty in the morning from the ridiculously consistent and infuriating shouts of Femi, the beautiful newspaper hawker.

Femi

“Newspapers! Get your daily newspapers!”

At first, I would turn in my bed, furiously flip my blanket over my head and curse her. But once I realized that my curses couldn’t do away with her, I would wake up every day to buy from her, just to get her off. She carried all the editions in her cart. She was young, at times I suspected too young to be working. Her hair was trimmed like a boy’s but always well-combed. occasionally she would pin a flower slightly above her right ear.

She smiled brightly and her charm sunk deep, deep enough to awaken an affection for her. Her face was always full of expressions, with her teeth showing as she was ever smiling. Always happy and optimistic, but the most amazing thing about her was that she would always have a question;

“Today I saw the egg of the Egubu bird; it was pink and its shell was soft. Is it still okay for the villagers to eat?”

“I have realized that you miss the sun. Mr. Jeremy Jeylo is a selfish neighbor. Why would he rob your sunrises?”

“What will happen to the rebels if say, our President is killed?”

“How do they know all these stories in these newspapers? Are they geniuses?”

Femi’s eyes grew wide whenever I attempted to answer any of her questions, she wanted to learn. It slowly became my morning routine. Soon, I would be up before she even calls for her newspapers. I would spend an hour before I sleep, learning something new, from the economics of the great countries of Garai to the mythical history of the forbidden forests to the teachings of the old religions, just so I could teach her.

On some days, I would print out the answers, with diagrams and pictures downloaded from the internet. And every day she would sit down, cross her legs, place her chin gently on her folded palms and stare at my eyes the whole time. She would only occasionally interrupt with the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and baby-like chuckles that would have her fall on her back, tears rolling down her face. The more she laughed, the more animated I would get. One time, I even wore costumes for her.

“You’re so silly Mr. Man.”

Mr. Man - she called me that, and in return would call her ‘Newspaper girl.’ I should have used her name more. Sigh.

She started as a routine, perhaps even as an inconvenience, however with time, I was her highlight; her world.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat when I remember that I never asked her a single question. Damn.

The past one or two weeks have been quiet. She hasn’t shown up all this time and I don’t think she ever will. I hope it’s because she got back to school or that she is now a successful newspaper vendor in town. I really hope that she wasn’t swept by the hurricane. The winds were strong and ruthless this year, many fell victim but I made profits.

I pray to the spirits that fly freely in the heavens that she lives. Because she, more than anyone, gave me purpose.

The Herald

This is the side to my story that nobody knows.

See I believe in guardian angels. They blow into our lives like a breeze, and with it, they carry hope as they gently whisk you away from your troubles. Angels are forgiving and kind, but they are never promised and will leave to go fix another. They manifest themselves as people whose mere presence in our lives coincides with periods of good fortune and happiness. They could be teachers, seasonal friends, familiar strangers, or even old lovers; they’re often passable and sadly at times, forgettable.

Once you realize their power, you begin to bloom. Only that our angels don’t understand how much you need them; that you’re incapable of communicating your emotions like them. Irritatingly unable to be as much of an angel as they are. You wish they stay around forever because you’re afraid that whoever’s next, may know how to tame them, pet them, own them. You’re human so you’re selfish. Remember you’re human and they’re angels.

“The winds were strong and ruthless this year, many fell victim but I made profits.”

It took me ten minutes to clear my desk yesterday from my office as Senior Editor at Herald Report. Partly because I had little intention of coming back to ‘negotiate’ new terms, but mostly because my job as editor carried little paperwork.

The position came as a surprise to most, to the contempt of few, and joy of none. I had only been there for two years when the previous “S.E” resigned, he finished off his letter with;

“…with all these reasons, and after a lot of self-searching, I believe that a breath of fresh air is long overdue.”

If you read between the lines, the veteran writer was warning us.

So for months, the position was anyone’s take. Our CEO used this as a clever ‘carrot-dangling’ means to ensure absolute efficiency from everyone. Articles were handed in on time; our correspondents were all over the town, covering anything to the point of ridiculous. The office had a laugh when Immal from the lifestyle team, spent seven days (and a decent amount of company allowance), trying to be ‘one’ with the nimble mountain goats;

‘…It was a genuinely mind-opening experience as I have now come to understand the gentle creatures on a much more personal and emotional level which will lead me to change my perception of them as a species in general.’

She, later on, made absurd conclusions and proposals of starting a goat foundation, setting up a nature-oriented curriculum for toddlers, and also sprinkled the article with the clichéd and frustrating ‘vegan’ propaganda. Luckily for the paper, and most importantly for her career, the story never made it to printing.

I was first placed in the nature and wildlife section. The stories were few and far, and as a junior, you couldn’t do much better. But when I broke the story of “The Pink Killer”, the newspaper sold its first million copies. It was a story of how the Egubu bird, thoroughly popular, laid pink eggs only when it was sick with a very particular strain of bacteria from the Great Islands overseas. The locals used it mostly in making Ikara soup, one that was a mix of salty water, leaves of the Kaikai tree, and the yolk of the bird’s eggs. And as it was common for the gentle birds to migrate bi-annually, I thought it’d be prudent to inform the public. These pink versions of their eggs could potentially start a pandemic.

Apparently, the story was picked up by the local animal research center and they quickly issued a warning as a breakout of the flu was on the brink and my story would end up saving thousands of lives.

That month I was named ‘Most-promising employee.’

A few weeks later, I ran a story titled, “Jail Jeylo”. Mr. Jeylo was a powerful businessman whose exuberance matched none. Just recently, he had put up a 10,000 square ft. mansion right next to my home, literally casting a shadow. He had inadvertently robbed me of any morning rise. When I decided to dig into his finances and published audit reports, I realized he had made a ‘killing’ ripping off the poor people’s insurance packages. I was sick to my stomach when I read of the death of a 45-year-old Miss. Ola Femi. In the obituaries the caption read;

“Miss. Ola Femi was a caring single mother of one Millie Femi. A beautiful girl, who dearly loved her and supported her by selling newspapers across town.”

I refused to draw conclusions.

The story was picked up by the fraud squad. An extensive investigation found him guilty and was sentenced to life. The article was dabbed ‘the biggest expose of the century’.

A little too sensational for my liking.

This had me promoted to Junior Editor at the politics department - a big deal. Politics was plenty and the stories would flood my desk. It was here where I decided to run a story of how a country can move on once its president gets assassinated. I included carefully analyzed political trends of other countries, outlining which ways led to civil unrest and which ones led to a peaceful transition.

It was thoroughly controversial, I remember The People Daily ran a story titled, “The Herald Assassin”. A couple of hippies even decided to spray paint my windows with the symbol of the Frontiers of Democracy Coalition Party (the rebel sect, ousted by the sitting president), which I never bothered to wash off as it was actually really artistic and I was in fact, a sympathizer.

Just two days after the story ran in the papers, my boss woke me saying, “You have the job!”

I figured it was because, for the first time in its history, the paper sold continentally, becoming the biggest brand in the entire region, its numbers now doing double-figures, thanks to the extensive publicity garnered due to my article. I’m sure, however, that it was majorly because just one hour before, the President’s helicopter had been shot out of the skies on its way back from the bilateral talks with the Frontiers of Democracy Coalition (F.D.C) rebels.

Fateful.

Delegates flew in from countries all over the world to discuss the next step. My article was quoted by multiple media houses and ‘political experts’ as ground breaking journalism. For the next few weeks I was kept uncharacteristically busy with appointments with ministers, countless interviews on late night shows, panel discussions in international conferences, guest lecturing at political science and journalism classes and pullout editions of myself in almost all of the national newspapers. I had slowly become an icon. And my status was cemented in local political history when in two months’ time, our chief-justice swore in a new president where not a single drop of blood had been shed.

I woke up one morning to see my face on the cover of the herald, on an edition titled, “Genius”.

This life had given me fame and wealth, but above all, it gave me reason.

***

The screen is now blank. I have no idea how long it’s been. There’s a stain on my t-shirt, must be from the porridge I was taking. So I lick my thumb and gently rub it over the spot. I hold on to the toe of my shirt and pull it gently, so I could have another look at what’s written;

“From Damari with love.”

Damari

I had gone to the island of Damari to get a story on their fishing culture, this was back when I was still an amateur running nature stories, before I ever met Femi, or had Jeylo for a neighbor. There was an inventory I had to fill up before I began my research. I needed a can of bait, a strong sisal rope, a hook, a net, and a sun hat.

There was only one shop in the small fishing village and I was the only foreigner. I kept on asking for a translator, anyone who I could at least talk to because the old lady at the check-out desk wasn’t particularly good with the charades I was playing. I realized this when she interpreted my animated gestures for a sisal rope as a packet of painkiller tablets. I guess me tugging an imaginary rope above my head while letting my neck bend with my tongue out, couldn’t do the trick.

“Try tugging a little bit more.”

She stood there at the door, her hands barely sunk in the tiny pockets of her shorts. Her mouth bent as if to slightly smile, slightly frown. Her hair was all gathered and tied up in a bun, which made it seem as if her face was being pulled back. She wore a pair of glasses - didn’t feel like she really needed them from how thin the lenses were. She had these babyishly chubby cheeks that made it difficult for me or anyone for that matter, to take her seriously. She wore a blue t-shirt, from where I stood, I could only make out the words, Damari, and love. She was heavy breasted but the t-shirt still hang loosely over her deep-blue beach shorts. She had leaned onto the frame of the door, her legs, crossed with one of her pink rubber sandals already slipping off.

Mesmerized.

“I’m Amelina. But everyone here calls me Amy.”

See, I believe in love. I don’t mean this photo-tagging love or that people-pleasing love. Not the unhappy, laborious, lets-cheat-for-fun love nor the hidden don’t-mention-me love. I cannot stand the fake love; buy-me-this, buy-me-that love nor the abusive slap-me-to-love-me love.

I believe in love that completes, love that grabs you by your entire existence and decides to show you your own life in an absolutely different way. Love that fulfills; takes you on a journey down your own soul and lets you realize how much you are willing to give for someone. Love that makes you feel safe in moments where even prayers to the heavens don’t feel redeeming enough. One that fills your heart with unprecedented acceptance. The type that makes you cry and rock back and forth on the floor when it is over. One that raises your heartbeat, reddens your eyes, boils your blood to the point your hands shake when it’s threatened. One that heals itself, picks its million pieces, and intricately fixes itself effortlessly back together. This one strips you down and leaves you naked for the other to see. Naked emotions that had once proved too bearing to others. Smiles that had been too superficial to others. Tears that had proven too dramatic for others.

You’d be lucky if you ever found this love in your life, and by God I was.

“…I promise to never leave your side”

They were my last words in the proposal on the beach, just a few steps from her birth home. It had been more than two years already and I felt like our marriage was well overdue. She kicked the sand onto my legs and began running away, laughing loudly.

“You said you won’t leave my side! Keep your promise then!”

I ran after her, hugged her from the back, and gently kissed her cheek. There was a fisherman docking his small boat not so far from us. And without asking, she grabbed my hand and led me to him. We borrowed it and rowed our way into the still waters of the ocean. There she sat on my lap as I had laid flat on the floor of the boat and took off her top.

She held out the t-shirt to my face.

“I was wearing this when we first met, remember?”

I was too distracted to give her a straight answer. Her skin glowed under the care of the moonlight. I ran my hands ever so gently up her arms, across her shoulders, up her freckled-cheeks and gently rubbed my thumbs on them. She had relaxed her arms, laid down the shirt, and was staring deep into my eyes. With her confusing smirk, she fell onto me, her bosom on my chest. Her eyes were teary, her breathing pattern was unsteady and when her eyes shut, she placed her lips on mine.

“I absolutely love you, my local journalist!” She said mid-giggles, as I fumbled around the boat for my shorts, which I suspected might have been thrown overboard.

She took the paddles from my hand, turned her back to me, and began rowing us back to shore. She claimed that as a daughter of the sea, she couldn’t bear to be canoed by a foreigner. She spat onto the boat’s floor for emphasis. I stared at her and for the first time in my life understood what it feels to be completely whisked away from the realities of life by an individual. I would fight a shark for this daughter of the seas, heck, I would even go for the shark’s family, and friends, to send a message; there’s a new guardian of the sea.

The woman gave me happiness and fulfillment beyond my wildest dreams, but above all, she gave me will.

“The winds were strong and ruthless this year, many fell victim but I made profits.”

The Winds of Wambamba

The short rains had just been falling for a week, when Femi asked, “What will you do when the Winds of Wambamba blow this year?”

These winds were stronger than usual. They had blown last 100 years ago, leading to the greatest disaster in our nation’s history. So I did my research and I wasn’t at all surprised when I discovered files from the Centre for Meteorological Research and Studies from 1987, predicting the winds to blow in 30 years’ time. The story would have been revolutionary, guaranteeing me a spot on the wall of fame. On the morning of the 24th, I wrote of the winds, warning everyone of it. I estimated the destruction that it may bring, I estimated the deaths that may be caused. I started to follow up on distribution, making sure that every vendor had received a copy. I even had Femi help me out. She was oddly quiet in the passenger’s seat, the window rolled down. I was so fixed on the task at hand, I failed to realize that for the first time ever, she failed to ask me a question.

The winds were devastating, they blew with hatred as if seeking vengeance. They killed. They tormented. The winds made sure that men were to be homeless, women were to be widowed and the children were to be orphaned.

I felt the sickness rising in my stomach when I saw on the TV that Damari was the hardest hit. The buildings there completely washed away. The mighty Yobua Bridge decimated. There were images of children lying on floating doors, their hands raised helplessly begging for help. Death was in their midst. It was like a hungry vulture, impatient in fact, waiting for its victim to give in. When they showed the house by the shores of the sea, damaged beyond repair, I fell to my knees and let the breakfast I had eaten, all out.

The saddest thing about all this is that I had forgotten how my angel worked. In fact, I had not understood her at all. I wasn’t her prophet nor was I her way of warning the people. I wasn’t teaching her new things or helping her learn new concepts. I was hers to protect. She had helped me to the top, helped me find love, find purpose. She helped me find a reason to wake up and a will to live. And on the day she asked me that dreadful question, she wanted to teach me her most valuable lesson. That all these three things can’t be separated; I should have known better.

***

I need to stand now. I have been seated for so long my joints have stiffened. I need to finish this. The execution has been longer than I had fancied.

The story my mother told me is relevant because none of these people knew how close they came to warn me. How I had turned from them and ran away to another place to avoid the inevitable.

My eyes are shut, but I’m conscious of everything around me, My breathing is in short spurts,

I can feel my hands by my side, Cold and trembling,

My fists clenched,

My breathing is even shorter now, hick, I kick it away,

My feet are now free, no ground beneath me,

Legs swinging and flinging,

I can barely breathe now, no hick, Tears run down my face,

My eyes feel out of place, Bulging out and straining, My mouth begs to scream, My throat is drying, Squeezing my soul out,

The rope was never for fishing,

The old lady was right I needed a pain killer, But don’t cry Amelina,

I’m keeping the promise,

The winds that took you, will guide my spirit to yours, Oh, I guess that’s the last kick,

I’m so happy that in a moment, I will stand still,

This is how a story ends, when you lose purpose, reason and will.

END.